He slept through most of Sunday. He had gone out the previous evening with the firm intention of getting monumentally drunk—he’d spent quite a few years honing that particular skill. Shutting himself away at home because he didn’t have the guts to go out would have been even more unbearable.
He had pushed open the door of Novecento later than usual, drunk more Fernet and Cokes than usual and tottered out of the bar in a worse state than usual. And to top it all, he’d sat at the bar by himself the whole time, and only talked to the bartender. Wandering around the deserted streets in a drunken haze, Andrew had found himself breaking into a fit of hysterical laughter, which turned quickly into overwhelming sadness. He had sat sobbing for nearly an hour on the edge of a sidewalk with his feet in the gutter.
When he woke up with a hangover that reminded him he was long past the age of binge drinking, he found himself missing Valerie. He missed her intensely—as badly as he missed that apparition of a single night who had, for whatever reason, put him under her spell. But Valerie was his wife, and the other woman was an illusion. And Andrew couldn’t stop thinking about Valerie’s letter.
He had made a terrible mistake—one of the worst he had ever made. He thought about his article; if it brought him some fame and recognition then he wanted to share his sense of satisfaction with Valerie. He had to make things right with her again; he needed a second chance.
*
On Monday morning he went out for his run, going down Charles Street as he did every morning and jogging towards the river.
He waited for the lights to turn red and crossed the West Side Highway. When he reached the central traffic island the little illuminated figure was flashing, but Andrew stepped into the road anyway the way he did every morning, responding to the blaring horns by lifting his fist, his middle finger pointing to the sky. Then he turned into the Hudson River Park path and picked up his pace.
He’d knock on Valerie’s door that very evening to explain and ask her to forgive him. He no longer had the slightest doubt about his feelings for her. He felt like hitting his head against a wall; he asked himself what madness had possessed him to make him act like he had.
A week had gone by since their separation—a seven-day nightmare he’d inflicted on the love of his life because he was a selfish bastard. But it would never happen again; he’d promise her that. Starting now, he’d do everything he could to make her happy. He would beg her to put it all behind her. And if she wanted him to jump through hoops before she’d forgive him, he’d do it.
When he got to Pier 40 there was only one thought running through his mind: how he could win back his wife’s heart.
Andrew felt a sudden, vicious bite on his lower back and then a terrible tearing sensation inside, all the way up to his stomach. If the pain had been higher up, in his chest, he’d have thought he was having a heart attack. His breathing felt restricted. His legs gave way under him, and he had just enough strength left to stretch out his arms and protect his face as he fell.
Lying facedown on the asphalt, he tried to turn over and call for help. He couldn’t understand why there was no sound coming out of his mouth. Then a terrible coughing fit brought up a thick liquid.
Andrew realized the pool of reddish liquid trickling along the Hudson River Park path in front of him was his blood. It was draining out of him as if he were an animal in a slaughterhouse. His vision blurred and darkened.
He thought he’d probably been shot, though he couldn’t remember hearing a gun go off. Maybe he’d been stabbed. But who would want to kill him, Andrew thought, as he struggled to stay conscious.
He was now finding it practically impossible to breathe. His strength was ebbing out of him. He resigned himself to his fate.
He thought he would see his life flash before his eyes, a bright light at the end of a tunnel, a divine voice guiding him to some other world. None of it happened. His last few moments of consciousness were just a long and painful plunge into nothingness.
At 7:15 on a Monday morning in July, Andrew Stilman realized he was dying.