There was something she wanted. She was afraid to ask for it. Forbearance, she thought. She was running out of time.
It was the middle of the night, three or four in the morning, her birthday officially over. The present of the book had overwhelmed her. It was a living history, her life story really, that her grandchildren and great-grandchildren would read. They might think of her the way she thought about Dabney Margaret Wright and Winford Dabney Wright and all the other women who had preceded her. She was merely taking her place in line.
The Cuban sandwich had been delicious, and Love Story had been okay until the scene where Oliver tells his father that Jenny has died.
“Turn it off,” Dabney had said.
“Are you sure?” Clen said.
“Yes.” Dabney knew what was coming, and she couldn’t handle the sight of Oliver sitting alone in the snow.
Dying wasn’t sad, she thought. Leaving people behind was sad.
There was something she wanted. It was exactly 3:44 in the morning. Dabney slept much of the day away, but in the very late hours, so late they were early, sleep often eluded her. Forbearance. Her great-grandmother, Winford Dabney Wright, had stood on the corner of Main and Federal Streets eight hours a day for six weeks petitioning for a woman’s right to vote, talking and arguing with anyone who would listen. Dabney’s beloved grandmother, Agnes Bernadette, had changed sheets and scrubbed toilets six and a half days a week her first five years on the island. She had taken off Sunday mornings to attend Mass.
Dabney poked Clen in the ribs until he stirred.
“What?” he said. He always snapped out of sleeping sounding cogent, but Dabney knew he might not remember this conversation in the morning. She had to make sure he was really awake. She sat up and turned on the light. This took effort. Her insides were now jelly.
Clen sat up beside her, blinking. He checked the clock, and drank from his glass of water. “Dabney?” he said. “Do you need a pill?”
“No,” she said.
“Do you want to talk?” he asked. “Are you afraid?”
She shook her head. They had had some frankly terrifying conversations about what came next. What would happen when Dabney died? What would it be like? Dabney appreciated Clen’s candidness—We don’t know, Cupe. Nobody knows. And so, Dabney had decided to focus only on her time alive for right now. The death door was closed.
Her time alive.
She said, “I want to see Box.”
Clen was silent, as she figured he might be. She reached out and touched the stump of his left arm.
“I want you to call him and tell him to come.”
“Me?” Clen said. “Why me? You should call him. Or Agnes.”
“No,” Dabney said. “I’ve given it a lot of thought. I want you to call.” Dabney reached for her ice water; her hand was barely strong enough to lift the glass. She took a pill. Clen would be the easiest person for Box to say no to, and so if he came, Dabney would know it was because he really wanted to. “I’d like you to call in the morning.”
Clen sighed, as she figured he might. But she had also thought he might refuse.
“All right,” he said.