Last Call

by Laura Pedersen

  “The thing about a shark is he’s got lifeless black eyes and when he comes at you he doesn’t even seem to be alive until he bites you.”

  After a deep intake of breath from the assembled crowd, the room is dead silent except for the hum of the air-conditioning.

  “And when he bites, those black eyes roll over white. Yes indeed, a lot of men went into the water but only a few came out.”

  There’s an involuntary moan from somewhere in the back and Hayden decides he’d better not press his luck. So he closes by saying how it was Marvin’s idea to all form a circle against the sharks and how he encouraged everyone not to panic because certainly they’d be rescued. And if it hadn’t been for Martin’s bravery and calm assurance there wouldn’t have been any survivors and thus Hayden would always be eternally grateful to his old pal.

  After the ceremony Hayden is mobbed and embraced by appreciative mourners. T. J. and Drew insist that he come back to the house. But after such a narrow escape Hayden insists he must get Joey to a made-up baseball practice and they quickly exit.

  On the way to the parking lot Joey is lavish in his praise for Hayden’s speech. “That was incredible, Grandpa, especially the part about the sharks. In fact, it sounded as if I heard it somewhere else.”

  “I stole a few bits and pieces from Robert Shaw in Jaws.” If Diana knew that he and Joey rented scary movies on rainy afternoons when she was at work she would disconnect the VCR.

  “Well, they bought the whole story!” Joey crows.

  “It was really wrong o’ me, Joey. I just didn’t know what else to do. T. J. caught me by surprise and before you knew it—”

  “But they loved it. It made them feel better.”

  Hayden knows that’s true, but still worries about setting a bad example for his grandson. On the other hand, sometimes you have to bend a rule or two in life, and that isn’t such a bad thing for a young person to learn.

  “It did seem to lessen their sorrow a wee bit,” he agrees philosophically. The way Hayden sees it, no matter what did or didn’t happen in the South China Sea, the poor bastard probably performed some unsung good deeds along the way and so it all balances out in the end. And death is the end, no two ways about it.

  chapter four

  By the time the funeral duo exits the second reception across town in Canarsie, it’s late afternoon, and time to change back into their game clothes and head for home. Hayden pulls up to Canarsie Beach Park, overlooking Jamaica Bay, where bronze plaques along the pier explain the varieties of birds indigenous to the area and a golden age club in matching T-shirts storms the waterfront with arms pumping and backs slightly hunched against the breeze.

  Suddenly a well-formed young woman spilling out of a skimpy orange bikini top and cutoff denim shorts struts toward the boardwalk from the back of the parking lot in gold plastic high-heeled sandals. “Look, look,” Hayden nudges Joey with his elbow. “She’s taking the twins for a walk.”

  Joey turns and stares at her with appreciation in his wide blue eyes. He tries to let out a low whistle but doesn’t have the technique down yet. The object of their admiration gives the MacBrides a smile as she passes them by to join a muscular man carrying a cooler.

  Hayden and Joey change back into their casual clothes in the men’s room behind the outdoor ice cream stand and then buy large pistachio cones with chocolate sprinkles for the ride home. “We’d like sugar cones, along with an eight-by-ten glossy of yourself,” Hayden says to the woman serving them, causing her to giggle with delight.

  They take a shortcut through Seaview Village, driving past block after block of ranch-style and split-level houses that feel more like a middle-class suburb than Brooklyn. Joey looks longingly at the children bicycling and playing kickball in the neighborhood’s quiet streets. They serve as a painful reminder that as much as Joey adores Hayden, he wouldn’t mind having a friend his own age so they could trade baseball cards and play video games. They’re two of his favorite things, and his grandfather knows absolutely nothing about either one.

  Before entering the town house Hayden insists on a quick debriefing session to ensure that they have their story straight—who played, who won, what the score was, what they ate, and so forth. Rigorous rehearsal is mandatory. “Your mother,” Hayden is fond of reminding his grandson, “possesses the cross-referencing skills of a lifetime employee at the Library of Congress.”

  It’s during moments like this that Hayden feels a twinge of guilt—coaching an innocent boy to lie and thereby setting a bad example. If Joey grows up to be a mobster Hayden is convinced it will be entirely his fault. Though if his grandson becomes a funeral director or a caterer that will probably be his doing as well. However, he absolves himself in true Scots’ fashion with the knowledge that all three occupations pay a good wage.

  “Now Joe-Joe, do’an’ forget,” Hayden adds, “tomorrow we’re going to a baseball game for real. So we do’an’ need to sneak out any extra clothes.”

  “Good. I’m getting bored with all this death.”

  “I admit it’s an acquired taste, like the bagpipes.”

  As far as Joey is concerned, the funerals are all starting to look the same, and his grandfather often becomes subdued on the way home, absorbed in his own thoughts. Joey prefers it when his grandfather is cursing out the opposing team after a Mets game or giving him pointers on how to flirt with the girl at the ice cream parlor. On those days Hayden is filled with an endless supply of good humor and gives Joey tips on driving, car maintenance, and the best places in Brooklyn to take a woman if you want to kiss her. His grandfather believes Brooklyn to be the most romantic place in the world, much more so than the tourist-infested Manhattan.

  When they finally enter the house it’s half past five in the evening, prime appliance time for Diana. As usual, she has the vacuum blaring, washer spinning, dryer tumbling, dishwasher churning, blender whining, and the microwave whirring while it defrosts a bird for dinner. Hayden has purchased three extension cords and reset the fuse box at least a dozen times in the weeks since she and Joey arrived. The good thing is that with all the racket covering the sound of the car engine as they turn into the driveway, it’s usually easy to sneak into the house and stash their funeral clothes in a closet before she even realizes they’re back.

  Sprawled across the sofa and glued to the TV is Diana’s no account ex-boyfriend Anthony, not to be confused with her no account ex-husband Evan. How does such a bright and attractive girl constantly attract such good-for-nothing men? Hayden repeatedly asks himself (and Diana). Even her senior prom date did prison time right after graduation for acting as wheelman to a Brighton Beach Russian mafioso. Hayden remembers the incident all too well, since it took the boy away from his regular job at his uncle’s chop shop and Hayden got stuck with the corsage bill.

  “What’s he doing here?” Hayden hisses at Diana, who’s in the kitchen making Anthony’s favorite sun tea with freshly squeezed lemons and a tray of snacks. Hayden views Anthony as a giant primordial toad who basks on the sofa in the glow of the TV until food appears, at which time his head sinks into his shoulders and he proceeds to slobber and gorge himself.

  “He’s relaxing after a hard day of work,” replies Diana.

  “Any more relaxed and the sheep will be counting him,” remarks Hayden. “I thought you two broke up after he borrowed your credit card.”

  “Now Dad, he’s paying that money back, every cent.” She anxiously twists the thin gold chain around her neck. The only thing Hayden does that truly bruises Diana’s feelings is constantly criticize her choice in men. The rest of his comments and antics only serve to annoy her, or else drive her to the brink of despair with worry.

  “You could bring a tear to a glass eye.” Hayden looks at the tray of hors d’oeuvres with eyes that are like the windows on an old-fashioned cash register toting up the cost.

  “He needed the money for supplies. Oil paints and properly stretched canvases are very expensive.”

  “
Is that what he told you? I think the only stretched canvas your Michelangelo has ever seen is while lying facedown in a hammock.”

  “That’s enough now. Besides, Joey likes him. This summer Tony is going to teach Joey how to fish,” she says brightly. “A nice safe sport where he won’t get hit in the chest with a ball.”

  Hayden switches on the coffeepot. “The only reason Joey likes him is because he hasn’t made any friends in this neighborhood yet. Right now the lad would gladly play freeze tag with all the inmates on Riker’s Island.”

  Diana switches off the coffeepot and foists a glass of prune juice on him instead. “Dad, you know you’re not supposed to have coffee.”

  Hayden sips the juice and then makes a face. “I’m going to die a healthy man.” He puts down the glass and stares at his daughter for a moment. She’s stunning in a lavender silk T-shirt and a flowing peasant skirt splashed with indigo, fuchsia, and turquoise, practically dancing across the parquet floor with the light quick steps of a gazelle. Suddenly he is overcome with the urge to protect her and unmask this freeloading buffoon once and for all. Dying would be easier if he knew that he was leaving Diana and Joey in the hands of a trustworthy male.

  “Just watch how cheap he is.” Hayden proceeds to call into the living room, “Hey Anthony, we were thinkin’ of goin’ over to Vittorio’s in Bensonhurst for some Italian food? Any interest?”

  “Thanks Mr. MacBride, but I should really get back to the business.” It further irritated Hayden the way Anthony regularly referred to his job as a floorwalker at Home Depot as “the business,” as if he owns the entire chain.

  “That’s too bad. Well, what if the daughter makes us a bite to eat here, some pork chops or rack o’ lamb?”

  “Oh, that sounds great!” Anthony yells back from the living room. “I can never turn down Diana’s cooking.”

  “Sqiomlaireachd,” sneers Hayden, knowing Diana will understand the Highland Scottish word for someone in the habit of dropping by at mealtimes.

  “Dad, please. Now don’t embarrass me.”

  “Me embarrass you? He’s the one who said that Barcaloungers come from Barcelona.” Hayden heads back toward the door. “I’m goin’ over to the hospital supply center.”

  “Dad, will you please stop haunting hospital supply stores. You’ve been there almost every day this week. Besides, it’s almost six o’clock. They’re closed.”

  “Then I’ll go hospital supply window shopping. Maybe they’ve invented a new sofa with an ejector button. I know you’d rather I peruse garden supplies, but unfortunately I do’an’ have that kind of timeline.”

  “Suit yourself,” says Diana. She hates her father’s jokes about dying. It makes what’s going to happen unbearably real. “But I don’t want Joey going. He’ll become a mortician if he keeps hanging around with you.”

  “The pay is good,” Hayden replies cheerfully. “Besides, you think it’s better that he sits in his room playing solitaire on the computer the whole day long?”

  “Better than watching you haggling over coffins? Yes.” Why couldn’t Hayden just teach Joey to play chess and take him to the movies like other grandfathers?

  “That was the Neptune Society I signed up for, Diana. They take your ashes out to sea. I’ve told you a thousand times that I do’an’ want to be buried. The earth is for the living, not the dusty remains of the dead. Would you please read my funeral instructions, it’s quite clear—”

  Joey enters the kitchen. “Mom, why’d you take down all my baseball posters? I can’t have an asthma attack from just looking at sports.”

  “No, but you’ll take the paint off the walls with all that tape.” Diana had allowed Joey to put tape on the walls of his old room. But she doesn’t want to act as if Hayden’s home is her own, even though that’s what he keeps insisting they should do.

  “So we’ll cover it with more posters,” Hayden comes to the rescue. “Tape away!” He gives Joey a hug of camaraderie.

  “Yeah!” Joey hugs him back. “Thanks, Grandpa.”

  “Okay,” Diana grudgingly agrees. “But don’t make a mess by changing them around all the time.” She’s determined to maintain some authority by having the last word on the matter. “Once you decide on a place then that’s it.”

  “I’m hungry.” Joey glances toward the stove and the oven for signs of cooking. “When’s dinner?”

  “Ask Ant’ny,” says Hayden in a fake Brooklyn accent. “He’s the charter member of the Clean Plate Club.”

  chapter five

  As Hayden and Joey head for Shea Stadium the following morning, the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway thunders and quakes with end-of-rush-hour traffic. In the distance the skyscrapers of Manhattan rise and melt into a pale gray sky. Hayden squints into the glaring sun, attempting to realign his vision after a few medicinal whiskeys the night before.

  “We just need to pay a quick call at the hospital.” He delivers this news to Joey only after turning off the expressway.

  “But Grandpa, you promised no death today,” complains Joey. Why won’t it just go away, this stupid Cancer Monster attacking his favorite person in the world, this double-crossing disease that doesn’t hurt while it kills.

  “Now do’an’ get your skivvies all in a twist. We’re going to a baseball game for real. The Bone Factory is just a pit stop. Cyrus is passing off some special pills to me. And he may not be around much longer, if you know what I mean.”

  “Pills? I thought you decided to sit in the car with the garage door closed,” says Joey. Every time he opens the garage door Joey holds his breath, terrified that he’ll find his grandfather’s lifeless body slumped over the steering wheel.

  “When did you start law school? Besides, that was last week. Cyrus says pills are better—that I may not have the strength to crawl out to the garage. And if someone should find me tryin’, she’d tie me down.” Joey and Hayden both understand exactly who that “someone” would be.

  “Cyrus knows what he’s doing. He was a pharmacist.”

  “You talk about Cyrus as if he’s already dead.”

  “He very well could be by the time we arrive.” Hayden scowls at the slow-moving traffic. There must be an accident up ahead. “Cyrus is going to take the same pills himself. Only the stubborn old goat is determined to stick around long enough to attend his grandson’s bar mitzvah.”

  Joey appreciates that Hayden and Cyrus have a lot more in common than just cancer. Not only do the two men both possess sharp business sense, but they share a great enthusiasm for their adopted country. Cyrus had fled a dictator-ruled Romania with his family when he was seven, old enough to remember the poverty and lack of opportunity in his country. After attending the Bronx High School of Science and Fordham University, he’d gone on to earn a pharmacy degree at the University of Buffalo, mostly paid for by scholarships and financial aid. Eventually he’d opened a chain of pharmacies in Brooklyn and Queens and made a small fortune. And who would know better than Hayden, since he’d similarly built a career in America and sold Cyrus plenty of insurance over the years.

  The oncology ward is bustling as patients are wheeled past with IVs dangling from metal racks overhead, and clipboard-carrying doctors and nurses efficiently scuttle up and down long corridors and into white rooms with beige rubber molding near the floor. Walking past the open doors the visitors are hit by a series of different smells—the aroma of flowers, sharp disinfectant, and the odd sour smell distinctive to places where people are waiting to die.

  Hayden doesn’t ask Joey if he’d like to wait in the lounge. Nor does the boy try to avoid being part of the pilgrimage. If it’s true what his grandfather says, that he is really going to die soon, then Joey wants to be with him every possible minute. So he faithfully traipses after Hayden to the bedside of sixty-two-year-old Cyrus, haggard and wasted, dying of pancreatic cancer. Cyrus’s wife, Hannah, kisses the new arrivals on the cheek and tells them she’s going to use their visit as a chance to get some breakfast. Before leaving she tender
ly caresses her dying husband’s forehead.

  Despite the hopelessness of his situation Cyrus is delighted to see his old friend. “Did you have any trouble finding the place?” he jokes in a thin raspy voice.

  “No, I slipped an orderly a fifty and he took me right to you,” Hayden kids him right back.

  Suddenly their banter is interrupted by a ferocious shrieking coming from the next room, followed by the thud of cheap institutional furnishings smashing into the shared wall. Hayden and Joey both flinch and Cyrus covers his ears, as if this is the sound of death itself. When the uproar finally subsides, Cyrus lifts his hands from his ears and shakes his head as if his resolve to ignore the cacophony is wearing thin.

  “Nothing to worry about.” Cyrus motions for them to take a seat. “Goes on all day long. Have you ever heard a dying person make so much noise? Talk about a death rattle.” Then he adjusts the cardboard sign hanging around his neck.

  “What’s that, Uncle Cyrus?” Joey inquires and points to the big hand-lettered placard spelling out DNR in shaky red block letters.

  “Do Not Resuscitate. That means they’d better not try to jump-start me once I’m on the train heading downtown. Or I can sue their stethoscopes off.”

  “The hospital gave you this?” Hayden skeptically examines the poor penmanship and unevenly torn cardboard.

  “No, of course not. I made it myself. The nurse only puts a discreet notation in my chart and a little card on the door. But I don’t want anyone making a mistake in the dark.” He shows them the penlight hanging around his neck that he switches on to illuminate the sign while he sleeps. “Joey, open the night table drawer there and hand your grandpa the orange pill bottle.”

  “Are you sure you have enough for yourself?” Hayden examines the half-full bottle. “I wouldn’t want to leave you short, not at a time like this, anyway.”

  “Believe me, I have everything I need. And with these, we’re not talking about all that many.” His voice turns serious and drops to a whisper. “I made those pills myself. They’re illegal and they’re death bullets. Once dissolved they can fell a rhino in five minutes.” He glances toward the open door to make sure no one is hovering in the hallway. “You don’t pop them and then change your mind and call nine-one-one, okay? Because you won’t be around to dial the ones. Take all six.”