In his bedroom down the hall he had turned on the TV and was sitting in a chair, gazing more within than without. Having a meal with Beatrice was unheard of and his hopes felt up for the favor he wanted to ask: that they forgo their terrible past, that she and Virgil shake hands with him and agree that life hadn’t turned out to be what any of them had thought it would be, and fare thee well… that he might lie back in peace, watching the World Series and sinking into eternity.
Otherwise Warren had little idea of what to expect in the coming days. He knew only that he was failing fast and had no wish to lose his place next to his wife in the hereafter. However long it might take to occur, he hoped ultimately to be with her along the expanse that lay ahead. If he was trying to put anything over on her, it was only to gain the peace of mind that forgiveness might bring, to avoid alienating himself on the infinite journey ahead.
Sitting with her at the table had been pleasant if bittersweet. They had done things together on occasion—not unlike other couples—but Warren had to strain to recall the last occasion: a town meeting several years ago to hear an appeal for variance to convert property near the town green to commercial parking. Married property owners each had a vote—as they had been reminded in a campaign of calls and fliers—and he and Beatrice joined other residents to hear the debate and to voice yea or nay. The parking scheme was objectionable even to independent fishermen—larger devaluation of the town devalued everything—and being rallied to a common cause had afforded them the occasion of doing something together. Then the meeting itself turned into a surprising if modest celebration: greeting lifelong acquaintances, climbing onto bleacher seats, seeing who had aged, who had prospered. They looked like any other Kittery couple, Warren thought, until the vote was taken, and it was time to make their way outside. Beatrice, popular as always, was signaled by smiles and words all along, as he trailed a few steps behind, though he also smiled once or twice, fooling himself that all was well and life had yet to make its irreversible turn. But as they exited the building, she turned with her keys—they’d come in her car—and asked if he minded driving home; she needed to talk mall business with Grant and Karina and would have them drop her off.
Warren’s heart sank, but he could only say he didn’t mind. Why should he—hadn’t their evening out been merely an accident? But as she left, engaged in ongoing chatter along the path of a summer night, an image of their life from beginning to end gripped him, and he had to pause in shadows to steel himself against raging into madness. He wanted not to be alive, wanted to hurt her, and his impulse that forlorn night was to drive home, attach a hose to her car’s exhaust, and leave his remains in the driveway to be found by her on her return. As it ended up, he drank himself into a stupor, and when he awakened at the kitchen table she was already home and locked in her room upstairs.
Lapsed Catholic or not—neglectful more than expired—Warren’s growing belief was that the world would go on forever and would somehow take him along. He had been searching his beliefs here in adulthood: if one were not lost into oblivion—the fate of suicides, mortal sinners, nonbelievers—might there not be a hereafter, perhaps in a form of one’s mind continuing to exist? In time, other minds would join that greater sea of consciousness sailing through eternity, and Beatrice would arrive and fall in beside him. His self-loathing over his failures with her, over having worked as a lackey for her boss and lover, would be as nothing in that ultimate universe. They would sail on as husband and wife, in the eyes of their Creator and beyond flesh and aging. All they had been taught as children would prove to be so, and they would be as children once more and throughout all time.
The vision encouraged Warren’s damaged heart, at the same time that it raised a hollow feeling in his throat. It had come to this. He was gaining faith in faith, while craving death, he knew, as one craves a fatal storm gathering on the horizon. Take me unto Thee, he thought. Oh Lord, let me be free in Thee at last.
Warren was not a reader or writer of letters, but he had a notion to write a note indicating his condition, to leave it for her to find in the morning after he had left the house—to prepare her and remind her that he would be calling to arrange a time to meet. Thus did he return downstairs, to use stationery they kept in a cupboard there:
Dear Beatrice,
This is to let you know that my days are numbered. Call Dr. Dawson if you want to. He did X-ray, biopsy, and so forth. He said it is oat cell cancer, which explains the cough. He can’t say how much time is left, but it could be days which is why I need to talk to you right away. What I’d like is to have us make up. I want that more than anything. I don’t mean in every way, only as friends so I can know some peace at last. I’ve been your husband all these years. I want you to be happy. I want Virgil and Marian to be happy. I won’t ask for anything more.
Love,
Warren