-22-

“Celia,” Artie calls from the doorway of his glass cage, “phone.”

She hurries to his office refusing to think about who would be calling her at work. “Hello.”

“Mom?” It’s Quince’s earnest voice. “We saw Pop . . . me and Sam . . . He’s quite ill . . . St. Vincent’s Hospital . . . One of the nuns wrote to me at the Point . . . Didn’t know whether to tell you, because, Mom . . . he doesn’t want you to visit him.”

Artie is trying not to pay attention. “Okay, Quince honey, thanks for letting me know. We’ll talk later. I’m at work now.” She hangs up and can feel Artie watching her as she returns to her station to finish out the last two hours.

In the early-evening darkness, she makes her way down Seventh Avenue South to Twelfth Street, Quince’s words alive in her head. Propelled by an invisible hand, she refuses to focus on the destination.

One of the women in her new group would’ve gone with her if she’d asked, but their pasts are so different from hers: none of them have children; none were married as young as she was. How could they understand? She grew up with Paul.

The hospital is housed in a large, old building, the plate-glass front grimy and the lobby a bit seedy. She’s early. Visiting hours won’t start for another fifteen minutes.

The stuffy waiting area reminds her of a long-ago day. Paul swept up in the arrest of several band members in a drug bust, though at the time he hadn’t been using. It was winter, Miles just a year old. Bundling him into a snowsuit, she carried him to the precinct, where she waited for Paul’s release for hours in a dim windowless room while Miles cried or fussed. She was furious at Paul for putting her through that misery. When, finally, he emerged, she thrust Miles at him and was about to flee. He grabbed her and, with Miles between them, wrapped his arms around her, whispered, “Hey, my lady, thanks. I love you to the moon,” his voice low, sexy, his breath close, his eyes steady on her. Why was it always enough?

Curtains are drawn around each of the three cubicles in the room. He’s in the bed near the window. He’s covered with a sheet, his head propped high on pillows, his eyes closed. An oxygen tank stands guard nearby. An IV drips slowly into his arm. His thin face is barely recognizable, the bones too prominent beneath paper skin. A blue shadow stretches around his chin. She doesn’t wake him but stands at the window, the silence strangely reverent.

Quince didn’t mention Paul’s changed appearance. Maybe a father’s a father no matter how he looks. What about a husband? When she turns around, his eyes are open, staring at her. But gone is the old electricity, as if his story has already been told.

She smiles.

“Hey, lady.”

“I heard you didn’t want me to visit, so I came.”

“Didn’t want you to see me,” his voice weak, breathy.

“I’ve seen you worse,” she lies.

“Maybe . . . in a nightmare, I suppose.”

“Are you in pain?”

He shakes his head. “Come closer.”

She pulls a chair to the bed. “You shouldn’t have walked out on us.” The words emerge without a plan.

“Yeah, it was bad, the needle . . . the only companion I could suffer.”

“I figured that.”

“Miles . . . haven’t seen him. Saw Quince, Sam.” His slim fingers weakly tap the sheet, and she wonders if there’s still music in his head or if that, too, is gone.

“Miles has disappeared. He’s running from the draft.”

He nods, words a waste of breath.

She could chat about their sons, or she could reveal how each day after he left was filled with scary questions whose answers eluded her. Or she could tell him about her new women friends and how they’ve opened up other ways to think about ancient worries. Or she could admit she isn’t as unhappy as she thought she’d always be. That she understands at last how love has its limits, that two halves do not make one whole couple, and how, anyway, he was never hers to lose. But his mind is elsewhere, the stuff of life no longer of interest. Perhaps he’s finally carefree. How ironic.

He turns toward the window. “I’m dying, lady.”

She slides her hand over his cool fingers and follows his gaze. A few scudding clouds, a building fragment, pigeons perched on an eave, their iridescent colors muted. How mysterious . . . the stories left to share all shelved like forever unopened boxes after a move.

“When it’s over, I’ll feel nothing. Can’t be scared of nothing,” he offers in a slow, whispery tone.

The sky is darkening, and so is the room, but there’s no need to turn on a light. If he were less, fragile she’d rest her head on his chest and wonder why later. For now, she keeps hold of his hand.

“You’ll be all right,” he whispers, and it sounds like a promise.