Ending

by Hilma Wolitzer

  31

  MARTIN WAS BEING TRANSFERRED from Jay’s room to another part of the hospital. I believed that his mother had made the request. She would not meet my eyes as she busied herself at his nightstand. “Do you want these?” she asked, holding up letters and cards. “Are you going to save everything?”

  Martin sat in a blue robe at the side of the bed, which had already been stripped of its bedding. He nodded in answer to his mother’s questions. His father waited in the hallway, sticking his head in from time to time to say things like “How goes it?” and “How are you doing?” in his grating whisper. Martin said nothing.

  His mother held up an African violet plant that had been sent by a class in Martin’s school: “Why don’t you take this?” she asked her husband, as his face appeared in the doorway again.

  “Well excuse me,” he said, going past Jay’s bed. He winked, smiled, took the plant from his wife and backed out of the room. In a few minutes, he looked in again. “How goes it?” he asked.

  A nurse came with a wheelchair for Martin.

  “Well,” his mother said. “That looks like that. You’ll get a little peace and quiet,” she said to Jay. She walked to his bed, extending her hand. “Very nice to meet you.”

  “Thank you,” Jay said.

  The father came into the room again and, transferring the plant to his other hand, he held the empty one out to Jay and then to me. “Nice to meet you folks,” he said. His hand was moist. He wiped it on the side of his jacket. “Good luck, now,” he added.

  Martin was wheeled to Jay’s bedside. “Jay,” he said, tremulous.

  Jay smiled at him. “Sandy will bring the proofs of last week’s takes. I’ll get them to you. Remember what I said about the skylight filter.”

  “I will, Jay.” Martin’s eyes were brilliant with tears. I thought that it had done his mother no good to protect him, after all. Simply by loving, he knew the fragile thread of human relationships.

  “Fair-weather friends,” I said to Jay. From the hallway we could hear voices, diminishing footsteps. I shut the door and came back and sat next to him on the bed. He put his hand on my cheek and his touch was cool and light. “Sweetie,” he said. “Would you do something for me?”

  “You know,” I said.

  “Will you go in there with me for a little while?” He gestured toward the small bathroom. “I haven’t seen you in such a long time. I haven’t touched you.” He stroked my hair. “Will you?”

  The passage from the bed to the bathroom was done in the slow process of dreamwalking. Would we get there?

  I locked the door behind us and while Jay leaned against the tiled wall, I pulled off my sweater and let my skirt fall in a gray puddle at my feet. He reached his hands behind me to unhook my brassiere and I wondered whose trembling had aroused the other’s. “Oh,” he said, as if in first discovery and I echoed, “Oh,” as my breasts pressed into his hands.

  “Lovely, lovely, lovely,” Jay said.

  I reached forward to help him with his pajamas, shutting my eyes for a moment against revelation of what had happened to him. I knew that when I opened them again I would see what was to be my real and lasting memory of Jay. No matter what happened to him from that moment. No matter how I remembered him from what seemed to be only a brief summer of moments: Jay, running with the swift power of a sketch that denotes movement and grace, Jay, wearing an erection like a banner, Jay, seen from a window, from our bed, from my place across the table.

  But I looked at him, at his poor wasted flesh, with a fierce attention, committing him to remembrance in waxen colors, in that warning of the skeletal frame, in the odors that arose like sweet poisons to my nostrils.

  My poor Jay, his mouth groping and his hands too light, too fragile to leave burning indelible marks. And the trembling more like a shudder that began in the earth beneath us.

  I kneeled and made a carpet of our clothing on the floor, and I led him down beside me. Whose breath was that, like a rush of wind? No erection now, only a soft nervous mass that seemed to withdraw from my hand. “It will be good,” I promised, and I rubbed him gently between my hands, thinking, it will be good, it will be good, letting motion fall into the rhythm of those words. I willed it with savage concentration, with ideas of flowering things—open, newborn—soaring, and then I moved down, finding him with my mouth, my eyes still shut to enclose the fantasy.

  Jay’s voice came from a great distance at the first quivers and I thought it was possible to give life this way, to recreate with my life-giving mouth, to invade him with love the way that disease had invaded him. Behind my eyes comets flashed by and I believed in my mouth, in my magic tongue, in my power to restore and rekindle. God—it was so easy! Now he stirred and cried my name in feral triumph and let his final warmth rush out.

  32

  February 1st

  Dear children

  It is raining in Paradise. When it rains we sleep a lot. Sam is snoozing now in the other room and my head is falling over. I look out the window and I can see the ocean from here with all that water and the rain coming down heavy like drumbeats. Sometimes nature seems crazy to me. It should be raining on a desert instead.

  Ho hum I am dropping off so this will be only a little shortie. Tell my boys that Grandma is thinking of them and sends them many kisses.

  Nuiloha

  Mona

  P.S. Sam says do you want natives pulling in the fishnets or a beach scene at sunrise?

  33

  THEY CAME IN AT first with the awe and curiosity of tourists entering a church in a foreign country. They looked around them at the narrow white beds, at the dangling ropes of tubing, at the cabinets and sinks, as if they were politely acknowledging yet another painting of the Holy Mother and Child, yet another frayed tapestry of angels, lambs, and unicorns, eyes raised even higher than heaven.

  I stood near the door as they entered and I greeted them. The women pecked at my cheeks and the men combined clumsy hugs with handshakes. I collected their words like tickets of admission. “Sandy, how are you doing? I hope we’re not too late. Don’t forget to call us if there’s anything we can do.”

  What more could they be expected to do? They were here to offer their very blood and yet they wouldn’t save Jay.

  My mother and father were early and they stood uneasily behind me at the door. But their presence gave everyone a second gesture. My mother was kissed, my father’s hand was pummeled and vibrated.

  The men came from the television studio, and their wives were with them, some in fur coats, smelling of winter air. Neighbors from our apartment building arrived, looking shy and out of place, as if they were distant relatives. Isabel was there with Eddie. He sniffed expectantly, like a dog, and he was pale. Mr. Caspar was there, letting himself be part of the crowd, smiling seriously.

  Three attendants in appropriate white went in and out of the room, bearing beakers, trays and test tubes. Eddie watched them and I was reminded of Harry at the doctor’s office, looking suspiciously at everything. What’s that? What are you going to do?

  An old friend from high school came in and there were cries of recognition. The awe and the curiosity were wearing off. People recognized one another and were introduced to others. Two of the announcers from the studio arrived and even the attendants stopped their bustling and whispered and pointed. It was really the man who brought the six o’clock news, it was really the one who spoke so seriously and frankly about indigestion and constipation. Their voices rose a bit and became the swarming hum heard at cocktail parties, punctuated by audible phrases. “For heaven’s sake, I didn’t know that you knew …” “This is my wife, Helen. Helen, Helen, listen this is …” “Well, I’ve been a fan of yours for …” “Do you remember those old screens, maybe seven inches with a magnifying glass …” Someone laughed in a clear high tone like the sound of glasses clinking together. “Shhhh,” from someone else, remembering.

  Why, I was a hostess at a cocktail party. One only had to imagine hors
d’oeuvres passed around the room and the sweet easing of whiskey, and music defying the voices. I wished I had a drink then, could move among them with a facility only remembered. How are you? What a lovely skirt. You can carry it with your height. I’m so glad you could come. Was there much traffic on the expressway? I know, that damned construction. Did you read his review in the Times? You look marvelous with your hair that way.

  Instead, numb and dumb, in the doorway, pinching my own fingers for feeling, out of style, out of date. What was I wearing? I looked down, saw the gray skirt; the color of winter skies, of park pigeons, of dark thoughts.

  Then one of the white-suited attendants began to move among them looking for volunteers. Voices grew softer. Nervous giggles. Two men from the studio went forward. On spring days Jay had played ball with them in Central Park, running on the soft damp grass, flushed, breathless. The ball arced in the air, first golden in sunlight, then dappled by the shadows of the trees. They removed their jackets and put them on hooks against the far wall. The rest of us watched as they lay down on the beds. Their wives came forward too, hung their coats alongside the men’s. They removed their shoes and primped their hair with little nervous gestures. One of the women turned and smiled at me. I smiled back in encouragement, trying to remember her name. The women lay down, tugging modestly at the hems of their skirts. Their fingers were pricked for samples. The technicians moved among the beds, adjusting bottles and tubes. Behind me, someone (Eddie? My father?) gasped as the first blood ran down. Irreverently, I remembered horror movies, thunder and lightning crashing and crackling at the windows. The heroine strapped to the table. The mad scientist racing hunched around the laboratory, his wild laughter and spittle mixing with the steaming vapor of the test tubes he carries. Ha ha, the scientist throws back his head as the heroine writhes on the table. Hee hee, I vant to sock your blodt. Oh God.

  The men are sitting up now on the beds. One flashes a V-sign. My mother and father lie down when the beds are empty. A customer from the beauty shop, with a towering beehive hairdo, joins them. My father’s face is moist and pale. He touches himself—his hair where it’s thinning at the top, his moustache, the waistband of his trousers, his throat. All there, everything intact. If we were alone, I would hold his hand. He knows about death, on that table. My mother keeps her expression, the same always, doesn’t wince or look back. I should have been like her. A great fuss is made over the beehive hairdo. The customer gestures toward my father and the technician looks appreciative, touches her own hair. My father, white and sad, winks at her, offers her a discount rate, pulls a business card from his pocket.

  My father’s blood comes, and my mother’s. My father shuts his eyes, sending himself someplace more reasonable.

  Then it is Eddie’s turn and Izzy lies down beside him, touching his arm briefly so that he is able to smile, half his lip curling up. Looking at the ceiling, thinking, it’s the smell I can’t stand.

  The others linger in an anteroom where coffee is served, heavy on the sugar. One of the women has to lie down again. Her shoes are on the floor. “I feel silly,” she says. “It’s probably mind over matter. But no, I’ve always had low blood pressure. It’s true.”

  My father comes into the anteroom. I kiss his cool flesh. Daddy. My mother. Izzy. The neighbor from downstairs who bangs on the ceiling with a broom when the boys run. See, I’m a good person in my heart. Takes three cubes of sugar, puts two in her purse, another in her coat pocket. Two cousins from Long Island, an uncle from Brooklyn, rolling down his sleeve. Eddie comes in and waits for his reward. Thank you, Eddie. You’re a good friend. Good dog, good boy. Thanks, everybody. Blow kisses. I don’t know what to say. I vant to sock your blodt. Tenk you everybodty.

  The coats on again. “Can I drop you off?” “It was terrific to see you again, I mean …” “Ohhh, it’s snowing again.” Kiss kiss. “Call me, will you call me if you need anything? Do you promise?” “Thank you, thanks for corning.” My hostess gown flutters at my ankles. It was a success. “I can’t tell you … Good-bye I only wish … I know … Good-bye good-bye.”

  And then I lie down too, and the needle enters. Help help. Ha ha my proud beauty. Don’t struggle. I’m only going to inject you with this secret formula …

  34

  THE NEXT WEEK JAY’S condition began to deteriorate so rapidly that it seemed that acknowledgment had been a form of surrender. We had said yes, and there were hemorrhages from the nose and from the rectum, insidious but steady bleeding from the gums, and long periods of sleep from which he emerged bruised in the flesh and in the spirit. Sometimes dogs stalked in Jay’s dreams, with teeth bared and haunches rolling under their skin. Nothing was fastened down anymore. Buildings careened and lurched and the sky splintered and fell. Uninvited guests arrived and left inside his head and he shouted without making a sound, and forced himself to surface again.

  There were only a few visitors now to his new room, a small monk’s cell in which he would carry out his retreat. We whispered there as if we entered a darkened auditorium or a place of worship. Once Jay woke briefly from dozing and said, “I can’t hear you,” although no one had spoken.

  My mother came there, tiptoeing and trying to look at ease with her heart. Izzy sat at the bedside to relieve me and she seemed thinner in the shadows of that room, as if she were reduced by what she saw there. Yet people still called and said, “How is he?” I could not imagine what they wanted to know. Not the clinical details of dying, not news of additional equipment brought daily, until Jay seemed readied for some marvelous scientific feat, for propulsion into the outer realms of the universe.

  My father drove there with me one Friday. It was raining and we ran from the parking lot to the entrance under the large black bloom of his umbrella. “Daddy,” I said. “Every day he looks worse. Try not to be surprised when you see him.” I wondered who it was I protected.

  Jay was awake when we came into the room, with huge fetal eyes watching the doorway. He smiled and raised his hand slightly in greeting. “Mr. B.,” he said, and my father’s Adam’s apple made a rapid passage up and down his throat. We nudged one another gently toward the one bedside chair, and finally I sat down, and my father positioned himself against the wall facing the bed, assuming a casual pose with his arms folded and one foot crossed in front of the other.

  “Do you need anything?” I whispered to Jay, wincing against the possibility of some final rage—yes, new blood, another chance, a fucking life.

  His hand came up and rasped against his jaw. “I feel like a slob,” he said in his new voice. “That fellow who used to shave me doesn’t come anymore.”

  “I’ll speak to him. I’ll look for him right now.” I motioned my father into the chair and went out into the hall to look for the barber. A nurse sat at the station, writing in a ledger. She reminded me of illustrations of nurses I remembered in children’s books on careers for girls. She didn’t look up for a long time and then she said, “Yes?” briefly, without real interest.

  “I’m looking,” I began, and realized that I still whispered. In a louder voice I said, “I’m looking for the barber. My husband wants to be shaved.”

  “Who is your husband?” she asked.

  I thought she knew who I was, had seen me a hundred times. “Mr. Kaufman. In 516. He said the barber hasn’t been in there.”

  She looked into the ledger, turning the pages. “You know, we try to disturb our terminal patients as little as possible.”

  “But it won’t disturb him. He wants to be shaved. He feels uncomfortable this way.”

  “The barber is not assigned to your husband’s ward. He’s gone for the day anyway.”

  “Will he give him a shave tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  I tapped my fingers on the desk.

  “The barber’s not assigned to your husband’s ward. I just told you that.”

  “But then you said that he was gone for the day anyway. I thought that you meant that he would come at another
time.”

  “I’m afraid that I didn’t mean that at all. I meant what I said in the first place.” Then she put her pen down and folded her hands. “Ah, why don’t you just let him be?” she said.

  I felt a grievous rage against her and a terrible weariness right on its heels. I walked back down the hall and tried to catch my father’s eye without coming into the room. He saw me and murmured something to Jay. Then he came outside. “What’s the matter?”

  “The barber won’t come here. That bitch down the hall won’t let him.”

  He peered down the corridor and saw the peak of her cap haloed in the light as she leaned over her desk. “Do you want me to talk to her?”

  Oh God, did he think he could seduce her into getting the barber for Jay? “No, Daddy. I’ll tell Jay something. I’ll tell him the barber is sick too. I’ll tell him that beards are all the rage.”

  “Now take it easy,” he said. “Listen, I’ll do it.”

  “What?” I had lost track of what we had been saying.

  “I’ll shave Jay.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Why not? I mean I’m a barber and Jay wants it. Tell him the regular barber is off duty and that I request the honor.”

  Tears came to my eyes. I squeezed his hand.

  “Give me the keys,” he said. “I’ll get the stuff from the shop and I’ll be back in a little while.”

  I went to Jay’s room. “Guess what?” I said. “Daddy is going to shave you.”

  Jay looked interested. “Mr. B.?”

  I nodded. “The barber is gone for the day. Daddy just went out to get his equipment.” We could hear footsteps and voices from the corridor and I put my ringer to my lips. It was as if we shared a wonderful conspiracy to spring him from prison.