Last Call

by Laura Pedersen

  After Joey’s out of earshot Hayden quietly adds, “And that I’ll get to Scotland afore him.” But Joey is gone and only Rosamond is there to hear him.

  Hayden scribbles something on a piece of paper and tucks it into an envelope that he hands to Rosamond. “I want you to give this to Joey as soon as I’m gone.”

  “Of course.” She takes the envelope and sets it on the night table.

  “Now hand me the pills, please.” His voice has acquired a hoarse, passionate timber.

  “What!” says Rosamond, unsteadied by shock. “Why? Why now? Why today?”

  “Rosie,” he says as he squeezes her hand, “I’m starting to be in a lot of pain.” Hayden’s face visibly tightens as he says this. “It’s no good anymore. Let’s face it, I’m ready for a clap in the head with a spade.” Only he’s not joking. His lips are thin and tense as wire.

  Rosamond stares at the pill bottle on the dresser as if it’s a loaded handgun while a series of tiny pleats visibly deepen around her eyes and mouth. “You know I can’t do that Hayden . . . please don’t ask me . . . suicide is against . . .”

  “I didn’t ask you to take them. Just hand me the blessed things. Besides, I’ve always wanted to have the courage to say to a woman: If you won’t marry me I’ll off myself.”

  Rosamond hesitates and when Hayden starts to reach for the pills she seizes them. “Oh Hayden, oh God,” she says, as if it’s impossible to decide between the two. She clutches the plastic container to her heart as if she might scatter the pills out the window like birdseed rather than hand them over.

  But after several moments of silence, eyes brimming with tears, she opens the small plastic bottle and slowly offers it to him.

  Hayden takes Cyrus’s special capsules into his palm, breaks them open, and empties the contents into his waiting glass of scotch on the night table, which shines like liquid gold in the morning sunlight. He raises the glass and expertly swirls it until the powder dissolves.

  “Last call!” Hayden announces cavalierly as he raises the glass to his lips, and empties it in a few quick swallows.

  “Oh, Hayden, do you really not believe in God?”

  “Rosie”—he smiles as he hands her the empty glass—“My God . . . my God took our farm with drought and disease. So no, he’s not the one for me anymore. But I believe in the God that’s in your head, honest I do.”

  “Then don’t you at least believe in miracles? Like Jesus walking on water during the storm?”

  “Maybe he did,” Hayden offers a cryptic smile. “On the other hand, maybe the lake was frozen.”

  But Rosamond’s not sure if he’s answered yes or no to either of her questions, or else it’s the mumbo-jumbo of someone who’s just ingested a massive amount of drugs. “Please let me call a priest . . .”

  “Do’an’ you dare let a priest into this house. Hank is priest enough. Now tell me one of those nun jokes.”

  “Oh, Hayden!” A teardrop quivers on her cheek. “I couldn’t possibly, not at a time like this.”

  “C’mon Rosie, one for the road.”

  She’s flustered and can barely remember the Lord’s Prayer, no less a joke. But his charm hasn’t diminished and Rosamond finds him impossible to refuse in this bizarre last request. She wracks her brains and finally begins, “A man broke his arm and went to the emergency room of a Catholic hospital.”

  A tiny smile plays across Hayden’s face to indicate that he’s enjoying the words as if they’re Chivas Regal turned into text.

  Rosamond stumbles slightly from the awkwardness of the situation and continues through her tears. “And the nun tells him, I mean, she asks him what type of insurance he has. ‘None,’ the man replies. So the nun asks, ‘Do you have a relative who can help?’ And he says he only has a spinster sister who’s a nun. ‘Well,’ the nun says, ‘nuns aren’t spinsters, because they’re married to God!’ So the man says, ‘Then send the bill to my brother-in-law.’ ”

  Hayden squeezes her hand to indicate that she’s turned in a tremendous performance under the circumstances. He tries to lean forward to kiss her but can’t muster the energy. She bends down and kisses him one last time, for the past, for the future.

  “You’d better call them in,” he says. His green eyes are turning the color of leaden winter skies.

  Rosamond begins to pray desperately, not for Hayden’s soul to pass quickly into heaven but for intercession by an angel. Surely a man who has embraced life with such heroic force isn’t meant to be snatched away in his prime like this. They will grow old together and live as love has made them. It must be some sort of test, like Abraham being asked to sacrifice his son Isaac for the sake of mankind. After all, it’s an angel who stays Abraham’s hand at the last moment, after having successfully tested his fidelity.

  Her silent appeal is interrupted by the arrival of Diana and Hank, who appear in the archway as if they’ve been summoned. Having seen Joey with Hayden’s cherished bagpipes Diana sensed what might be happening.

  “Now Diana, do’an’ forget to return this bed and get back the deposit. The receipt is in that top drawer.” Hayden rises slightly and nods toward the dresser.

  Diana’s laserlike eyes immediately land on the open pill bottle and Rosamond tightly clutching Hayden’s hand. “Oh, Dad,” she says tearfully.

  “You’re a bonny lass Diana, just like your mother,” he whispers, as if it takes all his remaining energy to speak the words. Hayden sinks back onto the pillows and closes his eyes, the latticework of wrinkles on his forehead turning smooth. Diana sobs into Hank’s shoulder and then sits down on the bed and takes Hayden’s other hand.

  “Should we call Joey?” Diana sobs to Rosamond, so paralyzed by anguish that for once she is unable to gather her wits enough to make a decision.

  “No, I think he said good-bye the way he wanted to,” Rosamond assures her.

  “And what about . . . what about Linda?”

  “He phoned her last night,” says Rosamond. “When he knew Ted was at Rotary.”

  A few minutes pass in fretful silence, as if the entire room, including the air, is suddenly made of glass. It’s Hayden who finally breaks the stillness, whispering softly, barely moving his lips. Rosamond leans over to hear him. “It sounds as if he’s saying that the lights are falling.” She automatically glances toward the windows where the sunshine is smashing through the glass panes. “But the shades are wide open.”

  Diana moves closer. “Dad, do you want me to close the window shades? Is it too bright?”

  Hayden’s breathing has become measured and shallow and it takes great effort for him to move his mouth. Diana leans very close to listen for his answer.

  Again Hayden murmurs the same syllables.

  “The pipes are calling,” Diana slowly repeats, anguish tightening her throat. The significance of this shatters her remaining composure. “Oh, Hank! Do something!” she clutches at him with her free hand. “I . . . I think he’s hearing bagpipes.”

  chapter sixty-one

  What exactly it is that he’s supposed to do Hank is not at all sure. He looks to Rosamond but she is off in a distant place with Hayden. He can’t give last rites. For one thing, he’s not a priest. And for another, Hayden would wake up just long enough to clunk him over the head. Hank quickly flips through his mental prayer Rolodex, clears his throat, bows his head, squeezes Diana’s hand and begins:

  “They come God’s messengers of love,

  They come from realms of peace above,

  From homes of never fading light,

  From blissful mansions ever bright.

  They come to watch around us here,

  To soothe our sorrow, calm our fear:

  O heavenly guides, speed not away,

  God willeth you with us to stay.”

  On the final mention of God Hank tentatively lifts his head. If Hayden is still alive there’s no doubt that this is the point he’ll start an argument or crack a joke about God e-mailing people directly with His Will for fast
er turnaround time. But Hayden does not respond. His face has become altogether natural and lost any expression of suffering. He breathes softly for a few minutes and then appears to breathe no more.

  Rosamond unconsciously murmurs “amen” when Hank has finished and then places her delicate fingertips on Hayden’s pulse. As the life fades from his body without a sound large tears glide down her cheeks. Unable to meet Diana’s gaze she slowly moves her head from side to side. And with the final beat of Hayden’s heart she is freed forever from the desire to possess another person or the temptation to belong to any other human being.

  Rosamond touches his cheek one last time, which is turning cool, like a smooth stone. “He’s gone,” she says, and something inside her splinters like broken glass, leaving only razor-sharp edges and spiked points in her heart, head, and abdomen.

  Then a strange thing happens. All the love and compassion trapped and aching within her body begins to flow outward like water pouring from a shattered vase, and is gradually replaced by a deep sense of calm. For Rosamond becomes aware that she has indeed been visited by an angel, and through an extraordinary voyage of the senses has had her faith restored. At last she feels the ecstasy of the spirit that had so eluded her in the convent and her entire being is flooded with peace. Is it possible to become more holy by becoming more human? Before Hayden her quest had been like a hand trying to grasp itself.

  Rosamond rises slowly and Hank takes her place by the side of the bed, next to Diana, whose world has momentarily gone dark, as if the only candle illuminating it has just been blown out. All those long months of holding on and hoping had taken such energy. In imagining this moment Diana had somehow thought that it would be easier to let go than it had been to hang on. But it isn’t so. To bid farewell takes even more strength than she believes she possesses.

  Rosamond dutifully removes the envelope from the nightstand and goes in search of Joey. The front door is open. He’s standing out on the lawn, engrossed in a conversation with Giovanni, who is throwing a plastic ball for Ginger. Off to the side of the front stoop fallen rose petals curl in the grass like bits of paper. Rosamond carefully selects her path to avoid the dark red berries from the overhanging cherry tree that are smeared upon the walk like bloodstains.

  However, she’s distracted by an unmistakable sound rising from the far end of the street. The Greyfriars Gang comes somberly marching into view wearing full Scottish regalia; kilts swaying in time to their step and caps perched uniformly on their heads. Alisdair is playing the bagpipes, Duncan is on snare drum, Hugh holds his fife to his lips, his son Andrew at his side with a musket slung over one shoulder, and Paddy Fitzgerald carries the blue-and-white flag of Scotland, lowered so that it’s almost parallel with the ground.

  Neighbors appear on their front stoops one by one, as if there’s an unscheduled parade. Some are still in their nightclothes. Mrs. Trummel wipes her hands on her apron before solemnly lowering the billowy American flag that hangs next to her front door, as if to announce that a great man is no longer among them.

  A random group of Trinidadians, Irish, Poles, and Pakistanis follow the procession until it ends in front of the MacBride house, where the Greyfriars Gang dutifully concludes their tribute with “Scotland the Brave.” Bobbie Anne stands on her porch, hands clutching the children’s shoulders and eyes clouded with tears. She bows her head as if the funeral cortege of a world leader is passing before them.

  Suddenly the loud and insistent quacking of ducks is heard from the direction of the park. The mallards respond to the familiar sound of Alisdair’s bagpipes at this time of the morning. The ducks begin to waddle over the embankment, just a few at first, and then Hayden’s entire herd clumsily joins the throng of mourners. Among the mostly brownish-black females a few emerald green heads and necks rise above silver-feathered bodies and catch the morning light.

  Rosamond puts her arm around Joey’s waist as the crowd continues to gather. “Your grandpa wanted you to open this right after he died,” she says and solemnly hands him the white envelope.

  “But he promised he wasn’t going to die today!” Joey struggles to hold back his sobs because he knows that’s what his grandfather would have wanted.

  Rosamond glances up at the fluffy white clouds floating across a sky as blue as the seas of eternity. The filtered rays of the sun cause her cheeks and forehead to glow with fresh yellow light. She places her hand on Joey’s shoulder, wanting to share with him the wisdom of Teresa of Avila, on how God makes space within us and then later fills it. But instead she says, “It always was difficult to know when your grandfather was telling the truth.”

  Still fighting back tears, Joey tears open the envelope. He removes a crisp hundred-dollar bill, two tickets to the final game before the playoffs and a note in Hayden’s thick scrawl: You win the bet! Go Mets!

  Joey

  It’s a milky Saturday afternoon in late August with heat rising in shimmering waves, not unlike the day we buried my grandfather almost twenty years ago. And after which Rosamond kept her promise and took me camping in the Adirondacks, just the two of us. They were the most wonderful three days of my life—tracking animals through the forest, fishing in a cool green mountain stream, and at night gazing up at the stars and together remembering Hayden so hard that he became forever preserved in the misty landscape of our souls. And when the dawn came his presence was felt in the warm sunlight that slowly surrounded us. Thus we became eternally connected to each other, even though it was to be the last time I would ever see her.

  Hundreds of small white butterflies with black smudges dart and pirouette among the overgrown honeysuckle that clings to the high granite walls of the convent. I am not permitted to attend the service. So I stand outside the iron gates and my mind wanders back to the many funerals Grandpa had taken me to as a boy, cursing the medical establishment all the while.

  I’m surprised by how the past has stayed with me throughout the decades, always just beneath the surface, invisible and heartwarming, threaded to the future, the way the end of summer seamlessly stitches itself into the fall.

  Goodness, how my grandfather would be pleased to know that Rosamond had eventually become a mother superior, though perhaps she was the first to use a baseball card as a bookmark in her hymnal. I like to think he’d be amused that I’d grown up to be a surgeon. And that he’d be happy to know that just as Rosamond was blessed with the love of her God, I was equally fortunate to have found the love of a good woman. It’s certain he’d be relieved to know that I never watered down my whiskey, and that I would discourage my young son from doing so as well. Of course, the key to teaching my own eight-year-old boy anything worth knowing and truly Hayden-like is not to let his ever-fretful and vigilant grandmother Diana find out about it.

  When I left for college, Diana married Hank, who’d been made a partner in his architecture firm. My mother has maintained her extraordinary beauty throughout the years and continues to amaze us with her infinite capacity to worry about our health and safety, calling each morning with warnings about everything from the West Nile virus and dengue fever to black ice on the roads and a potentially contaminated municipal water supply.

  Finally the bells in the dilapidated tower begin to toll, signifying the end of the funeral. Raising my bagpipes toward the sun I begin to play “Oh, Love Will Venture In,” to announce her arrival on the other side, just in case Grandpa is off herding ducks, or more likely placing bets at the bar. With his kilt round my waist and his beloved Robbie Burns in the air it’s certain that I appear a solitary lunatic weeping for lost things, pacing the dusty old gravel driveway where we’d first dropped Rosamond off on that June evening so many years ago. It was the year the Mets finally won the pennant.

  Denise Winters

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Laura Pedersen grew up near Buffalo, New York, and now lives in Manhattan, where she volunteers at the Booker T. Washington Learning Center in East Harlem.

  Visit her Web site at LauraPe
dersenBooks.com.

  BY LAURA PEDERSEN

  FICTION

  Last Call

  Beginner’s Luck

  Going Away Party

  NONFICTION

  Play Money

  PRAISE FOR LAURA PEDERSEN

  Last Call

  “Laura Pedersen’s wry, bittersweet story charts the unlikely romance between a dying yet still vibrant man and a nun whose faith has abandoned her. While much is lost in this gentle tale, much is gained too, and by the novel’s end, the characters are granted the kind of wisdom and acceptance for which we all continue to long.”

  —Yona Zeldis McDonough, author of The Four Temperaments

  Beginner’s Luck

  “Laura Pedersen delivers . . . If this book hasn’t been made into a screenplay already, it should be soon. Throughout, you can’t help but think how hilarious some of the scenes would play on the big screen.”

  —The Hartford Courant

  “Funny, sweet-natured, and well-crafted . . . Pedersen has created a wonderful assemblage of . . . whimsical characters and charm.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “This novel is funny and just quirky enough to become a word-of-mouth favorite. . . . Pedersen has a knack for capturing tart teenage observations in witty asides, and Hallie’s naÏveté, combined with her gambling and numbers savvy, make her a winning protagonist.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A breezy coming-of-age novel with an appealing cast of characters.”

  —Booklist

  “A fresh and funny look at not fitting in.”

  —Seventeen magazine

  Please continue reading. . . for

  an exciting preview of

  Laura Pedersen’s next novel,

  the sequel to Beginner’s Luck

  HEART’S DESIRE

  CHAPTER 1