“What is it like?”
“Actually, it’s hard to describe, because short-term memory’s the first thing affected. And when I come back from wherever I’ve been, quite often I can’t remember a thing. Much like when you wake up from a dream, the details there and then gone, other things rushing in to take their place. Sometimes I can feel it coming, like a trance or extreme fatigue, the mind wanting to shut down. Or in my case, change channels. And usually all it takes is some external stimulus to snap me out of it, like you confronting me in the kitchen just now. But that’s early stages we’re talking about, bud. In a matter of weeks, days, even hours, I could go off the deep end and never come back.”
Ray was shaking his head. “Jesus, man. You scared the crap out of me. You were furious. I’ve never seen you like that, not in all the years I’ve known you. And you had no idea who I was.”
Ben looked away, frightened now himself. As far as he knew, none of his previous episodes had unleashed the kind of rage it must have taken to destroy that drawer.
God, why can’t I remember?
But he knew. Better than most, he knew.
Ben felt the sting of tears, and now Ray’s arm around his shoulders, Ray saying, “Hey, buddy, come on. You’ll get through this. You’re one tough muther, you know it? I’ve never told you this, but you’ve always been a hero of mine.” He grinned. “The way chicks swarmed around you in the seventies?” Ben snorted laughter. “Getting into medical school. You’re a goddamn doctor, for Christ’s sake. Writing those books. Finding a cure for batshit crazy.”
Now they both laughed.
Ray said, “The fact you can’t take your own medication, that sucks the big one.” Ben felt the man’s grip tighten around his shoulders. “But you’re gonna be fine, okay, man? You’re gonna be just fine.”
Ben knew better, but he held his tongue.
They sat together in silence for a while, their breathing the only sound. Then Ray said, “If you’ve got a screwdriver, I can fix that drawer for you.”
* * *
Following a quick tour of the complex, they found Quinn and Wilder sitting at a picnic table in the shade of a chestnut tree, sharing tea and brownies with a small group of nuns, Sister Mary Grace among them. For the first few moments, neither of the grinning idiots recognized Ray, and Ben had to say, “Remember this guy?”
Quinn got it first, squinting behind his dirty glasses until he made the connection, and he hooted so vigorously his top denture popped out and landed in his tea. That got the nuns giggling, and Quinn said, “Ray? I’ll be God damned,” with a wet slur, the mild blasphemy earning him the evil eye from Mary Grace. “How long has it been?”
Now Wilder came around the table to shake Ray’s hand, telling him it was good to see his ugly ass again, and Ray pulled the man into a stiff hug. Wilder had never been comfortable with displays of affection, but today he allowed it. Barely.
Quinn came next—at six-foot-six, towering over Ray’s five-eight—the old softy on the verge of tears. Ray offered his hand and then feinted, pretending to sock the man in the belly. Quinn jackknifed like he’d been gutshot and the nuns shrieked in horror. Ray embraced the man then, pleased to be back with the old gang.
Wilder was already pouring tea from a chrome thermos for the new arrivals, filling a pair of paper cups to the brim with the pale brew.
The men crowded in next to the nuns at the table now, Ben introducing Ray to the sisters, pausing at one incredibly ancient gal—the only one wearing the traditional black-and-brown penguin suit—to say, “And this is Sister Mary Aloysius. You might remember her from grade school. The principal at Corpus Christi during our checkered tenure there? She of the work detentions and leather strap. If memory serves, you were one of her favorite targets for that good ol’ Christian brand of corporal punishment.”
Ray studied the woman’s deeply seamed face, disbelief shading to wonder as she peered back at him through John Lennon bifocals, saying, “Raymond Gale. I remember you. Always parking that blue and white bicycle of yours on the school lawn.”
Shaking his head, Ray leaned away from her to whisper in Ben’s ear, “Is it really her?” Grinning, Ben said it was and Ray said, “Jesus Christ, she’s got to be a hundred.”
“Hundred-and-six.”
Glancing at the nun again, Ray said, “Owly bitch still gives me the creeps.”
“I heard that, Mister Gale,” Mary Aloysius said. “And don’t think I won’t take the strap to you right here in front of your juvenile delinquent confederates.” The old woman laughed now—revealing the last of her teeth, leaning like yellow tombstones in her ancient mouth—and said to Wilder, “More tea please, Vincent.”
Grinning, Wilder said, “Happy to oblige, Sister.”
* * *
Things loosened up after the nuns left, all of them giddy on Wilder’s brownies and tea, marveling as they strolled away at how light and joyful they always felt after sampling the man’s wares. Ben was amused and a little astonished at their naiveté—though he got the distinct feeling Mary Aloysius knew exactly what was going on and got a hell of a kick out of it anyway. A hundred-and-six-year-old stoner. The thought made him smile.
Sitting here now, listening through a pleasant buzz to his friends’ chatter, Ben thought, I probably shouldn’t talk—baked like a hippie two days in a row. And he realized then, nibbling one of the brownies, he hadn’t felt this good in years: his joints no longer felt like they were packed with ground glass; his mental status was sunny and light, none of the usual doom and gloom rattling around in his head; and he felt solidly grounded for the first time in months, with a clear sense of who, where—and when—he was. He thought, Maybe there is some benefit to this stuff after all. Although for decades he’d rejected the notion, believing ‘medical marijuana’ was simply an excuse for a lot of people to get rich and a lot of other people to get stoned.
Quinn and Wilder took off at twelve o’clock, the munchies hard upon them now, Wilder saying it was mac-and-cheese day in the caf, his favorite. Quinn asked Ray if he wanted to join them, but Ray declined, saying he wasn’t hungry and wanted some alone time with Ben.
Watching the men shuffle away, Ray said, “Mutt and Jeff.”
Ben laughed. “With all due apologies to the real Mutt and Jeff.”
Ray said, “I’m glowing. Are you glowing?”
“Like a click beetle.”
“Feels like old times.”
“That it does.”
A hundred feet away on the main footpath, Sister Mary Aloysius motored past on a scooter, waving and giving them a gap-toothed grin.
The men waved back, Ray saying, “Bitch,” under his breath. As she rolled out of sight, almost tipping the scooter on a tight corner, Ray said, “What’s with the nuns, anyway? There was nothing in the brochure about this being a Catholic facility.”
“No, you’re right. They’re actually residents, but they look after the chapel and do amazing amounts of volunteer work. They’re well loved around here.”
Ray snorted laughter. “Mostly by Wilder. Funny as hell, seeing them get high without realizing it.” He pointed after Mary Aloysius. “Except that evil witch. I’m pretty sure she knows exactly what’s going on.”
“Agreed.”
“Ten bucks Wilder’s banging her.”
Their laughter rose on the spring air, flushing a flock of sparrows out of the chestnut branches above their heads.
* * *
That mellow high lingered into the afternoon, the men filling the hours in the breezy shade chatting about old times…how they met in the third grade, the first time they smoked-up, got laid, got in a fist fight, failed a grade, left home, bought a car, almost went to Woodstock, stole a couple of Playboy magazines and got caught pulling their pugs—Ben by his mother, Ray by Ben.
Laughing, Ben said, “I seem to remember an ugly purple helmet on that thing.”
Ray turned beet red, still embarrassed after all these years. “You should learn to knock b
efore you come barging into a guy’s bedroom.”
To change the subject, Ray came up with the idea of voting on what was the coolest thing they’d ever done together. After much deliberation, they narrowed it down to either setting out to make a coastal run around North America on Ray’s 350 Honda, or seeing Led Zeppelin live in 1970. After Ben reminded Ray about their motorcycle jaunt ending in a nasty spill in the Mojave desert—and they compared long-healed patches of road rash—it was decided that seeing Zeppelin in concert was probably the coolest thing anyone had ever done.
Pensive now, the westering sun beginning to glare-blind him, Ray said, “Those guys were magnificent.”
“Indeed they were.”
“Robert Plant was like a god. I remember looking up at him and wondering what it must be like, being that beautiful and confident and uniquely talented, every chick in the place ready to strip down and worship your cock. Jesus.” Ray laughed, shaking his gleaming head. “The man’s jeans were so tight, you could count the wrinkles on his nutsack.”
Ben said, “You’d’ve blown him if he let you.”
Ray laughed. “You’re the little girl, not me.”
They were quiet after that, each man idling in his own mental space, observing the goings-on around them: pigeons and gulls squabbling over bits of stale bread the resident bird lady tossed on the footpath; old folks tooling past on motorized carts or walkers, rheumy eyes focused on an irretrievable past; visitors exiting the Center, relieved as they hustled back to their cars, glad to be free of the sanitized atmosphere of decay that permeated the place.
After a while, Ben suggested they go back inside, saying he was getting sunburned and hungry. But Ray said, “There’s one more thing I wanted to talk to you about,” his demeanor subdued now. “I need a huge favor.”
“Sure, man, whatever you want.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay? Hear me out before you decide.”
“All right.”
Ben looked into his friend’s eyes now, bracing himself against the dark thing he saw lurking there.
Ray said, “I’ve got—”
“There you are.”
Ben turned to see a slender shape coming out of the sun—it was Roxanne—and his concern over what Ray had to say was replaced by joy. Followed instantly by guilt.
“Lunch,” he said, feeling the blood rush to his face. “Oh my God, sweetie, I forgot.”
But Roxanne was smiling, scooting to sit next to him now, clutching his hand. “That’s fine, Ben. Please, don’t worry about it. I forget things too, all the time.”
Ben said, “I…we…” glancing at Ray now, feeling equally guilty about the interruption—clearly his friend had something important to tell him.
But Ray gave him a reassuring nod, as if to say, Don’t worry, buddy, we’ll come back to this later. Winking, he said, “Take your foot out of your mouth, you forgetful old fart, and introduce me to your friend.”
“Of course,” Ben said. “Ray Gale, this is Roxanne Austen. We met yesterday at the anniversary bash. She’ll be going into environmental studies at Dalhousie in the fall.”
Offering her hand, “Roxanne said, “Hello, Mister Gale, how are you?”
“Not bad for the mileage,” Ray said, shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you, Roxanne. And Mister Gale was my dad. Call me Ray.” Then to Ben, “Listen, old boy, why don’t you two go ahead and visit. I’m gonna head back to the apartment. I haven’t even unpacked yet.”
Secretly delighted, Ben said, “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ray said, starting away. “I’ll catch up to you later.”
Ben said, “Okay, fag,” and Roxanne giggled.
“Later, rump ranger,” Ray said, and he was gone.
Ben rose now too, saying, “I feel like such an old fool. I’m so absentminded.” Roxanne told him it was no big deal, and Ben said, “It is a big deal. I really have to start writing things down.” Then remember I did. “Let me make it up to you. They’ve got this chocolate-coated ice cream in the boutique that’s to die for. Häagen-Dazs on a stick. Salted caramel. My treat.”
Smiling, Roxanne said, “You’re on.”
* * *
“Wanna walk with these?” Ben said, taking a bite of the delicious treat.
“Sure,” Roxanne said, digging in now, too.
And in a reflex that would soon become routine, they bore right along the footpath fronting the admin building, moving toward the solar array, Ben half-wishing she’d take his hand again. But Roxanne was busy devouring her ice cream and Ben chuckled, saying, “Told ya.”
“Mmm, these are delicious. I can already feel myself getting addicted.”
They were quiet now, walking and snacking, and Ben went away for a while, flashing on something as the Euthanasia Foundation came into view, an ornate, donut-shaped building set apart from the main complex on an acre of manicured grounds. For no conscious reason, he turned right onto a side path, heading for the building now. It was Roxanne’s tentative voice—“Ben, where are we going?”—that snapped him back to reality.
“Nowhere in particular,” he said. But he glimpsed a motive skipping through his mind like a flat stone and he hesitated, ashamed and confused by what his ailing brain served up: You’re trying to impress the girl. As if beyond his volition, he continued moving toward the Foundation, tossing the stick from his ice cream into a waste bin. “I just thought you might like a tour—”
Roxanne grabbed his hand, not companionably this time but roughly, urgently, the rims of her eyelids flashing red.
She said, “I don’t want to go in there, okay, Ben? Not ever again.”
He glanced at the front entrance, not twenty feet away now, but still not close enough for Roxanne to read the inscription on the marble cornerstone: THE BENJAMIN HUNTER BUILDING, ERECTED 2018. He thought, Why would I want her to see that? realizing only now what a boneheaded move this was. Her grandfather would soon meet his death in there.
“I’m sorry, Roxanne,” he said, glancing at the remains of her ice cream, melting now in the sun, runners of chocolate and vanilla oozing between her fingers. He tugged his hand free of her grip, dug a clean tissue out of his pocket and wrapped it around her hand, apologizing again, saying, “I wasn’t thinking.”
“That’s okay,” Roxanne said, tossing the rest of her treat into a waste bin. “Let’s just go sit by the falls, okay?”
Ben only nodded.
They made the quarter-mile hike in freighted silence, Roxanne walking a few paces ahead of him now, wiping her fingers with the tissue. Winded and ashamed, Ben did his best to keep up, fearful his ego might have harmed their budding friendship. It had been a juvenile move, wanting her to see his name on that stone, imagining her saying, “Oh, cool, they named the building after you.”
Trailing her down the steps to the falls, Ben thought, Idiot, not realizing he’d said it aloud until Roxanne said, “What?”
“Oh, just calling myself an idiot,” he said, red-faced. “Didn’t realize I’d said it out loud.”
There was a bench nearby, bolted to a rocky promontory overlooking the falls, and Roxanne took Ben’s hand and led him to it.
Sitting next to him now, she said, “I’m the idiot,” her frank gaze unnerving him, as it had the day before in the lobby. So beautiful. She said, “I’m being such a baby about this. But I can’t help it.”
He saw tears mist her eyes—and watched her stifle them with the same vein of steel he’d glimpsed the day before.
Lowering her gaze, she said, “I signed the consent this morning.”
“Yes, of course. Your appointment with the counselor.” He waited for her to say, “I saw the marble stone with your name on it,” and thought, What is wrong with you?
She said, “I saw your name on the building—you must be so proud they named it after you—but I’m sorry, Ben, the place gave me the creeps. Sitting with that counselor, and then going on the tour, I kept thinking, ‘My Gramps is going to die in here,’ an
d I couldn’t wait to get back outside. I couldn’t breathe, and…”
Ben said, “Shh, kiddo, shh,” and put his arm around her. And in spite of the girl’s upset, he felt warm and necessary and real.
She gathered herself quickly, and when she pulled away Ben felt as if a small part of him had been excised, a visceral tug that left him feeling diminished.
He said, “When?”
“Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock.”
Ben thought, First of the day, recalling the first client he’d euthanized on opening day, November 26th, 2018, the task falling to him by default. In spite of Medical Assistance in Dying having been legalized two years prior, there had been a huge public outcry that morning, hoards of pro-lifers storming the gates with their placards and chants of government-sanctioned genocide. Something about centralizing a process that had been going on peacefully and humanely in hospital rooms, palliative care facilities, and patients’ homes for the preceding twenty-four months had lit a righteous fire under the demonstrators, and the situation had rapidly escalated into violence and arrests. Watching the action from a third story window, Ben had recalled a similar furor in the early seventies surrounding the legalization of abortion. Thankfully, though, in both instances, the volatility of the situation had diminished over time, only the most rabid detractors refusing to let go. To this day, small, joyless groups of them picketed the Foundation, bobbing their signs and expounding the ‘Will of God’ to all who would listen. Even changing the name of the process from Medical Assistance in Dying to Voluntary Euthanasia—in an attempt to shift perceived responsibility from the operator to the client in the least offensive manner possible—had failed to mollify them.
Now Ben watched Roxanne smooth out the tissue he’d given her, the thin material stained with chocolate, and use it to dry her eyes, getting a freckle of chocolate on her cheek. Smiling, he wet the ball of his thumb, like his mother used to do, and scrubbed the speck away. Bringing it back to his lips, he said, “Isn’t that chocolate to die for?”
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