by Inmon, Shawn
Moondog was coming out of his condo, dressed once again in a tie-dyed tank top, shorts, and sandals. It was essentially his uniform, although he would switch over to well-worn blue jeans in place of the shorts in December. November, if winter came early.
“Hey, Charles, unusual seeing you here in the middle of the day on a Monday.”
Charles didn’t even acknowledge him, but unlocked his door, hurried inside and rushed to his freezer.
The cardboard boxes that held his meals for the week felt softer and more pliant than they ever had before. Charles put them into their proper order and slid them inside the freezer.
He felt better for a moment, then began to wonder if perhaps he should make another trip to Safeway for more meals.
He sat at his dining room table and pondered the pluses and minuses of that for quite some time.
That night, Charles approached the freezer with trepidation, unsure if the cardboard box with his turkey dinner in it would be properly frozen or not. He tried to do the math to figure out how he should change the microwave instructions if it wasn’t fully frozen, but after an hour, he gave up, deciding that there were simply too many variables to come up with a proper formula.
When he pulled the meal out, though, the box was comfortingly frozen, just like it always was. He decided he had made the correct decision in not going back to Safeway for more meals. He rewarded himself for this decision with a Snak-Pak chocolate pudding.
The next day, Charles spent the entire day in his condo. He didn’t waste it simply sitting on the couch watching daytime television, because he considered soap operas and game shows a waste of time.
Instead, he attended to a number of projects he had intended to tackle for months. He re-caulked around his bathtub and the sinks in the bathroom and the kitchen. He took everything out of his cupboards and wiped them down. He considered changing the contact paper, but that would have required another trip to Safeway, so he decided against it. He cleaned the blinds, which was a slow, painstaking job that pleased him greatly. Wiping each individual slat felt almost mathematical.
Several times during the day, his phone rang, but he didn’t answer it. When his answering machine clicked on, he could hear his outgoing message—This is Charles Waters, please leave a message—and then the message the caller left.
On all three occasions, it was either Doctor Masin or his nurse. The messages varied in length, but all carried the same intent—we need to see you as soon as possible.
Charles erased all three messages without returning them.
Chapter Six
CHARLES WALKED THROUGH the revolving front door of Graystone Insurance at five minutes to eight, just as he did on every day he worked. Of course, on this particular Wednesday, he wasn’t scheduled to be there at all.
Graystone was a modest-sized company, with a few hundred employees who worked full-time at the Middle Falls home office. In that way, it was like a very small town, where everyone knew what was going on with everyone else.
When Jay and Stella in accounting had an affair, all of Graystone Insurance knew the details before either of the spouses learned of the infidelity.
By that Wednesday morning, everyone knew that Charles Waters was a dead man walking, and that he wasn’t scheduled to work until the following Monday. So, everyone gawked at him briefly when he pushed through the door dressed in his Graystone uniform: gray slacks, white shirt and tie, black loafers, carrying a briefcase.
In the lobby, waiting for the elevator, Charles stood next to Vic Stander, who did a double-take when he saw him.
“Charles? You’re on vacation this week. I put the paperwork through for you myself.”
Charles nodded agreement. “That’s right. I wanted to come in and check a report that came in yesterday, though. I’ve been waiting for it for several weeks.”
Charles rode the elevator up to the third floor and walked to the mailroom, where he found his mailbox empty.
He poked his head in to Kenny Siefert’s office and said, “I was expecting a report in yesterday. Did it get misplaced?”
Kenny flushed. He looked out the window, then at the carpet. He took a deep breath, started to speak, then thought better of it. Finally, he said, “It might have gotten misfiled. Let’s take a look.”
They both stepped back out into the mailroom proper and Kenny walked straight to Jim Stevens’ mailbox. “Yep. Here it is.”
Charles looked and noticed whose mailbox it was, then said, “Is all my mail going to Jim’s box?”
Kenny puffed out his cheeks, then said, “I’m just in charge of the mailroom, Charles.”
“Then you should know if all my mail is being sent to Jim.”
Finally, Kenny said, “It is, but that’s likely because you are on vacation this week. They probably didn’t want anything to get hung up, in case it was urgent.”
Charles considered asking when the last time anything urgent had come to an actuary’s mailbox, but he didn’t. That was one of the most appealing aspects of the job—nothing was in a hurry, trends were identified over long periods of time. Charles saw the writing on the wall, but remained quiet. He hated conflict.
Instead, he pointed to the package and said, “That’s my name on there, so I’ll take it from here.” He retrieved the thick envelope, which he knew would contain dozens of pages of computer printouts and numbers, and hurried straight to his office.
He sat at his desk with the envelope in front of him, but didn’t open it.
They have already replaced me, and they haven’t told me yet.
Charles turned the idea over in his mind, then banished it as he did almost all thoughts as to intent and motive from other entities. He slit the envelope open, carefully laying the pages on the desk in front of him and smoothing out the creases.
He spent hours going through the information and beginning to transfer key pieces of data onto a new spreadsheet.
Spreadsheets made Charles happy.
He worked through lunch and the first time he glanced at his watch, it was 2:45.
I’m off my schedule now. If I eat lunch this late, I won’t be ready for dinner at 6:30.
He ran the decision around in his head for ten minutes, then decided that he would rather be hungry for the next four hours than change his schedule.
He returned to his spreadsheets.
Out of nothing more than sheer habit, he packed up his briefcase at 5:00 and locked up his office.
He noticed that a much higher percentage of people spoke to him in the hallway, although none were intrusive.
He was slightly exhausted from all the minor interactions by the time he got to his Civic. He turned the key and was preparing to pull out of his parking spot when the soft knock of knuckles against his window frightened him half to death.
Or, at least he was already more than halfway to death, and the rap of the knuckles frightened him.
Charles braked, put the car safely into park, then rolled down his window.
It was Alice Harkins, a junior actuary. She was twenty years younger than Charles, a single lady who lived alone with her three cats.
“Sorry, Charles. Didn’t mean to frighten you. I heard the news about your health and I wanted to check on you. Do you need anything? Can I bring you over some food? I make a wonderful chicken soup that my grandma swore could cure anything.”
She realized then what she had said, and that chicken soup would never cure late stage pancreatic cancer. She blanched, but she was committed to the project, so she smiled as though she hadn’t said anything awkward.
Charles tried to picture himself eating food that someone else brought him and couldn’t do it. The idea of eating something from someone else’s house made his stomach turn over, in spite of the medication he had taken that morning.
“Thank you, Alice, but I’ll be fine.”
This was one of those comforting lies that passes as social currency. These conversational tools were rarely used by Charles. He felt rather ple
ased with himself that he had thought of it.
“Oh. All right then,” Alice said in a small voice, taking a few steps back. “Will you be coming in all week? I heard you were on vacation.”
Charles hadn’t thought that far ahead, so he did. He thought for a full sixty seconds while Alice stood looking at him.
“No. I don’t think so,” he finally said.
He rolled his window up and drove home through the negligible Middle Falls rush hour.
He would not return to Graystone Insurance in this life.
Chapter Seven
CHARLES WATERS WOKE up on the one-week anniversary of his death sentence and did not feel well.
He took the first of his pain pills along with his stomach pill and tried to eat some breakfast, but he couldn’t manage to get even toast and jam down.
He returned to bed, laid down and fell immediately back to sleep.
When he woke up again, it was already late afternoon.
The gorgeous blue skies of the previous few days were gone, replaced by steel-gray clouds that looked at least a little ominous.
Charles decided to throw caution to the wind and move his dinner up an hour, since he hadn’t managed to eat anything else that day.
He puttered into the kitchen like he had aged twenty years since he had woken up that morning.
He pulled the fish ‘n chips box out of its allotted spot in the freezer and put it in the microwave. He couldn’t summon the energy to take the container out after three minutes to flip the fish sticks over, so he set it to five minutes and sat on the couch while it cooked.
Before the microwave dinged, he had slumped against the pillows and fallen asleep again.
He woke up at 2:34 a.m. The fish sticks and French fries, which had been only moderately edible when they were first cooked, were now a soggy, inedible mess. Charles realized he didn’t want the fish smelling up his kitchen, so he bagged it up and took it to the garbage chute down the hall.
On the way back to his apartment, he heard soft music coming from Mark’s apartment.
Is this his normal schedule? Is he up all night? When does he sleep?
Charles realized that he had slept most of the previous twenty-four hours, hadn’t eaten in that long, and so was probably in for a long night. Also, he knew that he needed some help.
If he’d had the emotional wherewithal to knock on Mark’s door and say he needed some help with pain and nausea, he might have been invited in and given the opportunity to smoke some marijuana that would have helped with both. Even better, he might have found a friend waiting to comfort him in his long hours of need.
He did not have that emotional wherewithal.
Instead, he spent a long, sick, lonely night curled in the fetal position on his couch. At precisely 9:00 the next morning, he called Dr. Masin’s office again.
For the first time in the last week, Charles got lucky. On this day, Dr. Masin did not have a tee time at the Middle Falls Country Club.
“Mr. Waters,” Dr. Masin said when he came on the line, “how are you feeling?”
“Like I’m dying.”
A short pause, then “Can you drive?”
Charles considered. He could drive, but should he?
“I don’t think so.”
“Are you at home? I’ll send an ambulance over to pick you up.”
“I’m at home, but I don’t want them coming into the building, into my condo. I’ll meet them at the entrance.”
“Fine. You’ll need to be down there in just a few minutes, though. I’m sending an ambulance now.”
Fifteen minutes later, Charles Waters was in an ambulance heading for Middle Falls Hospital.
The EMT checked his blood pressure and monitored his heart rate.
I thought I had thirty days. Why do I feel so bad already?
The EMT handed him off to an orderly, who moved him onto a gurney and wheeled him down the hall.
The surreal blur of fluorescent lights made him certain he was going to throw up.
He tried to take his mind off his impending vomit by talking.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Dr. Masin called ahead and told us to reserve a room for you,” the nurse said, leaning over him as he rolled. She was young and pretty. He thought of Sarah in the woods and realized he was suddenly talking to more nurses than he had in his whole life.
A likely side-effect of dying, I suppose.
Finally, he was wheeled into a room that had two empty beds. He was lifted up and over onto the bed nearest the door.
The same nurse said, “Dr. Masin said he’ll be here in a few minutes. In the meantime, we’ll get you changed into a hospital gown.”
Charles looked at the blue gown, then back at the nurse. He wanted to argue, but decided that she could probably wrestle him into it no matter what he wanted.
“If you’ll pull the curtain for me, I’ll put it on.”
The nurse nodded pertly and said, “You can put your clothes on that chair and I’ll hang them up for you.” With a rackety-rack-rack, she pulled the curtain shut around Charles.
For a moment, he sat with slumped shoulders, looking at his surroundings.
How did I get here so fast? A week ago, I was living my life and now, here I am. I don’t want to be here.
He changed into the gown as quickly as he was able, although he left his dark socks on because his feet were cold. He lay back on the bed but did not get under the covers. He thought that would indicate that he was completely enveloped by the hospital.
Seen from above, the frail middle-aged man, slightly jaundiced, wrapped in a thin hospital gown and calf-high socks was a pathetic figure.
Five minutes later a young man came in pushing a cart. He had dark skin and a bright smile. “Morning, Mr. Waters. I am Carlos, the man no one is glad to see. I am the phlebotomist on duty and I am here to drain a bit of your blood.”
Charles flopped his right arm onto the bed. He had no fear of needles.
Carlos was very good at his job. He had the needle in and the blood out in record time. He put a cotton swab over the puncture, then sealed it with a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Band-Aid and an apology.
“Sorry, we’re out of the adult Band-Aids, but don’t worry, you’re the coolest dude in the room.”
“As soon as you leave, I’ll be the only one in the room.”
Carlos made a gun out of his thumb and forefinger and pulled the trigger. With a wink and a smile, he said, “Nothing gets past you, Mr. Waters.”
As Carlos left, Dr. Masin hurried in past him. He looked at the chart at the end of the bed, then said, “I’m sorry you waited so long to call me. I don’t want you to suffer needlessly. I’m going to book you in for a few more tests and x-rays this morning, then I’ll be back in before dinner to go over the results with you.”
As soon as he had appeared, Dr. Masin was gone and Charles was again alone.
The pretty nurse reappeared with some pills in a small paper cup and a glass of water with a straw in it.
“Here. Take these. You’ll feel better and be able to get some rest. Let’s get you tucked into bed.”
Charles hadn’t been tucked into bed since he had been four years old, but he didn’t struggle. He slipped his feet inside the sheets and watched as the nurse arranged the blanket over him.
“Try and get some rest now.”
Charles nodded and began to review some of the numbers on the report he had looked at the day before. He followed the numbers round and round and into unconsciousness.
Chapter Eight
CHARLES SLEPT THROUGH the night and woke up the next morning disoriented, but feeling slightly better.
Another nurse woke him and said, “Dr. Masin is making his rounds. He’ll be in to see you in a few minutes. He stopped by to talk to you last night, but you were sleeping so solidly, he wanted to let you rest. I knew you’d want to wake up and gather any thoughts or questions you might have this morning, though.”
Charles nodded and ran his fingers through his thin hair.
Wish I’d brought my comb. These are the small things you never think of.
Dr. Masin came in, pulled the clipboard with the reports of Charles’ vitals, then slipped it back in place. Instead of standing at the end of the bed, he came around so he stood close enough to touch Charles.
“Mr. Waters—Charles—I’m sorry. Things have progressed faster than I had hoped. It didn’t help that you avoided us for a week, but honestly, based on everything I’m seeing...well—”
“—It wouldn’t have mattered much,” Charles finished for him.
Dr. Masin shrugged. He hadn’t wanted to draw that obvious conclusion.
“So what’s next for me, then? I feel like I’ve entered a system I never wanted to enter and now I’m on a conveyor belt taking me somewhere I don’t want to go.”
“I understand why you feel that way, and I don’t blame you. I’ll do everything I can to make you as comfortable as possible through this process.”
“What I’d like to know is when I can get out of here.”
Dr. Masin pulled a Bic pen out of the pocket of his white doctor’s jacket. Unconsciously, he put it in his mouth and chewed on the cap while he leafed through several pages of results and charts.
“You live alone, is that right?”
“Yes. Does that matter?”
“Well, yes, it can. If you were to have a bad spell, you might have a hard time getting to the phone to call for help.”
Charles thought of his bad spell in the woods and didn’t say anything to object.
“As fast as the cancer is progressing, we only have a couple of options. The first would be palliative care here in the hospital. While you’re here, we can monitor your symptoms and pain levels and keep that under control. Our other option is a new facility here in town that works hand in hand with the hospital. It’s called Hospice of Middle Falls.”
“Is there any way I could just go home?”
“If we put a care nurse in with you at least half the day, I suppose that could work for a week or two.”
