Wednesday, May 31
RAY GALE, SEVENTY-NINE, strode up to the admissions window in the admin building with a single suitcase in his hand, moving with the same short-statured, barrel-chested vigor he’d possessed as a teenager. Anticipating a tiresome wait, he was pleasantly surprised when the gum-chewing clerk said, “Of course, Mister Gale, we’ve been expecting you,” and slid two white key cards through the half-moon opening in the Plexiglas. “We’ve got you in the South Tower,” she said, pointing to a bank of elevators across the lobby, “which you can access right over there. You’re on level twelve, apartment twelve thirty-three.” Smiling, she asked if he’d like a porter to carry his bag and show him to his quarters. Ray thanked the girl and told her he’d be fine.
The ride to level twelve was quick and smooth and Ray stepped out onto plush teal carpet, a sign on the facing wall pointing him left toward his new digs. Moving along the narrow corridor, he thought about who he should visit first. He knew his old high school buddies were all residents here now, and he wanted to hang out with each of them in turn. But he decided to see Ben first. They would have the most to talk about, and he wanted to get the more awkward bits out of the way as quickly as he could. There were fences that needed mending. Then he had a huge favor to ask the man.
The door to 1233 opened with a sigh, the air inside hot and stale, and Ray was annoyed to find the windows all sealed. Probably afraid of suicides, he thought, a concept he’d brushed shoulders with more than once in the past. He found a thermostat and adjusted it from 72° to 64°. There was an immediate rush of cool air from a ceiling vent and Ray thought, Okay, good.
The apartment was small but conveniently laid out, a narrow kitchenette opening onto a combined living-dining area, with a single bedroom and bath branching off a short corridor. After living in fifteen-hundred square feet of bungalow for the past ten years, it was going to take some getting used to. But, he reminded himself, he wouldn’t be staying very long.
A familiar spike of pain ambushed him now, taking him in the lower back, and within seconds he was tacky with sweat. He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed and fished a couple of pain pills out of his suitcase. Grimacing, he dry-swallowed the pills and leaned forward to relieve the spasm.
Once the pain backed off, he hoisted the suitcase onto the bed, thinking how sobering it was that seventy-nine years of life could be compressed into a single piece of luggage.
Then he called the reception desk and asked for Ben’s apartment number.
* * *
When the knock came on his door at 9:20 that morning, Ben assumed it was Quinn. The man could be a real nuisance, always with some hare-brained scheme that involved either spending Ben’s money or breaking a bunch of the Center’s ironclad rules. Or both.
But in that first instant as he opened the door, Ben believed he was experiencing another of those jarring dislocations. Because instead of Quinn, his best friend Ray was standing there in faded jeans and a black T-shirt, grinning through his perpetual horseshoe moustache.
Still unsure if the man was real, Ben said, “Faggot?” and Ray said “Homo!” the way they’d greeted each other since they were kids.
It was Ray all right, but a much older version than Ben remembered. The usually jet-black moustache was snow-white now, the male-pattern fringe of hair the man had always so meticulously coiffed almost gone, only a few thin wisps left, also snow-white.
Ben stood frozen for a long moment. Then Ray pulled him into a huge bear hug and Ben smelled his cologne—always Old Spice and always too much—and felt the man’s bristly cheek against his own.
Tears filming his eyes, Ben said, “Ray?”
“None other,” Ray said, nudging him out to arm’s length now, looking him up and down. “How are you, man?”
“Much better now that I know you’re real,” Ben said, delighted to see his old friend. He moved out of the doorway. “Come in. Jesus, man, come in.”
Noticing Ben’s wet eyes as he stepped inside, Ray said, “Are you crying?”
“Maybe a little.”
Grinning, Ray said, “I always said you’d make a nice little girl,” and it was like they’d last seen each other only yesterday.
Without asking, Ben fetched a beer for each of them, saying, “To hell with it. The sun’s over the yardarm somewhere on the planet.”
He sat next to Ray on the couch, noticing only now a grayness under the man’s usually robust complexion, and a startling loss of muscle mass, most remarkably between the bones of his hands. Ray had labored hard with those hands his entire life, and had always had the grip-strength of a vice.
Sipping his beer in this comfortable silence between friends, Ben admonished himself for donning his doctor hat within minutes of Ray’s surprise visit, reminding himself the man was a decade older than the last time he’d seen him. He thought, Time takes its toll, and decided to quit being such a worry wart.
Ray took a long pull on his beer, bugging his blue eyes at Ben, making him grin. Growing up together, Ray had always been the funny one, Ben the more serious of the two. Looking at Ray now, acting the fool, Ben recalled occasions in their teens when he’d literally had to beg the guy to stop screwing around—usually after they’d smoked a chunk of hash—certain if he didn’t, the outcome would be the first fatality from uncontrollable laughter in the history of man.
God, it was good to see him again.
They chatted a while, small talk and nonsense mostly, exchanging a few rude jokes they’d heard. Then Ben asked Ray what had prompted his visit after so many years.
Visit?” Ray said, laughing. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Benji. I’m your goddamn new neighbor.”
Delighted, Ben got teary-eyed again, telling Ray how much he was going to love it here and promising him a VIP tour. They talked about how much fun it was going to be to sneak up on those other two happy assholes, and Ben spilled the beans about Wilder’s covert horticultural activities.
The mood grew somber after that, and Ben said, “About the last time we spoke…”
Ray raised a hand. “Put it out of your mind, okay, man? I was in a dark place back then, Angie threatening to leave me every five minutes. But I knew you were hip-deep in your own shit at the time, and I realized only later how selfish it was of me to lay all that crap on you then.” Ben tried to interject and Ray said, “Please, man, just listen. All that talk of suicide? I thought about it. I really did. Had the shotgun in my hand one night.” He laughed. “But you know what stopped me?” Ben shook his head. “A Cheech and Chong movie. Up in Smoke. Can you believe it? It was on the tube, and I’m sitting there on Angie’s precious Lexington salon sofa—she was out shopping for matching end tables with money we didn’t have—hoping I’d get brains all over her figured damask draperies, and there’s that low-rider coming down the highway with smoke billowing out the windows, and I started to laugh—like you used to when you thought you were gonna die from laughter, remember?” Ben told him he’d just been thinking about that and Ray said, “I laughed and laughed, and when Angie got back an hour later, I was still laughing, laughing so hard I was puking all over her vintage Persian rug. I laughed all the way to the loony bin.
“All this to say…I was clinically depressed. That’s all. Nothing you could’ve done about it. Nothing any amount of talking about it could’ve done. I was in a locked ward for three months. Psychiatrists, ECT, experimental drugs. The whole nine yards.
“But in the end, this cute little gray-haired shrink lady comes in and writes me a prescription for a new anti-depressant. Then she tells me to leave my wife. Now get this. She writes her phone number on the back of the script and tells me, after I leave my wife to give her a call.”
Ben was grinning now. “So did you?”
“Damn straight I did,” Ray said, pausing to drain his beer. “Left the wife, the house, the car and the debt and moved in with the little shrink lady.”
“You didn’t.”
“Scout’s honor. Happiest six years of my life.”
Ben said, “Six years? But that was a decade ago. What…?”
“Bella got cancer and died,” Ray said. “Bella was what I called her. I have no idea why. Her real name was Claire Wedgerfield. Sometimes I called her ‘Wedgie’. She preferred ‘Bella’. Had it tattooed on the back of her neck.”
Now Ray’s eyes were wet, but Ben knew better than to say anything about it. What he did say was, “Jesus, I’ve missed a lot.”
Smiling, Ray said, “Indeed you have, my friend.” He cuffed the tears from his eyes and said, “Now who do I have to blow to get another beer?”
Ben said, “That’d be me,” falling easily into the adolescent banter that had always been their way, having fun with it.
He opened the fridge and shouted, “I’m out of beer. Cider okay?”
“What kind you got?”
“Strongbow. British Dry.”
“You realize only a pansy’d have that shit in his fridge.”
Ben chuckled. “You want one or not?”
“Bring it on.”
Ben tucked one bottle under his arm and tried to twist the cap off the other, then remembered Strongbow didn’t have twist-off caps. He set the bottles on the counter and opened the utensil drawer, annoyed to discover the talking Simpsons bottle opener a friend had given him was missing. His annoyance flared to rage and he ran the drawer shut so hard the maple front-plate jumped its attachments, striking him on the knee before clattering to the floor. He thought, Quinn, and roared, “Fucking klepto.” The bastard was here last night, raiding the fridge like he always did, and he was constantly going on about that opener, saying how much he wanted one. He must’ve pocketed the damn thing before they left for the variety show—
Someone came into the kitchen from the living room now, a mean-looking bald guy with a bandit’s moustache, and Ben grabbed a butcher knife out of the busted drawer and brandished it at him, saying, “Who the fuck are you and how did you get in here?”
The guy raised his hands, saying, “Hey, man, quit screwing around. You’re going to hurt yourself with that thing.”
Was that…?
Ben said, “Ray?” and lowered the knife.
“Who else would it be? Are you kidding me right now? Because it isn’t funny.”
Ben put the knife on the counter and opened the next drawer over, yanking it out to the stops, then slamming it shut, saying, “Fucking Quinn. That prick. He stole my Simpsons bottle opener.”
Ray said, “What are you talking about?” He pointed into the living room. “It’s on the coffee table.”
“Bullshit.”
“See for yourself.”
Ben moved past Ray into the living room, startled when his friend shied away from him.
The opener was on the coffee table.
Ben sagged onto the couch. “But I thought…”
Ray picked up the bright red bottle opener, inadvertently triggering the voice button. Homer said, “D-oh!” in a tinny voice and Ray put the opener in Ben’s hand. “It’s a cheap plastic toy, Benji. You can pick one up at any Dollar Store. And Quinn wouldn’t steal a kiss. Look up honest in Webster’s and you’ll find a picture of that fuzzy primate grinning back at you.”
“But I thought…”
* * *
Ray sat on the coffee table in front of his friend, forcing him to make eye contact. At first he saw only vacancy, reminding him of his last view of the bedroom he’d shared with Bella, all the furniture and adornments that had made it special sold at auction. Then, gradually, the shine of presence returned to Ben’s eyes and Ray said, “What’s going on with you, bro? You scared the hell out of me just now.”
“What do you mean?”
Ray said, “You gotta be shitting me.” Then it dawned. His mother had succumbed to dementia in her eighties, confusion and hair-trigger fury consuming her gentle soul. He stood now, saying, “Come with me.”
Ben put the opener on the coffee table and followed Ray into the kitchen, stopping short when he saw the broken drawer, confusion pinching his features. He said, “Did I...?”
Ray nodded. “Jesus Christ, Ben. Are you—?”
“Going insane?”
Ray could see Ben was more or less himself now, and he did what he always did, tried to make light of the situation. “I was going to say batshit crazy, but yeah. Is that what’s going on here?”
Ben stared at his feet, embarrassment creeping up red from beneath his collar. “Yeah,” he said, barely above a whisper. “That’s exactly what’s going on.”
* * *
Though Ben felt centered now, the details of the past several minutes still lay jumbled in his brain. His last clear memory was of going to the fridge.
But as he surveyed the damage in the kitchen, fragments of those scrambled minutes flashed like subliminal movie frames in his mind: trying to twist the cap off the cider; slamming that drawer; fury overwhelming him…
Jesus. This is bad.
Shaken, he returned to the couch, averting his gaze when Ray sat next to him, shame still burning in his face. Deciding to fess up, he said, “On and off for about a year now, I’ve been having these…episodes. At first I passed it off to daydreaming or simple absentmindedness. But I worked with the elderly for a long time, Ray, and I knew full well what was happening to me had little to do with daydreaming. So I saw a colleague of mine and…” He drew a breath and released it. Then he locked eyes with Ray. “It’s Alzheimer’s, man. Fucking Alzheimer’s. Right now it’s episodic, worse when I’m tired or stressed. But the disease is progressive. To be perfectly blunt, my brain is shriveling. A nice plump grape becoming a raisin.”
“But what about the treatment you discovered, the anti…”
“Anti-aggregates. Aggrecene. You know about that?”
Nodding, Ray said, “Bella told me. Showed me an article in a medical journal. Aren’t you on it?”
“You told her about me?”
“Of course.”
Ben flashed on the day eight months ago when the treatment he’d helped to develop took a savage turn on him, almost ending his life. He said, “Turns out I’m allergic. Ever heard of anaphylaxis?”
Ray nodded. “I have a cousin allergic to peanuts. Has to carry an EpiPen. She almost died a couple of times.”
“Well, that’s what happened to me.” He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “How’s that for a grim irony.”
“Isn’t there something else they can try, though? There must be some other way to…”
“Hey, man, I didn’t mean to upset you. Most of the time I’m fine.” He gave Ray’s knee a congenial pat. “And you know what? I’m glad it’s out in the open between us—and I’d like to keep it that way, if you don’t mind. Between us.” Ray gave him a nod. “At least now you’ll know what’s going on if I say or do something inappropriate.”
Ray said, “So what’s Quinn’s excuse?”
Ben chuckled, feeling better for having leveled with his friend. He said, “My grandmother had the same problem. She was in a seniors’ home toward the end, after you moved to Toronto. Most times, like me, she was fine—sharp, funny, proud of her grandson the doctor. But every once in a while, right in the middle of a sensible conversation, she’d look off to one side and say something to my long-dead grandfather, like, ‘Albert, shut that goddamn barn door’. Then she’d be fine again. I used to wonder what that was like. Now I know firsthand.”
“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 before 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,’ and 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?”
Roxanne chuckled and the tension broke with a tiny sigh.
They turned on the bench to face the falls now, its cascading roar soothing, the occasional breath of mist cool on their faces.
After a while, Roxanne said, “During your speech yesterday—”
“Rant.”
“Okay, rant. Mister Quinn said they had you to thank for the progress on Alzheimer’s disease. What did he mean by that?”
“First of all, hearing anyone call Quinn ‘Mister’ makes me wanna drop to my knees in hysterics. And once you get to know the man, you’ll see he has a tendency to exaggerate.”
“Or maybe you’re just too modest.”
Ben felt himself blushing again, something he believed he’d outgrown decades ago. He said, “You know who Francis Riley is?”
“The billionaire energy guy who orbits the planet in his space shuttle all the time? That Francis Riley?” Ben nodded and Roxanne said, “Who doesn’t?”
“Well, early in twenty-seventeen, when I was scrambling to fund the Foundation, the man called me out of the blue and said he had a proposition for me. His wife Dawn had just been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s—she was thirty-eight at the time—and Francis was beside himself. He said he’d read about the work we were doing with anti-aggregates and knew we were running short on funds. He asked if I thought the drug would work and I told him I was almost certain. So he asked how much we needed to complete the research, and couriered a check to me for twice that amount the next day.”
“Wow.”
“No kidding. My hand shook holding it. Now here’s the thing, Roxanne—and you have to swear you’ll never breathe a word of this to anyone. I could go to prison if what I’m about to tell you ever got out, and I’m too old to wind up some hardcore convict’s love kitten.”
Roxanne giggled, but swore herself to secrecy.
Ben said, “The stage we were at with anti-aggregates at the time, it was going to be at least two years before we got anywhere near human trials, never mind Health Canada approval. And Riley’s wife had already attempted suicide twice during her lucid intervals. So…”
Ben covered his mouth with his hand, a prudent inner voice telling him he was crazy, admitting the commission of a federal crime to a teenager he barely knew.
But before he could say any more, Roxanne said, “I think I know where this is going. And even though I can assure you I’d never repeat a word of it to anyone, if you don’t want to tell me, I’m okay with that. I won’t be insulted or anything.”
“All right. Let’s make a little game of it, then. You tell me where you think it’s going and I’ll nod or shake my head.”
“You started treatment on her right away, without jumping through all the legal hoops.”
Ben nodded.
“And it worked?”
“Like a charm. She’ll have to stay on the drug the rest of her life, of course, but she’s writing children’s books now and sits on the board of directors of the Foundation. Riley was so grateful, he wrote another check, this one for the construction of the building. It should be called the Riley Foundation. He cemented-in that hunk of marble with my name on it at the ribbon-cutting ceremony the following year.”
Roxanne said, “That’s incredible,” and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, her breath warm on his skin. She said, “You’re a hero,” and Ben felt himself beaming like a sunrise.
* * *
Sitting on the bench with Roxanne, Ben felt his mind begin to tilt, and at some level he knew he was slipping. But he also knew there was nothing he could do about it and so he closed his eyes, letting it come, almost inviting it on this idyllic spring evening, his companion’s shoulder warm against his own, no pain in his body now…and when he glanced at Roxanne, she was someone else. Someone from a long time ago. Someone he’d given his heart to in the callow, headlong fashion of the very young, the girl barely sixteen, himself only a year older.
Melanie
It had been sunny that day too, but closer to winter, a bracing chill in the air, the maple they were nestled under losing its leaves in a gusting breeze. Ben was holding something in his hand, and he looked at it now—God, yes, his grandfather’s wedding band, a small treasure his grandmother had given him after the old man passed. He was going to offer it to his girl, ask her to go steady—
A familiar voice now, flat and distant: “What did you say?”
Glancing at his empty palm, Ben said, “Did I say something?”
Roxanne said, “I thought you just asked me to go steady.” Smiling, but perplexed.
“Did I? I’m so sorry.”
Laughing now, Roxanne said, “No need to apologize,” and gave his sleeve a playful tug. “It’s the best offer I’ve had in ages.”
It was clear she was teasing, but her response unbalanced him, and he looked again at his hands. Old man’s hands. And while the sight of them should have grounded him, as it had so often in the past, now it only deepened his confusion.
Roxanne said, “You looked like you were daydreaming.”
Seeing a way out, Ben said, “Yeah, I do that sometimes.” He didn’t want to lie to the girl, but he could see little point in telling the truth; he’d done enough of that for one day. He tried to convince himself it was because he didn’t want to upset her, but deep down he knew it was pride. Settling for a half-truth, he said, “Old age, I guess. We codgers tend to drift off the rails from time to time.”
Roxanne laughed. “Codgers. Gram says age is just a state of mind. Gramps was a daydreamer, too. The simple truth is, he just lost track sometimes. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“What a refreshing way of looking at it.”
Roxanne glanced at her watch now, saying, “Oh boy, I’d better get rolling. It’s my turn to make dinner and Gram’s a bear when she gets hungry.” She stood. “Wanna walk me back to my bike?”
Ben smiled, still a little wobbly. “I’d love to, hon, but I think I’m just going to sit here a while. Watch the sun go down.”
Roxanne said okay and bent to give him a peck on the forehead. Then she was gone, trailing a scent of jasmine, leaving a tiny hole in Ben’s heart.
* * *
The first hardy mosquitos of the season harried him back to the Center, and Ben mused as he walked that a respectable version of Hell might be an eternity spent in a room swarming with the nasty beggars, each of them coming back to life after you swatted it flat.
Ray was waiting for him in the lobby, hunched over an old e-reader. The reader surprised Ben. During his disillusioned stint as an anesthesiologist, he’d written three novels that got picked up by Random House—he’d gone through a brief Robin Cook phase, thinking he could make a bundle writing medical thrillers and retire to the French Riviera—but Ray had never read them, not even the one Ben had dedicated to him, claiming he didn’t have the attention span for fiction. Ben ragged him gently about it now, but backed off when he saw the tortured expression on his friend’s face.
He sat next to Ray and touched his arm. “Hey, man, you okay?”
Ray closed the reader. “Yeah, yeah, it’s nothing. Just a little back pain. It’ll pass.”
Ben wasn’t convinced, but he knew better than to persist. If Ray didn’t want to talk about something, even a beating wouldn’t drag it out of him.
“Okay. What are you reading?”
“Stephen Hunter,” Ray said. “Dirty White Boys. Bella loved the guy.” He held up the reader. “She gave me this for Christmas a month before she died. It was already loaded with some insane number of books. Couple thousand, I think.” He managed a pained smile. “Yours are in here, too.”
“Did you read ’em?”
“Every last one.”
“And?”
Ray said, “Don’t give up your day job,” and laughed.
“Asshole.”
“No, man, I loved them. Really. Almost teared up when I saw the dedication in The Surgeon. Did you actually work with a psycho like that or is he made up?”
“Pure fiction, my brother. Product of a sick mind.”
Laughing again, Ray said, “No argument there.” He closed the reader and stood. “You up to finishing our chat?”
“You bet.”
“Come on then, I’ll show you my place.”
Ben chuckled. “I’d bet my left nut it looks exactly like my place.”
Heading for the elevators now, Ray said, “Yeah, but I bet your place doesn’t have a chunk of hash the size of your left nut in it,” and pulled a silly face. Then: “On second thought, maybe the size of my left nut, seeing as you don’t need a magnifying glass and tweezers to find it.”
Ben swatted him playfully, saying, “Wilder?”
Ray nodded, thumbing the UP button on the call panel now. “Palmed it to me at the picnic table.”
“Goddamn. Getting high for the third time in two days. It’s starting to feel like the summer of love all over again.”
The elevator arrived and the men stepped aboard. Pressing 12 with a shaky finger, Ray said, “You see anything wrong with that?”
Ben only grinned, feeling like a teenager again.
* * *
Ben said, “Cold as a meat locker in here.”
Ray was standing at the Formica countertop in the kitchen, slicing the hash into slivers with a pocket knife, then rolling them into balls the size of a match head.
Watching from the living room, Ben said, “The men in black catch you with that weapon, they’ll confiscate it.”
“They’re welcome to try. Who are those bastards, anyway? Slinking around with clipboards. Bella worked in the hospital system for thirty-five years and she used to tell me, ‘Never trust anyone with a clipboard’. What’s the story with those guys?”
“Clifford Hicks, the CEO here, calls them his ‘Security Team’. I used to ask him, ‘Security from what?’ Most of them are retired cops or ex-military. Creepy guys. Nobody messes with them, that much I can tell you. When I was medical director, we had a staff of about a dozen guards, overweight retirees looking to make a few extra bucks punching watchclocks. But these guys…I don’t know what Hicks was thinking, hiring them. Do something they don’t like, they’re quick to put their hands on you.”
Ray brandished the three-inch blade. “Good way to lose a finger.”
“I hear you. But trust me, if you want to hold onto that thing, keep it out of sight.”
Ray placed the last ball of hash on a square of tinfoil, then switched on an element on the stovetop. While the element heated, he scouted through the kitchen drawers until he found a couple of stainless steel butter knives, which he inserted tip-first between the coils of the reddening element. Then he motioned for Ben to join him at the stove.
Grinning, Ben said, “Hot knives. Brings back memories.”
“Yeah, one in particular. You so baked on Afghani border hash you branded your bottom lip with the knife and didn’t even notice.”
Ben laughed. “I get dumb as a post on that shit.”
“Then prepare to get all-the-way retarded.”
Ray handed Ben a plastic drinking straw, picked up one of the knives, and dropped a ball of hash onto its glowing tip. The drug ignited instantly, releasing a thin streamer of smoke. Using his free hand, Ray grabbed the other knife and pressed it over the burning chunk, Ben leaning in now to suck an explosion of smoke through the straw. The toke was shockingly harsh and he leaned away from it quickly, straining to hold it in. Ray grabbed the straw with his teeth and took over right away, capturing the last curls of smoke before tossing the knives clattering into the sink.
Facing each other now, the men slipped into an old contest—seeing who could hold onto the hit the longest—and, as always, Ray won. Ben told him it was because he never went first and had an unfair advantage, a chest the size of a rain barrel.
Hacking as he ejected the last of the toke, Ben said, “Your ‘stache is on fire,” and Ray leaned over the sink, blasting cold water over his moustache to douse the tiny flame.
Red-eyed, Ben said, “I love the smell of burning hair in the morning.”
Ray said, “Then you must be fucking too fast,” and they laughed until Ben almost puked.
* * *
After deciding three hits of Wilder’s killer blend was enough, the two old friends retired to the couch. Ben offered to scoot down to his place for a couple of ciders and Ray said maybe later.
Cuffing tears of laughter from his face, Ray said, “It may have been a bit slippery of me, getting you shitfaced before talking about this, but think of it as Irish courage. Considering the favor I’m about to ask, I’m pretty sure you’re going to need it.”
“You’d better spill now, buddy, okay? You’re scaring me a little here.”
Ray said, “Harshing your buzz?” making the kind of goofy face that normally would have tipped Ben into spasms of stoned laughter.
But Ben said, “Come on, man. Focus. Let’s get whatever this is behind us.”
Nodding, averting his bloodshot eyes, Ray said, “I’ve got cancer.” Ben opened his mouth to say something and Ray said, “It’s metastatic. Bone, lung, liver, brain. It’s everywhere.”
Ben felt slammed, thinking he’d seen it right away, that grayness in his friend’s complexion, the loss of muscle mass. He said, “Shit, man, I am so sorry. But listen, it may not be too late. I know specialists here at the Center, total pros. We could—”
“That’s not the favor I wanted to ask,” Ray said, raising his eyes to meet Ben’s now, the redness in them not solely from the hash. He said, “Remember that remake of The Fly back in the eighties?”
“Jeff Goldblum.”
“Yeah. At one point in the film, he says something that’s stuck with me all these years. Because I knew I’d feel the same way if I ever got cancer. I don’t remember his exact words, but it went something like, ‘I don’t want to be just another tumorous bore’. I’ve been struggling with this thing for over a year now, man, and I’m just about done.”
“What kind is it?”
“Pancreatic.”
Jesus Christ. “So how can I help?”
“I want to end it.”
“Euthanasia?”
Ray nodded.
Feeling conflicted now—knowing how badly his friend must be suffering but not wanting to lose him, even to a solution he’d championed himself—Ben said, “I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it.” He sighed. “When were you thinking of doing it?”
Ray sighed now, too. “Month. Six weeks tops. Depends how bad it gets. I wanted some time to hang out with you guys—you especially—bullshit about old times and do juvenile shit like we did today. But if it gets much worse…”
“All right, look. Tomorrow, if you’d like, we’ll head over to the Foundation. You can fill out the necessary forms, then I’ll introduce you to Sandy Hart. Sandy’s the best counselor we—”
Ray was shaking his head. “No counselors.”
“No way around it. There are protocols—”
“Fuck protocols.” He took Ben’s hand into both of his; Ben could feel the disease smoldering in those once-powerful mitts and it broke his heart.
Then Ray dropped the bomb.
“I want you to do it,” he said, his gaze steady, locked on Ben’s widening eyes. “I want you to put me down.”