Right To Die - Jeremiah Healy

by Jeremiah Healy

  "They fired you?"

  "They didn't renew my contract. Discreet way to fire a guy, eh? But it wasn't just the job. We lived free on campus, nice little house, John. Nicest little house you'd ever want to see. All brick and ivy, with hedges and flowers. But when I wasn't renewed, all that was gone. I didn't have a job or a roof over my family's head, not even the coaching anymore. I just plain broke down. I was in an . . .institution for a time after that."

  "For depression?"

  "Oh, they had a dozen different names for it, John. From a dozen different doctors pushing a dozen different drugs. And none of them knew jackshit. I finally broke out of the blues some, but only when I realized that it was the pressure of the family as much as the job that did me in."

  "Your family."

  "Yeah. Adele could see it, too, last few visits to the hospital. Came time to be discharged, like a year later, I didn't have a job, and after what I'd been through, I couldn't exactly see getting another one. Adele had already set herself and the girls up separately, telling them their father was . . . dead."

  "Bo, I'm sorry."

  "Hey, it's not so bad. Life on the road, I mean. And once a year, right around the holidays, I go back." Bo passed a hand over an ear. "I get spruced up a bit, and I hitch my way to where they live now. First time, Adele got flustered, introduced me to the girls as a friend of their dad's from the old school. They were so little when I went away, and I'd changed enough in the years since, they didn't recognize me at all. They ask me questions about what their dad was like when I taught with him, and I get to talk with them about me, sort of, only with no pressure, no . . . expectations."

  "You never tried to . . ."

  "What? Get back together again?"

  "Yes."

  "No. No, Adele and I knew that wouldn't work out. Only one thing worse than losing the people you love, John."

  "What's that?"

  "Losing them twice."

  The eyes moved away to MIT, the right hand massaging the left wrist. "I'm sorry, John."

  "About what?"

  "About dragging my life into yours."

  "Bo, that — "

  "No. No, it was my deal, and here I've gone and broke it."

  After a minute I said, "You know that Gore-Tex suit?"

  Bo's face came back to me. "Huh?"

  "Before you left. You said I'd be needing a Gore-Tex running suit."

  "Oh. Oh, yeah, right."

  "I got one for Christmas. Any suggestions on when and how to wear it?"

  He let the wrist alone and, for a moment, seemed not to breathe. Then, "Well. Well, now, a couple of things . . ."

  * * *

  I spent most of the rest of that January day at the office, servicing some smaller cases and trying not to dwell on Bo. At home, I got a call from Inés Roja. She confirmed that there still had been no more notes. Roja also told me that Andrus and Tucker Hebert were back from the Caribbean and that the professor still wanted to meet me that next morning. At the Ritz-Carlton, no less. Inés sounded embarrassed saying that she thought the Ritz required a jacket and tie, even for bacon and eggs.

  * * *

  I followed the maitre d' through the first-floor dining room. The high windows permitted only filtered light from Newbury Street to strike the crystal and silver spread before the men and women attending power breakfasts.

  "We're targeting the ten highest risk companies in the . . ."

  ". . . course, live years down the pike, will I still be . . ."

  "And our long-term resources just might be compatible with your short-term . . ."

  ". . . in which case, it would be mainly a northeast program with an acronym of its own."

  Maisy Andrus treated me to a radiant smile over the rim of her china cup. She wore a white cotton turtleneck under an Icelandic sweater, the hair a shade lighter from the tropical sun. Her face was tanned, but without the worry lines or leathery look some women her age suffer.

  The perfect example of the good life. Maybe an hour earlier, I'd left Bo, in rags on a cold bench.

  Andrus suddenly appeared concerned. "John, is anything wrong'?"

  "No. Just thinking about something else."

  The waiter came over with a cut-glass bucket of fresh juice and took our food orders.

  I said to Andrus, "How was the trip?"

  The blazing smile again. "Indescribable. I hadn't realized how much pressure I'd let build up inside, but Tuck was right. A vacation in the sun with him was all I really needed."

  "Good weather, then?"

  "Perfect. We stayed at a place called Little Bay Beach Hotel, around a point from the Dutch capital. Early mornings until the tournament started, we'd snorkel out to the point. Just light enough to see but before everyone else was up. Huge boulders covered with sea urchins, black pin cushions with glass spines you have to avoid. All kinds of other reef life: fish, stingrays, even what Tuck called a 'rogue barracuda.' My God, it must have been five feet long, hanging in the water, inches under the surface. Tuck said it was nothing to worry about, that it was just waiting for us to kill something it could share."

  Andrus shivered, rubbing the back of her neck through the cotton.

  "Most days, we stretched out on lounge chairs, sometimes in the sunshine, sometimes back under thatched roofs on poles. I drank when I wanted and devoured twenty thick paperbacks just for fun. We wandered all over the island. The French side is more pastoral, with sort of country restaurants, the Dutch side more glitzy, with casinos and discotheques. I'd never go dancing at one of those in Boston, my students would be all over it. But down there we partied till sunrise, especially with the tournament people. Tuck and his partner finished third in the Celebrity Doubles part, and I ate the most spectacular things, including roast shank of ostrich at a restaurant Tuck scouted out for our last dinner."

  Andrus was gushing a little, but I didn't want to interrupt with business until she turned to it herself. The waiter provided a convenient break by bringing our meals.

  In between bites of an omelette, she said, "Any progress on my case?"

  I condensed what I'd learned since the drive to the airport, including Gunther Yary. I came down hard on the last note at the law school and Hebert's dismissal on the phone.

  "I'm sorry about Tuck, John, but he was doing only what he thought was best, and he was right. Inés showed me that note when I got back, and you know what? It didn't shake me. Not in the least. I feel recharged, reborn."

  Andrus rubbed the back of her neck again.

  I said, "Sunburn?"

  "No. No, some damned insect got me in bed, our last night on the island. I can't even see the infection without being a contortionist. Inés scraped it and applied some Bacitracin." Andrus shivered again. "I hate that stuff, like somebody's spit on you. Plus it itches like poison ivy."

  "Probably a sign it's healing."

  "That's what Enrique used to say." Andrus left her neck alone, a bittersweet smile crossing her face. "You know, I've been quite lucky that way, really. The two men I've been with the most have been the best men I've known."

  Her eyes refocused, and I think Andrus suddenly realized I was still a widower.

  Brusquely, she said, "So, we'll be leaving in a day or two for California. I'll be back in mid-February for a lecture, but only briefly. What, if anything, do you think you need to do in the interim?"

  "That depends. Who's going with you?"

  "Tuck, of course. Inés is staying here. I'll be mostly speaking and networking out there, not writing."

  "Manolo?"

  Andrus sighed. "He was terribly moody when we got back. Like a neglected cat, if that doesn't sound inhumane. I think we'll have to bring him with us, but more for his sake than as a bodyguard."

  "That last note. It went through the school's interoffice mail."

  "Yes?"

  "It's possible that some of the outsiders, like Louis Doleman — "

  "Who?"

  "The man whose daughter took her life after
reading your book."

  "Oh. Yes, sorry. Go on."

  "It's possible that someone like Doleman or Gunther Yary could have figured out how that works, but more likely it's somebody closer."

  Andrus waved impatiently. "And therefore?"

  "Something a cop said that I've been thinking about. People who get their kicks scaring other people like to use the phone for threats."

  "Why?"

  "It's more direct. More personal."

  "But this one sends notes."

  "Yeah. Why'?"

  "Why notes, you mean?"

  "Uh — huh."

  Andrus caught the waiter's eye and placed her utensils at two o'clock on the plate. "I have no idea."

  "Maybe it's because you'd know his voice on the phone."

  "A possibility, to be sure."

  "Professor, be sure of another thing, okay'?"

  "What's that?"

  "Maybe our boy doesn't use the phone because he doesn't have any voice at all."

  Andrus looked at me strangely, then brayed a laugh loud enough to turn heads.

  * * *

  Walking from the Ritz in a snow Hurry toward my office, I realized that neither Maisy Andrus nor I had mentioned Alec Bacall. At Charles Street I turned right instead of continuing through the Common. I couldn't remember hearing Bacall's address, so I had to check three lobby directories on Boylston before finding his building. Prewar (almost any war), it was opposite one of the oldest burying grounds in Boston, a fenced square of gravestones dating from colonial times.

  Taking the elevator to the fourth floor, I knocked on the door marked BACALL OFFICE HELP. Del Wonsley's voice sang out. Wonsley was sitting at the reception desk in a tasteful waiting area, holding a telephone receiver to his sweatered chest. "Hello, John Cuddy."

  "How are you?"

  "Fine, fine."

  "Is Alec in?"

  Wonsley's tongue made a pass between his lips. "Just a second."

  Into the receiver he said, "Kyle? Kyle, I'm going to have to put you on hold for just a moment. Okay." Pushing one button, then another, Wonsley took a breath and said, "Alec, John Cuddy's here. Do you . . . right. Right, I will."

  Wonsley pushed only one button this time and didn't muffle the receiver. "Go ahead. And try to be . . . up, okay?"

  I said, "Okay."

  Opening the inner door, I could see Bacall rising behind a magnificent cherry desk. The flakes fell lightly outside a tall bay window framing the Common across the street. There was a large Kurdistan rug on the floor, a smaller one hanging on a wall.

  Even though the room was very warm, Bacall wore a cable sweater and his trademark double-pleated slacks. From a distance of twenty feet, he looked stooped still but boyish, with color in his cheeks and no bags under his eyes.

  He said, "John. Good to see you."

  Wonsley's comment about "being up" kept me to "Same here" instead of a relieved "You're looking well." Fortunately, too, because at close range the illusion became transparent. The handshake was still like steel, but awfully dry and almost brittle. And the face . . .

  "Is there some development regarding Maisy's case'?"

  We took our seats, and I filled him in. Four times in five minutes Bacall coughed deeply into a handkerchief.

  After I finished, he said, "It sounds as if you've worked diligently without flushing anything to wing."

  "That's about right."

  Bacall coughed again, harder and longer than before. He tossed the handkerchief into the wastebasket and took another from a side drawer of the desk. "Kleenex would be more sensible, but I've always preferred cloth." He pursed his lips. "Did Del say anything

  to you?"

  "No."

  A wry smile. "Oh, my, John, I do hope you lie better to those who don't know you. After we saw you and . . . Nancy?"

  "Right."

  "After we saw you and Nancy at First Night, I had a series of tests. They came back positive."

  "Positive."

  "Yes. The clinic was very good about it. They've had a lot of practice in being very good. They should do something about using the word 'positive' though, don't you think? I mean, 'positive' really shouldn't mean what they use it to mean, if you'll forgive the redundancy."

  "When you say the tests came back . . ."

  "The tests showed AIDS, John. Not just exposure, not just AIDS-Related Complex."

  "Alec, I'm sorry."

  "John, I'm sorry to spring this on you. But I couldn't believe you hadn't noticed anything New Year's Eve, and I wanted you to hear it, or most of it, from me."

  "Does Andrus know?"

  "Not yet. I left a message at the school for her to call."

  "Tommy Kramer?"

  "Yes. He's reviewing my will and . . . oh, I'm sounding pessimistic, aren't I?"

  When I didn't reply, Bacall went on. "There will be good days and bad days. This is one of the good ones, I'm pleased to tell you. And Del's been able to keep me from looking ghastly by the judicious application of makeup. He's a marvel at it, used to work backstage in summer stock here and there. I must admit, though, it makes me feel just a bit like a drag queen to doll up this way."

  "What about those new drugs?"

  "My doctor — or doctors, one of the problems with the disease is that you suddenly have more médicos on you than a star halfback with a bruised toe. My doctors are not optimistic about them because of the diabetes. But they're thoughtful, caring people, and they're working on it."

  I nodded.

  "There's something else I want you to know, too, John. My condition doesn't affect my concern for Maisy and her situation. Not one iota. Whatever you need from me, you'll have. Del and I will be winding down the business to manageable proportions. If worse comes to worst, he can decide whether to revive it or instead sell it for the good will and leasehold value." Bacall gestured at the window. "It is a hell of a view."

  "Alec, I won't — "

  "Forgive me for interrupting, John, but I want this understood. Winding down the business means Del and I will have more time for each other, but it also means that, good day or bad, I'll have time for Maisy and the cause. More time, ironically enough, than I've ever been able to devote before. I intend to stay active for a long, long time. If you need energy, resources, just plain legwork or telephoning, you let us know, and it's yours."

  "I understand. Thank you."

  Bacall swiveled his chair gently toward the window, so that he could appreciate the view without turning his back on me. "When I took these offices, I arranged the furniture this way because I was afraid the scenery would be a distraction." Keeping the chair stationary, he brought his head around to me. "The last few days, I find I look out often, probably more than I have the last few years. I look out on that graveyard, men and women who died before I was born. Before AIDS was born. And I realize that people have always died from something, and most before their time."

  "Cemeteries can do that for you."

  Bacall began to rock slowly in the chair. "As a boy, with all the doubts and conflicts I felt, there was one thing of which I was absolutely certain. I would live forever. I might never feel completely at ease with myself, but there would never be a time when there wouldn't be a me. Then I learned that forever has just one rule."

  "What's that, Alec?"

  "Forever's rule is that nothing is forever." Turning his face to the window, Bacall seemed to sit straighter in the chair. He kept rocking, but his speech became as clipped as his beard. "Sometime, if we could, I'd like you to tell me more about life, John."

  "I doubt I know more to tell you."

  "Sometime we might try. But just now, I'm afraid this good day is tripping into bad. On your way out, could you ask Del to come in, please?"

  I got up quickly and left him, rocking and watching his view.

  =23=

  "NOW THAT WEJRE HALFWAY THROUGH FEBRUARY, JOHN, YOU' VE got to start thinking specifics, not just general stuff anymore. The distances are coming along fine, and yo
u're running on the packed snow like it was a groomed, gravel track. But it's time to start planning the race in your mind. Go out and drive the course, all the way from Hopkinton into Boston. But drive her like a runner, not a driver. You're gonna notice something. Except for some miles in the middle, you've got rolling hills. That means you have to run a little different. On the way up, keep your knees high to synchronize the arm and leg motion. Don't look down at the ground unless you've got paper cups and orange peels to step around. Keep your eyes on the horizon. That way, you don't get discouraged by glancing up and seeing how far you still have to climb. The idea is to run up the hill, not into the hill. So lean forward on that incline, like you're riding a horse and coming forward in the saddle for him. On the decline, lean back, like you're still on that horse and laying back in the saddle to balance him. Don't let gravity help defeat you.

  "People talk a lot about Heartbreak Hill. Fact is, Heartbreak isn't just one hill, it's a series of them, with plateaus in between. From mile seventeen to mile twenty-one. That's the firehouse at the inter-section of Route 16 and Commonwealth all the way to the top of Chestnut Hill at Boston College. The inclines are bad, but the plateaus are worse. The plateaus, they remind your legs of how much nicer it is to run on a flat surface. Remind you just enough to take the starch out of those legs for the next incline. Then you think, 'Well, at least I get to go downhill too,' but the decline is the worst of all, because it stretches the wrong muscles at the wrong time.

  "Yes, you've got to respect Heartbreak, John, respect it and learn it. Go out to the firehouse and run just Heartbreak, when you're good and fresh. Run it nice and easy. See how it feels, how long it really is. Spot some landmarks and memorize them. Marathon day, it's the landmarks that'll tell your mind how much farther you've got to go after you can't depend on your legs for messages no more. Yes, once you train a little on Heartbreak, you'll know you have to ease off earlier in the race.

  "What I 'm saying is, save some for Heartbreak, John. Save a lot."

  * * *

  Absolute temperature, five above. With the wind chill along the frozen river, nearly thirty below. Doing eight miles instead of ten, a concession to the February weather. Thanking God and Nancy for the Gore-Tex suit, I wore longjohns underneath it, wool mittens and ski mask over it. I even stuck the temples of a pair of sunglasses through the edges of the eye slits on the mask, the lenses reducing both the glare and the bite of the wind. If you're not too cold, you're not too old, right?