elevator. Ben and Laws took the left.
“We’ll catch up to Mama on the third floor,” Laws said. Silently their elevator took Ben and Laws directly to the third floor. When they exited the elevator onto the third floor, the unmistakable hospital odor, part disinfectant, part death, smote them. Enna’s elevator stopped on each floor before it brought her to them. She wrinkled her nose against the smell.
“Hospitals all stink,” she said. “Never been in one that didn’t.”
“The old hospital smelled worse,” Laws said.
“Had longer to build up its stink supply,” Enna replied. “Hardin is in the third room on the left. Brace yourself, Ben.”
Enna marched toward Hardin’s room with her head lowered almost like a battering ram. Ben guessed despair bowed her shoulders. Whatever bothered her had to do with Hardin, and his dying, he presumed.
“Wait here,” Enna said, just outside the door. I’ll tell him we’re all here.” Enna went in. Ben heard the whirs and beeps of hospital machinery.
“Hardin,” Enna said. She raised her voice. “Hardin,” she called.
“What?” Hardin responded petulantly. “That you, Enna?”
“Yes,” Enna said. “I’ve brought someone with me.”
“Laws?”
“Laws, and someone else. Ben.”
“Ben? Ben who?”
“Ben your brother, Hardin.”
“He came, then, did he?”
“Yes.”
“Well don’t keep him outside, in the snow,” Hardin said.
“No snow in the corridor,” Enna said. “Don’t excite yourself. I’ll bring him in.”
She came to the door. “All right, both of you, come on in.” She went back in the room and stood by Hardin’s bed.
Laws rolled in, Ben followed him. Hardin lay on his side, tangled in the sheets and tubes of typical hospital décor. His back was toward Enna. He closed his eyes again. He breathed noisily and heavily through his open mouth.
“Dad,” Laws said. Then again, louder. “Dad, I’ve brought Uncle Ben, like you asked me to.”
Hardin woke with a start. “Laws?” he said. His voice was hoarse. “Dreamed your Mama was here a little while ago.”
“Mama is still here, Dad, behind you.”
“Oh. Can’t see her there.” Hardin didn’t try to turn his head to look behind him.
Ben moved closer to the bed. “Hello, little brother,” he said.
A smile lit Hardin’s skeletal face. For a moment, Laws could see the father he remembered. Hardin had a coughing fit. Blood and phlegm stained the tissue he put to his lips with a bony hand. When he could speak, he said, “Long time no see, Ben.” As if the speech exhausted him, he closed his eyes and began to snore. Fluid, perhaps tears, seeped out of his eyes and wet his pillow. Ben opened his mouth to say something. Laws put his hand on Ben’s arm to stop him.
“Give him a few moments, and he’ll be back,” Laws whispered. They waited for Hardin to return. Hardin’s eyes fluttered open. He looked up at Ben. His eyes were wet and glistened in the fluorescent lights over his bed.
“Glad you came,” Hardin said. He coughed again. He took in deep rasping breaths. “Got something to say to you.” He coughed again, and drifted to sleep. Ben and Laws waited. Hardin’s breath rasped in and out of his open mouth. He woke himself with a sharp cry. “Hurts,” he said. “Hurts damn bad.”
“Hardin,” Ben said, his feelings choking in his throat, “I’m so sorry.”
“Bad way to end,” Hardin said, and closed his eyes again. This time he did not drift off to sleep. “Go find your mother, Laws. I need to talk to Ben, alone.” His long speech set him to coughing again.
“Going, Dad,” Laws said, and wheeled out of the room.
“Draw the curtain around,” Hardin said. “Too many busybodies in the hall.” Ben pulled the curtain around Hardin’s bed. He went back to the side Hardin faced.
Ben took Hardin’s hand in his. His brother’s skin was feverish, but the hand was cold. It was like grasping ice cloaked in a thin layer of fire. “What did you want to say to me?” he asked.
Hardin had another coughing spell. “I’m sorry,” he said. Ben waited for him to get his breath. “I made a big mistake,” Hardin said. He stopped to gather his breath again. He pulled his hand from Ben’s grasp, and reached for another tissue. Ben handed one to him.
“I stole your girl,” Hardin said. “Wasn’t fair.”
“You mean Enna?”
“Yes.” Enna came back to Hardin’s room. She stood just out of sight behind the curtains
“Enna was never my girl. I just took her to the prom, once.” Ben shook his head. “Besides, Enna’s not the kind of woman anybody could steal. She’s too much in charge of her own mind for that.”
“She’s still in love with you,” Hardin said. Enna coughed to let the men know she was present. Hardin didn’t hear her. Ben guessed who stood outside the curtain, but Hardin had taken his hand again, and was clinging to it.
“Done you both wrong,” Hardin said, and closed his eyes. A deep moan welled up in him. “Damn, I hurt.”
“Should I call the nurse?” Ben asked.
“No,” Hardin said. “It’ll pass.” His body arched under the thin sheet with another spasm of pain.
“Maybe I should let you rest,” Ben said.
“One more thing,” Hardin said. Another series of coughs interrupted him. Ben waited. Hardin continued, when he had recovered his breath.
“When Mom and Dad died, I took their bank account and put it my account. Half should have been yours.”
“I haven’t missed it, all these years.”
“It wasn’t much, a couple hundred dollars.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Worst of all, Ben, I ignored you. You’re family. I shouldn’t have done that. Can you forgive me?”
“Yes, Hardin, I forgive you. I haven’t been much of a brother to you, either.”
“Too bad we wasted all those years.” Hardin grimaced with a lesser pain. “Get the nurse, will you?”
“Sure.” Ben searched for the button and rang it. Enna opened the curtain enough to get in to see Hardin.
“Hi,” Hardin said to her. The nurse came, and chased them both out. Enna looked into the distance at the far end of the corridor. She was silent, but tears streaked her face. Ben put an arm around her shoulders to comfort her.
“No, not now,” she said, and shook him off. “We’ll have to talk when we get home, you, me, and Laws. Not here, though. Too many ears twitching in the wind to catch everything they can.”
Dickon Takes Tea
Elke Hall met Dickon at the door. She had been waiting for him, because she opened the door just as he began to knock.
“Come in, Dickon,” she said. “La Señora is in the library. She is weaker today than she has been for some time. Please do not tax her strength.”
“I will be careful,” Dickon said. His green eyes searched Elke’s round face. She shook her head gently in a helpless motion. “She’s that much worse?” Dickon asked.
“Yes,” Elke said. “Follow me,” she added, “to the library. Do keep a cheerful face on you, but not a phony one, if you take my meaning.”
“I do,” Dickon said. “No one can flummox La Señora with phoniness.”
The library was cheerfully bright with yellow lamplight shutting out the gray day. La Señora sat in a wheeled chair, very elegantly upholstered in red velvet, and an obvious antique, since most of its parts were dark mahogany or rosewood.
“Good afternoon, Dickon,” she said, and extended her hand to shake his. Dickon noticed her hand trembled a little. When he took it, it was cool, almost cold, and the skin was papery to his touch. “I am not able to rise,” she went on, “please, have a seat.” She indicated the great chair opposite her wheelchair. Dickon sat.
“Elke tells me Ben has
gone to Colorado for his brother’s funeral,” she said. “Please, when he returns, extend my condolences.”
“I will,” Dickon said.
“Do help yourself to tea and cookies,” La Señora said.
“Do you want me to pour you some?”
“No, not just now.” La Señora coughed delicately. “I am using medication that doesn’t mix well with tea.”
“What kind of medicine is that? I didn’t know there were any that wouldn’t mix with tea.” Dickon thought he sounded almost belligerent. He reminded himself to keep his cool.
La Señora smiled at him. “Spoken like a true tea-drinker,” she said. “I take theophylline, a substance that comes from tea leaves. Concentrated, it’s a bronchial dilator.” She coughed. “I am enduring a respiratory infection, and the medicine helps me breathe. I avoid tea, lest I get too much of the drug in my system.”
“Interesting,” Dickon said. “New things to learn pop up almost every day.”
“Yes,” La Señora said. She held a handkerchief to her lips and coughed again. “Excuse me,” she said.
“I don’t want to wear you out,” Dickon said. “Let me know if I should leave.”
“In good time, Dickon, all in good time.” La Señora took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Dickon heard a faint whistling in her lungs.
“I invited you here, Dickon, to ask a favor of you,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“I will need a second godfather for a young child, not yet conceived, who will be my eventual heir.”
“A godfather?”
“I have already asked Ben, and he has agreed. You and he seem to be forging a bond. I think it would be beneficial to have both of you overseeing the child’s upbringing. So does
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