They were all happy for him, of course—after all, what had they strived for so hard all of their life except to improve their children’s lot?—but on the day he drove their son out of Forest Plains, the air in Boz’s old Pontiac was so thick you’d have needed a knife to cut it.
Now 46 years old, with the big five-oh straddling the horizon like a gunfighter who had called Boz out onto Main Street for a showdown that Boz knew he couldn’t win, Boswell Mendholsson retreated into the Den still more, leafing through books on Paris and Provence, the waterways of Venice, the jungles of Peru, and wistful train journeys through China and mainland Europe. In the pages of these books—repeatedly- and often-read pages that Boz would occasionally hold up to his face as he breathed in the imagined aroma of the far-off lands the words described—Boz’s life was different. It wasn’t that he didn’t love or want Irma—the truth of the matter was that he loved and wanted her more than he had ever done—but rather that he felt, if only a tad, unfulfilled. Even the occasional visits from Phil and his tales of airport lounges and cab rides in alien cities (plus the inevitable Grand Den Discovery, which, in line with inflation, had increased in value over the years) did little to assuage Boz’s feeling of despondency. To put it plain and simple, he was getting older. Old, even.
The specter of the mortality gunslinger darkened a little more when, one sunny morning in April, 1973, Nicola announced that she and Bobby Eads were planning to marry. Irma shrieked with happiness like a drunken banshee, her arms lifting and lowering as though she were about to take off and soar right up into the sky. Boz meanwhile adopted a fixed smile that made him look like he’d suddenly discovered a worm in that last bite of apple. He had known, of course, that Nicola and Bobby were getting kind of serious but ‘kind of serious’ in Boz’s book was a mighty long way from actual marriage. But as he watched his wife and suddenly-not-so-baby-any-more baby daughter dancing around the worn work surfaces in Irma’s kitchen, Boz couldn’t hold back the out-and-out Cheshire cat grin, and he leapt into his women’s midst, took their proffered hands as they all danced around like witches around a cauldron on All Hallows.
But later that night, in the Den, Boz’s stomach was knotted like a pretzel and it was all he could do to hold back the tears. The door opened slowly alongside him, Boz sitting in the old rocker he’d inherited from his mother while he read John Hillaby’s Journey Around Britain, and Irma’s face peered in at him.
“You okay, honey?”
Boz looked up and gave her a half-smile, intending to tell her sure I’m okay and why shouldn’t I be? but just that question and Irma’s face and the fact that their little girl was going to be leaving home . . . all those things just gathered together like street-corner hoodlums and ganged up on him. And the tears came.
“Oh, Boz,” Irma said, her voice soft and loving, as she came fully into the room and, hunkering down beside him, threw her arms around her husband. “You big silly,” she said.
“I know,” Boz said, agreeing in a self-deprecating wish-I-was-different kind of way.
“What am I going to do with you?”
“I dunno,” Boz snivelled.
“She’s not going far away, you know.”
“I know.” And he did. Nicola’s and Bobby’s plan was to buy an apartment across town, so’s Bobby could carry on working at the bookstore on Main Street. But it wasn’t so much Nicola’s actually moving that so tore at Boz’s heart as what it represented: and what it represented was an end to the feast. What once had been a sumptuous spread that looked set to last forever now, in Boz’s eyes, more resembled picked-over carcasses and emptied bowls and plates.
“We’ll be okay,” Irma whispered into Boz’s ear, and then she kissed him on the cheek.
He nodded. “I guess we will,” he said, looking down at a photo of John Hillaby standing on England’s south west coastline staring out to sea. It’s almost as though he’s looking right at you, Boz, a small voice seemed to whisper in Boz’s ear. “We’ll be fine,” Boz reiterated.
And so they were. For a good long time.
James graduated with a good degree from Boston and took up a job with a small design and communications firm running their business from North Square, just a few yards from Paul Revere’s house. He married Angie, the girl he’d met while at university, and the couple bought a nice apartment overlooking the Common. Three children arrived in rapid succession: Anthony Boswell Mendholsson in the spring of ‘74, Jennifer Jayne (with a ‘Y’) Mendholsson in the fall of ‘75, and Maria Spring Mendholsson in November, ‘77. Viewing Maria Spring on a freezing cold December day just six weeks after her initial appearance, Boswell agreed she was a beauty . . . and then said to his very obviously delighted son (and a mock-disgusted wife), “So, number three is here fit and well. You figured out what’s causing it yet or is this likely to be an annual event?”
But while things were going well for one Mendholsson offspring, they weren’t so good with the other. Nicola and Bobby split up when Nicola found out that her husband had been looking into more than old books with the store’s new and shapely assistant. That was in 1976, Bi-centennial year, and, just like the country itself, the Mendholssons’ daughter had regained her independence. But nothing lasts forever, and by 1980 she had met and married an insurance services manager from the bank where she worked—Jim was his name—and both Boz and Irma agreed they liked him a whole lot more than the philandering Bobby.
Nicola’s first child miscarried and, for a while, the unspoken feeling was that, of all the Mendholssons, she was leading a tainted life. “I know just how you feel, honey,” Jackie Defantino told the gaunt-faced Nicola. “Believe me when I tell you just how much.” She and Phil had headed over as soon as they’d received the news from Irma and when Boz and Irma heard what Jackie had to say to Nicola they both looked at each other with a mixture of revelation and understanding. Turning around from where he was sitting, at Nicola’s hospital bedside, Phil caught the exchange and he gave a weak smile. Boz reached out and ruffled his friend’s hair the way he’d always done when they were both first-graders at Forest Plains Elementary, and when Phil got up his eyes were brimming with tears. “I know,” Boz told him wrapping his huge bear arms around the more diminutive Phil: it would seem to outsiders a strange thing to say to a friend under the circumstances but it felt just right to everyone present.
Jim was hugely supportive and, in 1985, when Nicola was 33, Margaret-Jayne (again with a ‘Y’—seemed nobody much cared for the name ‘Irma’ any more) Boswell Henfrey let the world know she had arrived in no uncertain terms. “I reckon she’s going to be an opera singer,” the increasingly tired-looking Boz announced, and everyone laughed.
Phil and Jackie came right out once again, Phil having retired from ICI and seeming to be enjoying spending time at home. The word was that they were planning to move back to the Plains but it would be in a different area to the one where Boz and Irma resided. It was the summertime. Boz was 61 years old and having trouble peeing.
“You need to go see Doctor Fredricks,” Irma told her husband. “I will, I will,” he told her. And the sad fact was that it was going to have to be true. By now, with the leaves turning red on the trees, Boz was reduced to sitting on the toilet bowl while he pee’d to avoid getting dead legs from standing there waiting for the drip-drip trickle to empty his bladder. Even Phil was leaning heavily on him. And so Boz bit the bullet, made the call, and went into the MDs office out on Jefferson Place.
Jack Fredricks couldn’t make much of a diagnosis without getting inside for, as he put it, ‘a look-see’ and so he arranged for Boz to come back in the next day for an endoscopy. This entailed a tiny seeing-eye tube being inserted into Boz’s penis and shoved up inside so’s the doctor could take a look around. Boz wasn’t sure which hurt the most, the tube going in or the so-called lubricant (which felt like having toxic jelly squirted into your dick) that preceded it. But the simple physical pain was soon overshadowed by what the seeing-eye saw.
&nb
sp; “Prostate,” Jack Fredricks announced with a sigh when the investigation was finished. He sat down on the gurney next to Boz while Boz nursed his crotch and fastened his pants.
“Is that bad, Jack?” Boz asked, hardly hearing the words over the thumping of his heart.
“Not going to know until we do a biopsy.”
“Biopsy?”
“Got to take a slice off and send it for analysis,” he explained, complementing the words with a sawing motion with his hands. “Won’t hurt,” he said, patting Boz on the shoulder. “But it will mean an overnight stay in hospital.”
Boz nodded, zipping up his flies. “So, he said as he slid off the gurney into his waiting shoes. “What’s your gut feeling?”
Jack looked at Boz for a few seconds and then looked down at his knees. “I’d say it looks bad,” he said. “But let’s wait for the –”
“How long?”
“Boz, I said –”
“Jack, you’ve been down enough guys’ dicks to know what you’re seeing in there. Let’s go for the worst case scenario—I take it we’re talking prostate cancer here, yes?”
“Looks that way to me . . . God but I wish it didn’t.”
“Okay, so, worst case scenario, it’s prostate cancer. From what you’ve seen, how long?”
Jack sighed and looked up at Boz. “I think you’ll see Christmas but not Easter.”
When Boz spoke again, his voice was shaking. “You think I’ll see Christmas? Christ, Jack it’s already September and I feel as fit as a horse . . . just having a little difficulty peeing is all.”
“I know,” was all Jack Fredricks could think of to say. “That’s the way it goes, though. You’ll feel fit right the way until –” He let his voice trail off.
“Until I don’t, huh?”
Fredricks nodded.
Boz felt a great pressure behind his eyes, like there was something inside his head that wanted out, like rats on a sinking ship; and it—this thing, whatever it was—had decided that the easiest and fastest way out was through his eye sockets. His breath felt short and his chest hurt. And his legs felt like jelly. “Jesus, Jack,” Boz said.
Fredricks nodded again. “I’ll give you some pills that may slow the growth down a little—they’re actually designed for high blood pressure but they have this side-effect, you know?—but the tumor looks pretty big.”
Watching Fredricks, Boz was reminded of when he and Irma had bought a rabbit for James. James named the rabbit Shadow and kept him out in the yard where he even built a special run for it out of wood-ends that Boz had left over after extending some shelving in the den. One day, when Phil and Jackie Defantino had come out to the house, James had excitedly shown off his pet and, still excited and maybe just a little careless, he’d dropped the heavy run onto Shadow’s neck. A hysterical James had appeared in the house while Boz and Irma were handing out coffees and slices of cake, the deceased and almost decapitated Shadow lying limply in his outstretched hands. Daddy, daddy . . . make him better, five- or six-year-old James had pleaded. But one look at the rabbit and the single eyeball hanging out of one of its sockets on an uncoiled spring showed there was absolutely no hope. Boz reckoned that Fredricks now felt a lot like the way he himself had felt all those years ago: helpless. Like a parent, he was looked up to by his patients as some kind of God, able to dispense life and healing whenever he fancied. Boz didn’t feel anyone should feel so wretched.
“Okay, he said, “so give me the pills already. We’ll get this thing started right away and maybe we can make medical history.”
“Right,” Jack Fredricks said, emphasizing their determination with a clap of his hands, but Boz knew just from watching the MD’s back that this was going to be one trip that nothing could prevent him from taking.
The results of the biopsy confirmed it. It was an aggressive tumor, big as a baseball (though, when he looked in a mirror, Boz couldn’t figure out where the damn thing was hiding itself) and there were signs of secondaries. And while he couldn’t figure out whether it was his actual condition or a psychological thing, he was starting to feel sick.
On the day they flipped over the calendar to October, Boz and Irma went in to see Jack Fredricks for the lowdown. It wasn’t good. There was no point in trying to operate because there was a 75-80% chance he’d die under the anaesthetic. And even if he didn’t, it would only extend his time maybe over Christmas, and all of the extra gain would be spent in a hospital bed. Boz decided that, if he was going to go then it was best not to drag it out unnecessarily, and he preferred the idea of being around somewhere he knew with people he cared about and who cared about him without being paid for doing it. No, he would soldier on until he got too tired, at which point he would take to his bed and wait to start The Great Adventure. Jack Fredricks said it wouldn’t take long at that point. Maybe three, four days.
To say there were tears would be an understatement.
Neither Boz nor Irma could imagine life without their partner, and this whole thing had happened so quickly that it took a couple of days for the realization to set in. After that, they decided to tell the children. More tears followed.
The atmosphere in the Mendholssons’ home grew dark and somber. Even Boz’s Den failed to provide the relief and respite from the everyday world that he’d grown used to over the years. When he was sitting in there, it seemed as though the books were whispering behind his back . . . asking what was to become of them when he’d—He didn’t like even to think about it. But the thing that worried him the most was how Irma would survive without him.
Then, with Hallowe’en approaching, Boz hit on an idea.
* * *
“Honey, Phil’s coming around.”
“Oh, fine. Did he call? I didn’t hear the –”
“No, I called him a few days ago—last week, if I recall. I just remembered about a half-hour ago.” Boz stretched to his full height in the kitchen doorway and breathed in the smell of baking. “Smells good.”
“Jackie coming too?”
“No, just Phil.”
“Any particular reason?”
Boz shook his head. “Just fancied shooting the breeze. Now that they’re back in town I figured I’d spend as much –” He paused and re-phrased. “Spend a little more time with him. You know.”
“I know, honey. I’ll set out the table in the front room and-”
“That’s okay, sweetie, we’ll have coffee in the den.”
“But it’s so cramped in there, honey.”
He walked over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Then he licked a finger and rubbed at a patch of flour on her forehead. His heart ached when she allowed her eyes to close and moved her head against his hand like a cat wanting to be stroked. “Don’t worry about me, okay? I’m fine.”
The truth, however, was that Boz was actually far from fine. He was now starting to feel weak, and the pills designed to keep his prostate growth down to a minimum seemed to be less successful than they’d been at first. But he kept this information to himself.
“Nicola said she’d maybe call you.”
“Well, if she does, just tell her I’ll call her back. I don’t really want to be interrupted when Phil’s here.”
Irma looked at him, a slight frown on her face, but it passed quickly, like a cloud across the moon, when Boz smiled at her. “I’m sure looking forward to cake,” he said, “and the coffee’ll help me pee.”
She shook her head and waved him away. “Oh, you,” she said.
The doorbell rang and Boz said, “That’ll be Phil,” as he disappeared out into the hall. Irma heard their voices and she stepped out to say hey.
“Hey, Irma,” Phil said, his voice wreathed in smiles and consolations. “How’re things?”
Irma did a little jig with her head, side to side, and then nodded. “We’re doing okay, I think. Aren’t we, honey?”
“We’re doing fine,” Boz agreed. Then, to Phil, “Well, come on into the den. Irma’s been cooking all morning so I think fr
esh cake is heading our way.”
Irma smiled bravely at Phil and saw him give her the slightest of nods that would have been all but imperceptible to a casual onlooker. When she dropped her gaze from his eyes, Irma noticed that Phil Defantino was holding a briefcase in his hand. When she looked up at Phil again, about to ask why he’d brought a briefcase, Phil shuffled the case into his other hand and said to Boz, “Okay, show me to a chair—I’m pooped.” And the two of them turned around and moved down the hallway to Boz’s den.
“You go on in and make yourself comfortable,” Boz said as he ushered Phil over the threshold to his book collection. “I’ll get the coffee.”
“I can bring it in for you, honey,” Irma said.
But Boz was already making his way back to the kitchen. “I don’t want you waiting on me, sweetie,” he said. “And anyway,” he added, “I want to have a nice long talk with Phil without any interruptions. It’s not you, baby,” Boz said when Irma frowned at being labelled as an interrupter, “but you know how Phil can gabble on.”
Irma watched Boz open cupboard doors and place mugs on the breakfast counter. She watched the whole process of her husband preparing a tray—milk from the refrigerator, sugar bowl, two plates, two pieces of cake—and all the while she tried to think back to a time when Phil Defantino had gabbled on. For the life of her, she couldn’t come up with a single one.
Phil stayed with Boz in the den for over two hours, the pair of them speaking in hushed tones in there. It wasn’t that Irma was eavesdropping but just that whenever she went past the den door all she could hear was a dim and distant drone of voices. When Phil emerged, Boz hurried him out of the door while he explained loudly that Irma would be preparing lunch. She took that as a hint and went straight back into the kitchen to make them a couple of omelettes. As she switched on the Mister Coffee, she heard Boz shout “Okay, same time tomorrow,” and then close the door.
“He’s coming back tomorrow?” Irma asked when Boz appeared at the kitchen door.
Mister October Page 12
