Death Kit

by Susan Sontag

  What does Diddy do before his visits to Hester and the nightly dinner with Mrs. Nayburn? Nothing. Which isn’t odd, when you consider where he is and what engages his attention. But odd, perhaps, that he doesn’t mind it. At least, a little. A man who’s had virtually no time to himself in many years, except for the four days at the beginning of October—actually, six counting the weekend—following his release from the hospital. A man holding down a five-day-a-week job for so many years, who devoted his annual two- and then three-week vacations, usually spent in Europe, to the kind of strenuous traveling which allows less leisure than the same number of ordinary weeks of work. Odd, then, for a man so inured to work to take so naturally to his present leisure.

  Doesn’t feel the lack of occupation (now). Neither bored nor restless.

  Maybe Diddy wasn’t such a compulsive worker, after all. It’s amazing how much he sleeps, too. Nine or ten hours, usually dreamless, each night. Hasn’t slept so long since he was in grade school, when Mary was so strict about the boys “keeping a schedule.” Throughout his childhood—more precisely until he was fourteen, when Mary either left the household of her own accord or was fired by his mother—Mary monitored the bedtime hour of both boys. And by a standard that was distinctly Victorian. Bedtime was advanced thirty minutes each year, but the hour remained too early; always a time when most of his neighborhood pals were still up and playing. So Diddy had good reason to hate going to bed, to grumble loudly when the light was turned off and Mary left the room. But found, nevertheless, that he rarely could hold out against sleep for more than a few minutes in the dark, or almost dark. Even though agitated with admiration and envy of Paul, in the other bed, who could remain awake for hours; studying scores by flashlight under a tent made with his blanket, so his light wouldn’t shine on the floor and be detected by someone passing outside the bedroom. In imitation, Diddy got a flashlight of his own, and sometimes tried to read a novel in his own tent. But all too soon, sleep vanquished him; vanquished pride, too.

  The sleepless nights came many years later. And (now) Diddy is sleeping again. Voluptuous, generous amounts. Rarely waking before ten or eleven o’clock. If showered, shaved, dressed and down by eleven, he can still make breakfast in the hotel coffee shop. If later than that, the drugstore on the corner is equally good. Of course, he picks up a copy of the Courier-Gazette first thing when he comes down to the lobby, as a matter of duty. Conscientiously reads it through at breakfast, to prove to himself that he’s not afraid of finding what, in fact, he doesn’t find. Then, if it’s not too cold, a stroll about the park in what’s left of the morning. Occasionally, he turns up at the hospital and sneaks up to Hester’s room for a good-morning hug, though visiting at this hour is forbidden. With or without the illicit extra visit, it’s soon time for lunch, which Diddy usually takes in the dining room of the Canada, except for Wednesday, when the Lions hold their weekly luncheon, and Friday, the day for the Junior Chamber of Commerce; on which days he eats at the drugstore. A brief nap after lunch, sometimes no more than fifteen minutes. But always easy to slip into and arise from. Time for his legitimate visit. Diddy usually leaves around two o’clock, walking across the park again. His evening meal with Mrs. Nayburn starts at six o’clock, sometimes even five-thirty; so he can rejoin Hester promptly at seven. After leaving the hospital at nine, or as late as the nurse’s negligence permits, Diddy usually walks straight back to the Canada, though sometimes the longer way, around the park. Buys one or two sandwiches and a container of Coke at the drugstore, and weighs himself. Also, a paperback book or a magazine, either at the drugstore or at the newsstand in the hotel lobby. To his room. Gets in bed with snack and reading matter. Rarely turning on the television; he might get interested in the movie, and push himself to stay awake longer than he would have otherwise. This way works better. Eats and, rather quickly, reads himself to sleep.

  Lacking exercise, apart from his three or four walks each day across the park to and from the hospital, and eating three full meals and snacks in between, no wonder Diddy is putting on weight. By the end of the seventeen days, he’s close to gaining back the whole twenty pounds lost to despair and shame and death. Throughout his twenties, he’d kept pretty much the weight he had in college; the normal weight for a man of his height and relatively slender frame. Started to lose, very slowly, three years ago. And then, a month ago, shedding twenty pounds within a few days. Has he gained it all back? He hasn’t been enterprising enough to seek out one of the hundreds of scales that must be distributed in examination rooms throughout the hospital, accuracy guaranteed by their site. Instead, Diddy feeds a penny into the undoubtedly inaccurate scale at the back of the drugstore every evening. No matter. If used frequently enough, it appears, an inaccurate machine is just as useful as an accurate one. And Diddy goes on weighing himself daily on the drugstore’s scale. The base figure which the inaccurate machine gives may be wrong, but from then on it will tell Diddy exactly how much, if anything, he’s gaining each day.

  A few fluctuations, of course. One evening, Diddy found he had lost two pounds. Then remembered that yesterday there had been a slight estrangement, veiled but still bruising, between himself and Hester. And that he’d been so upset he had skipped the late evening snack, as well as lunch today.

  Mostly, Diddy’s weight is going up steadily. Clothes don’t fit well (now). Notices in the shower a slight paunchiness about the waist. A different notch in his belt. But Hester doesn’t object. She must notice—blind people would be especially perceptive about these things—the new fullness of his face when she strokes his cheek. Diddy likes this bigger, more robust body. Taking up more space in the world. Feels pride when he’s added enough flesh to his fragile left wrist to warrant readjusting the buckle on his watch strap. Enjoying the slightly cramped situation of his body inside his clothes, which is such that he’s no longer comfortable keeping anything thick, especially any metal object, in his trousers pockets. To repeat: Hester, who must notice, doesn’t mind. At least, hasn’t commented on it. But should Hester suggest that he lose some of this new weight, Diddy would accede without complaint or resentment. Partly feeling she’s right, and that he’s indulging himself. Partly out of the desire to please.

  On the twelfth afternoon following the operation, Mrs. Nayburn announced that she was leaving tomorrow. Has her bags packed. And a train ticket for home in her purse, bought that morning.

  Isn’t that awfully abrupt, announcing her proposed departure only a day in advance? Is she angry? Hard to tell. Mrs. Nayburn’s manner with her niece is affectionate but matter-of-fact. Hester seems genuinely sorry at the news; at least the suddenness of it. Asks her aunt several times if she’s really sure. Seems to accept Mrs. Nayburn’s firm yes at face value, and not unhappily. To Diddy’s relief, didn’t plead with her aunt to stay on a bit longer.

  Yet, Diddy thinks, Hester must be anxious. Isn’t it plausible that she’s wondering whether Mrs. Nayburn has told the whole truth about her decision? Doesn’t Hester worry that, because she can’t study the woman’s face, she’s missing some clue to her aunt’s feelings and intentions?

  Diddy studies the woman’s face for her. Decidedly more impassive than usual. Could she just be attempting to be dignified? All the while holding back her real feelings: wounded dignity, sense of loss. But if Diddy had to judge, he’d say that the kind of pride that prompts people to make such successfully expressionless masks of their faces isn’t part of Mrs. Nayburn’s character. Diddy’s guess is that the woman doesn’t mean to leave tomorrow at all. It’s because she’s not actually going that she’s not really sad.

  Hoping he’s made clear that his resentments have entirely dissolved, Diddy tells Mrs. Nayburn that, as far as he’s concerned, he’d prefer that she didn’t go. Unless she genuinely wants to. “Anyway, you’ll be visiting us soon in New York.” A surprising thing for Diddy to say when, probably out of consideration for his clamorous wish to have Hester to himself, neither of the two women has yet spoken of a future
visit; though it must have, many times, crossed their minds. Odd that it should turn out that if anyone is faintly coaxing Mrs. Nayburn to stay, it’s not Hester but Diddy.

  But Diddy is wrong. Mrs. Nayburn isn’t bluffing; is truly bent on going. And when he realizes that the aunt’s plans are genuine, Diddy begins to feel an unexpected elation. Hadn’t thought it mattered to him, one way or the other. Apparently, it did. The old spiteful feelings seep back. Mrs. Nayburn is, after all, a kind of barrier to the union between Hester and himself; a formidable vestige of the past. But when she goes, the only hurdle left to surmount is Hester’s discharge from the hospital. Diddy, allowing a shade too much of the jubilation he feels to show. (Now) Mrs. Nayburn, with more sensitivity than Diddy had given her credit for having, immediately picks up the subtle change in his manner; and correctly interprets it. Becomes more distant to both of them, vaguely reproachful. Aiming a diminutive sour barb at Diddy. “Hester, if I stay here any longer, lolling about, just sitting and eating and watching movies, I’ll start getting fat like Dalton.” Hester smiles. Diddy feeling a wonderful solidarity with her, despite the fact that they can’t exchange those light, ironic glances that any other young couple would at such a moment, while dealing indulgently with the whining petulance of their elders. Of those who’ve outlived their chance for happiness.

  However disagreeable Mrs. Nayburn might be to him this afternoon or evening, Diddy’s not offended. Feels sorry for the elderly woman about to return, alone, to the place she called home. Leaving behind the person closest to her, virtually her daughter. Returning to no loved ones. A widow and childless for the rest of her days. Even though, as Hester has assured Diddy, Aunt Jessie’s prospects back in Terre Haute are not that sad. Has her job at the Public Library until she turns sixty-five, and has many friends her own age whom she’s known all her life.

  When, over their last dinner together, Mrs. Nayburn argumentatively brings up the question of when he and Hester are going to marry, Diddy was tempted to speak the truth. To tell the woman that the decision rested entirely with her niece. That he, for his part, was ready to marry Hester any time. Tomorrow, if she wanted. But then reconsidered, thinking that the truth might sound ominously complicated to Mrs. Nayburn, though it really was quite simple. Wavering, not knowing exactly what to say.

  “You know, Dalton,” the woman continued plaintively, “I’ve been pretty broad-minded about you and Hester. I’ve never suggested you come back and have a church wedding and all that. I know how young people feel these days. And Hester is so strong-minded, I wouldn’t even dare propose it to her. But you’re more levelheaded than she is. You’re a reasonable, well-brought-up young man, I can see that. I saw it right away, from the beginning. On the train. So make Aunt Jessie happy, will you? There’s been enough scandal in our family already.… I know I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. Hester’s of age; so are you, of course. Still, I’m asking you anyway. Give me your promise that you’ll marry as soon as Hester leaves the hospital. I don’t care if it’s a civil ceremony; you can make it as simple as you like. Just so you’re married, not living together like animals. Please promise, Dalton.”

  Genuinely moved, Diddy gave Mrs. Nayburn the promise she wanted. Half rising out of his seat, leaned across the restaurant table, took her head with the untidy gray hair in his two hands. And gravely kissed her on both cheeks.

  The next afternoon Diddy took Mrs. Nayburn to the station to see her off; she wouldn’t have to change trains once to get back to Terre Haute. His first time in the station since his arrival almost three weeks ago. On adjacent tracks, the New York, Boston & Standard trains were operating. Indeed, he read from the information board that the Privateer itself, on its daily run from Buffalo to New York City, was due in forty-three minutes. Diddy shaken by a slight surprise to have evidence that the train was still running. A foolish surprise. Could he have thought there were no other Privateers after his, after the one that made the northbound run on October 27th?

  Diddy wondering what had happened to his feelings. Dead? Or just muffled under his new flesh? How was it possible for Incardona’s murder to recede so far from his mind as it had these two weeks? Diddy must be living in some dream. Or suffering from amnesia. Or undergoing the disintegration of his character.

  That’s why, boarding the train carrying Mrs. Nayburn’s suitcase and some of her brown-paper bundles, helping her to locate her roomette and get settled in, Diddy didn’t think he would be particularly upset. Wrong, again. He was. The train-world brought back all the familiar constrictions, recharged the old nightmare. Within moments, he’d begun to panic. Desperately fearful that the train would start up before he could get off, and carry him away from Hester.

  “Thought I heard the whistle,” muttered Diddy anxiously.

  “The conductor said the train stops here for twenty minutes. I’m sure you have time.… Dalton, reach me down that suitcase again from the rack, please. I want to take out my bedroom slippers.”

  “No, I’m sure I heard something.” Terrified of being trapped on the train, Diddy grabbed upward at the suitcase, in his haste pulling at it clumsily and knocking himself on the head with it as he brought it down.

  “Oh, you’ve hurt yourself! Let me look at it. Dear me! Wait a minute, I have some Band-Aids in the suitcase.”

  “Don’t fuss, Jessie. It’s nothing.”

  “But you’re bleeding, Dalton. Don’t you have a handkerchief? Here, use mine.” The woman began rummaging in her purse. Diddy thought he heard the train whistle again. Convinced that if he is bleeding slightly near his hairline, it was because the blood was pounding so hard in his head. His skull felt as if it was about to split open.

  Waving aside the handkerchief that Mrs. Nayburn withdrew from her purse, Diddy leaned over, touched her soft powdery cheek with his lips, and delivered her a curt goodbye.

  Once on the platform, he felt very foolish. Plenty of passengers were still boarding the train; some strolling down the platform, seeming in no rush at all. The train was supposed to leave at three minutes after two. His watch said ten minutes to two; so did the platform clock. Of course he stayed, waving at the woman and directing smiles at her through the dirty window. After what seems an interminable time, the whistle did sound. Men along the platform made their signals. Was there someone on the track right in front of the train, a workman just (now) clambering to safety? Diddy couldn’t see ahead of the long straight train. Slowly, the train started up. Diddy ran alongside it for a few yards, maintaining his pantomime of waving and smiling. The train picked up speed. Diddy stops.

  If only he can get out of the station without mishap. Who knows, Capt. Mallory may be lurking around, still pursuing his investigation, though it’s not recorded in the papers. Capt. Mallory, having studied a list of the passengers who were on the Privateer on Sunday, October 27th, somehow, through an occult hunch, recognizing Diddy and stopping him to ask questions. Or Myra Incardona, down to complain about why she hasn’t received the dough she thinks is owed her by the railroad, emerging red-faced through some office door with puny Thomas Francis in tow. Or even the stamp dealer or the plump cleric, either of whom may live in this city or have business which brings him here regularly from New York.

  If Diddy really means to turn his back upon the past, that means not just Joan but all of the past; all. Even the most recent. Even the most terrifying. Supreme courage is needed to refuse the past, a courage far greater than that required in situations of acute physical danger. Diddy not all that brave. The past draws. Like a wind tunnel, with Diddy the ingenious scale model of some new experimental airplane that’s being thrust into the tunnel, fiercely buffeted. And while perhaps not simply, rudely, shattering in pieces, the model visibly trembles; sags; buckles under the tunnel’s stresses. Is too fragile to meet the normal standards of performance and safety. With rethinking and more work in the laboratories, the structural faults of the new plane may be mended. So it is urged. But is it worth it? The plane has had
its chance, been put to the test. Energy is better spent working on something new, an object without the stigma of failure. So the company decides to invest no more money or time in research on the plane; cancels plans to put it into production.

  Diddy feels the sucking of the wind. Feels himself swaying, as he might if he were still excessively thin. But no, he’s not that thin any more; though not fat either. And it’s only the bitter wind of winter; for Diddy’s farther north, where the climate is colder than he’s used to. Added to the violent air currents set up by the thunderous entrances and exits of the trains. But that’s not enough to account for Diddy’s having trouble standing erect. He’s not that fragile.