by Ann McMan
It didn’t take long. Without treatment or remediation, the disease progressed quickly. I did everything I could to persuade her to relent. Reconsider. Change her mind. She refused.
I hid my frustration and rage from her. Each day at the hospital I met with an endless queue of other patients who begged for extreme or more aggressive treatments, who clung to hope in the absence of reason, who reached the outer limits of “all we could do,” and commenced clawing at the walls of their disappointed hopes with weak and bloodied hands. They were the would-be survivors who willingly prostrated their burned and poisoned bodies on the altar of an unknowing and uncaring science that would always fall just short of salvation.
She grew weaker. Lighter and more translucent—like a memory of herself. I could carry her from room to room.
“I want to feel the sun,” she’d whisper. “I’d rather spend five minutes in the sun than five years on death row.”
Death row. That’s what she called the promise of all I had to offer her. The accumulated wisdom of all my years of study at the best medical establishments in the world withered and died on the vine of her simple pronouncement. Work became impossible for me. I could no longer tolerate the lies. The false hopes. The infernal spin that fed the ageing and outmoded ghosts that inhabited the great machine we called healthcare.
She left me in the early hours of the first day of spring. I dozed in a chair beside her bed. There was so little of her left that I shouldn’t have noticed her going. Her exit should have been small and quiet—as unremarkable as her short life. But it wasn’t. I awoke to a sound like a rushing wind. It was so loud that I was certain I had failed to close the only window in the tiny room. I staggered to my feet and stumbled toward it. The first rays of light were just beginning to paint the modest backyard of our house. I could make out some faint wisps of pink along the shadowy branches of the cherry trees that stood in a twisted line against our back fence. I reached for the window but realized it was already shut tight. The rushing sound went on and on. Louder. Stronger. More insistent. I raised my hands to my ears to try and shut it out.
Then I recognized it. The sound was within me. It was the surge of my own blood, raging at the end of her life.
I never returned to work. I couldn’t. I had nothing more to offer. I was alone and unenlightened. My truth could not be altered because I willed a different outcome.
They taught us everything we needed to know about living.
But only the poets can teach us how to die.
11
Sometimes a Great Notion
“What the hell are you waiting for?” Marvin dropped into Junior’s recliner with all the grace of Jean Luc Picard preparing to take command of the Enterprise. “Cast off and get this floating piece of shit underway.”
Montana gave him a three-fingered salute and untied the cleat lines. She pushed the big pontoon away from the dock and hopped aboard. Quinn started the engines. The rebuilt Evinrude Starflite 125-horsepower motors belched to life. When they both ran—which was infrequent—she had the maximum horsepower allowed for tournament competition. If she got lucky, both engines would cooperate and she’d be able to navigate from place to place with enough speed to guarantee that she’d have plenty of time to make the two o’clock weigh-ins in Plattsburgh.
She had her Pisces map taped to the bridge. As soon as they cleared the no-wake zone near the inn, she’d hit the throttles and make for the Dock Street Marina. The tournament started promptly at eight-thirty, and she wanted to be there in plenty of time for check-in. The officials had to inspect the boats at the start of each day of competition. Once they were cleared and allowed to head out, she’d make for the first spot Junior had marked on her map. It was one of Phoebe’s favorite haunts. He noted that he’d seen her there, hanging around near the drop-off at the edge of a weed bed, at least half a dozen times.
Quinn hoped they’d see her today, but she wasn’t counting on it. Even though most of their encounters had taken place while Quinn was dreaming, she thought she knew enough about the opinions of the cantankerous bass to understand that Phoebe didn’t much care about the wishes of others.
The lake was choppy today. It had rained overnight and there was a steady wind blowing in from the south. That would churn things up. The fish wouldn’t like it. They’d be antsy—cranky and harder to catch. That meant she’d have better luck today if she stuck to the weed beds and used a jig and pig. Junior said a black and blue jig was the best lure for this situation—especially when you coupled it with something gaudy like a crawfish trailer. He said that when you fished the outer perimeter of tall weeds you needed to make sure your line had a big profile with lots of vulgar color. Quinn thought that part made a lot of sense. It wasn’t that different from the way things worked in biker bars—only her people used body art instead of fake crustaceans. Still. She had a couple of bright, rubber beauties all picked out. Her favorite had chartreuse claws with bright pink tips—perfect bait to tempt an unwilling fish out of hiding.
She looked out at the cavalcade of boats on the lake. The high-priced, tricked-out rigs were all over the place today. The ones that weren’t stopped or gently drifting along were roaring past her at breakneck speeds, hurrying from one favored spot to the next.
The fish wouldn’t like that, either.
One of her damn engines kept cutting in and out. That made the pontoon’s progress across the lake halting and jerky, like a car stuck in rush hour traffic. She could hear Marvin muttering something about what a waste of effort this was. But she didn’t care. She had only one destination in mind and she knew they had plenty of time to get there.
She drummed her fingers against her pant leg. The small Lucky Strike tin in her pocket amplified the staccato sound. She’d been halfway out of her room this morning before she remembered to grab the box containing Laddie Ladd’s artfully tied flies. She doubted that she’d need them, but decided to heed Junior’s advice anyway.
“You take them and use them when the time is right,” he said.
Her boat continued its lurching progress across the lake. Its wake was like a dotted line in the water.
With luck, she guessed they’d make it to the sandbar by ten.
Several of the writers stood together on the lawn to watch Quinn’s departure. They were mostly silent. It was hard to comment when they were unsure about whether they were witnessing the prelude to a tragedy or the first act of a comedy of errors. Whichever way the tournament was fated to come out, none of them could deny that Quinn had given it her best shot. There was something laudable in that. They were all aware of it as they stood there, watching her boat grow smaller as it moved away from the shore.
In typical fashion, Viv was the first to break the silence—and to brook disagreement.
“That has to be the greatest exercise in futility since Sisyphus got the bright idea it might be fun to push a boulder uphill.”
Cricket considered her comment. “I don’t think Sisyphus thought it would be fun to push a boulder up hill—I think he was forced to do it as a punishment for misdeeds.”
“What misdeeds?”
“Beats me.” Cricket shrugged. “Something Greek and archetypal.”
“Maybe he coveted his neighbor’s wife?” Towanda suggested.
Viv shot her a withering look. “Of course, that idea would occur to you.”
“Well?” Towanda spread her arms. “You got any better explanations?”
“Better explanations for what?” Gwen joined the group. She’d been out for her morning walk. She still had her binoculars looped around her neck and an Audubon field guide to the birds of New England tucked beneath her arm.
“Viv was comparing Quinn’s quest to the myth of Sisyphus,” Cricket explained. “And we were trying to remember why he was cursed.”
Gwen nodded. “I think it had something to do with his ability to outwit death.”
“Did you say outwit?” Viv clucked her tongue. “Then I definitely picked the wro
ng analogy for Quinn’s little enterprise.”
Gwen rolled her eyes. “Why are you so hard on her?”
“You’re kidding me with this, right?”
“No.”
“As an actuary, I can give you a list of any one of a dozen disastrous scenarios for how this ill-fated enterprise is certain to end.”
Gwen looked unconvinced. “I don’t agree.”
Viv was amazed. “You think she’s going to win?”
“I didn’t say that. I just said I disagreed that it would end in disaster.”
Viv stared back at Gwen, and then faced Cricket with a raised eyebrow.
Cricket took the hint.
“Holding.” Her hand shot into the air. “Twenty on averting disaster.”
“Bullshit.” Towanda reached into the pocket of her jeans. “I’ll take some of that action. Here’s twenty on wholesale destruction.”
“I’ll double-down on that prediction.” Viv waved a handful of bills at Cricket.
Cricket collected the cash and looked at Gwen. “Talk is cheap. You want in?”
“What on earth would lead you to suppose that I’d be willing to gamble on something so ridiculously sophomoric?”
Cricket smiled. “So, that’s your way of saying you don’t have any cash on you?”
“Right.” Gwen nodded. “Will you accept my marker?”
“Of course.”
“I do have one question,” Gwen continued.
“What is it?”
“If Viv is the actuary, why do you always seem to be the one holding the bets?”
Cricket chuckled. “First of all, since Viv is usually at the center of any betting that’s going on, it’s useful to have someone else do the holding. Beyond that, you could say I just have an aptitude for guessing which outcome is likelier. It’s a skill I learned the hard way.”
Viv agreed. “She could make a killing in the insurance industry.”
“No thank you.” Cricket ordered the bills so they all faced the same way. “Thirty-five years of being an army nurse was enough for me. The only kind of killing that interests me these days involves a tumbler and a bottle of single malt Scotch.”
“Missed opportunities.” Viv shook her head.
“Take my word for it, Viv.” Cricket stuffed the bills into a zippered pocket on her jacket. “Missed opportunities come in all shapes and sizes.”
“No shit.” Towanda pointed a finger toward the pontoon. It was like a tiny fleck of sliver on the horizon but you could still make out its canvas awning and the splotchy green color of the Kelvinator. “Ask ‘Marvin Pants.’”
Cricket followed her gaze. “What’s that remark supposed to mean?”
“Oh, come on,” Viv chimed in. “I saw your face when he walked into the restaurant last night with Montana. You about pissed your pants. We all did.”
Gwen smiled. “Ironic turn of phrase.”
“What-ever.” Viv waved a hand. “None of us saw that one coming.”
Cricket shrugged. “I think what he’s doing to help Quinn is pretty damn admirable.”
“Yeah? It sure begs the question about why he is doing it?”
Towanda disagreed. “I think it’s pretty clear he had Barb’s foot up his ass.”
Viv looked at her. “You think Barb knew Mavis was a man?”
“You don’t?” Cricket asked. “It’s hard to believe they drove across country together without that revelation taking place.”
“She just fell off the turnip truck.” Towanda snapped her fingers in front of Viv’s face. “Hello? Anybody home in there?”
Viv swatted Towanda’s hand away.
“Will you two knock it off?” Gwen had had enough. “Who cares what Barb knew or didn’t know? And who cares what prompted Mavis to reveal herself as Marvin—or Marvin to present himself as Mavis? It’s not like his ‘transition’ is any more or less twisted than the ones the rest of us are up here to explore.”
No one could argue with that. Or at least, if they could, they chose not to.
So instead, they stood together quietly and watched the sunlight glinting off the pontoons of Quinn’s little boat until it disappeared behind Ladd Point.
“Look at this stuff.” Shawn tipped her plate toward the window so the sunlight could illuminate the glob of aspic on her plate. “It looks like a blood clot.”
“Shawn, why do you insist on letting them serve it to you? Why don’t you simply tell them you don’t want it?”
Shawn looked at Kate with wonder. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you hate it?”
“I don’t know that I hate it.” She tipped her plate into the light again. “I’m intrigued by it.”
Kate sat back and folded her arms. “You’re intrigued by it?”
“Yes.” Shawn set her plate down. “I keep thinking that maybe I’ll develop a taste for it.”
“That’s not very likely to happen.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, you’d have to eat some of it to develop a taste for it.”
Shawn wrinkled up her nose. “Gross.”
“I rest my case.”
“See?” Shawn pushed her plate away. “This is the basic difference between you and me.”
Kate sighed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I’m certain you’re going to enlighten me.”
“I might if you’re nice to me.”
“I’m always nice to you.”
“No you aren’t.”
Kate opened her mouth to reply, but seemed to think better of it.
Shawn noticed. “What is it?”
Kate unfolded her arms. “I promise I’ll be nice to you.”
They smiled at each other.
“Okay,” Shawn continued. “As I was saying. Our approaches to The Tomato Aspic Problem highlight the differences in our basic approaches to relationships.”
Kate raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.”
Shawn raised an index finger and began to tick off the differences.
“First, when confronted with a difficult situation, I take the time I need to fully study the scope of the problem.”
She waited for Kate to make a response, but Kate just waved her on. “Please continue. This is fascinating.”
“You sure?”
Kate leaned back against her chair. “Oh, yeah.”
“Okay. Second, I don’t rush to snap judgments or structure my interactions to avoid having to deal with whatever the problem is.”
Kate chewed the inside of her cheek but remained silent.
“Third,” Shawn continued, “I always allow for the possibility that my ideas about something may change—so I don’t close the door on opportunities I’ve already cast aside.”
Kate folded her arms again. “Is that your entire list?”
“No. I have one or two more.”
“By all means, let’s hear them.”
Shawn looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Are you pissed?”
“Not yet.”
“Good, because that’s number four. I don’t get mad when somebody confronts me with a problem I’d rather ignore.”
Kate regarded the gelatinous, dark-red glop on Shawn’s plate. “I had no idea that aspic was this complex.”
“Which brings us to number five.”
Kate rolled her eyes.
“Hey, you said you wanted to hear the entire list.”
“You’re right.” Kate sighed. “Please continue.”
“As I was saying. Number five. Every problem, no matter how simply it presents, is usually masking something deeper. I try to look beneath the surface and find out what the real issues are, rather than dismiss something irksome as a simple annoyance.”
“And what mystical truth lurks beneath the surface of your uneaten aspic?”
Shawn looked down at her plate. “I don’t know yet.”
“You don’t know yet?”
Shawn shook her head.
“I fail to see how that
’s possible. You’ve contemplated the stuff twice a day for nearly two weeks.”
“Like I said. Inherent opportunities abound.”
“Well, by these calculations, it would appear that your problem-solving skills are highly evolved.”
“I’d like to think so.”
“Mine, on the other hand, are sadly purported to be the antithesis of yours?”
“Sometimes they are.”
“Care to give me an instance?”
Shawn leaned forward. “I’d rather give you an opportunity.”
Kate looked suspicious. “What kind of opportunity?”
“It’s kind of a test case.”
“What are we testing?”
“Your ability to withhold judgment and make a snap decision that might be something we both end up regretting.”
Kate sighed. “Are we talking about Linda’s job offer again?”
“No.” Shawn shook her head. “This time, we’re talking about an opportunity for me.”
“For you?” Kate seemed perplexed. “What kind of opportunity?”
Shawn reached over and picked up a notebook that sat on the vacant chair beside her. She withdrew a folded document and passed it across the table to Kate.
“What is this?” Kate unfolded the papers and studied them. Shawn watched the expression on her face change from curiosity to surprise to disbelief. She looked up at Shawn. “You bought a house?”
Shawn nodded.
Kate held up a photo of the Craftsman cottage. “You bought this house?”
Shawn nodded again.
“In Vermont?”
“Yes.”
Kate dropped the papers to her lap. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” Shawn shrugged. “It felt right.” She considered her words. “It is right. I like it here. A lot.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Kate seemed genuinely dumbfounded. “I don’t know what to think.”
Shawn leaned toward her again. “Don’t tell me what you think. Tell me how you feel.”
Kate shook her head.
“No. Really.” Shawn reached across the table and touched the top of Kate’s hand. “Try.”
Kate stared out the window. When she looked back at Shawn, her expression was unreadable.