Miriam's Well

by Lois Ruby

  Adam’s father went to court to argue for me. I suspected, when Mama didn’t come to the hospital that afternoon, how the decision had gone. Mr. Bergen came to tell me about it, Adam with him. “Dr. Gregory asked to administer a drug called Cytocel. It’s very effective against your type of cancer.”

  “Has a terrific track record,” Adam said. They sat at either side of my bed, and I turned my head from side to side as if I were watching a tennis match. Finally Adam came around and sat on the bed between his father and me.

  Mr. Bergen said, “I argued before the judge about the possible side effects.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, nothing important. I just had to make it sound as bleak as possible, to appeal to the judge’s weak stomach.”

  “Like what?” I asked again.

  “A few intestinal problems, nausea, occasional hair loss, canker sores. In rare, rare cases, and, hardly ever in kids your age, kidney complications. There have been a few incidents of congestive heart failure, two or three cases maybe, but nothing you’d need to worry about. Other than the tumor, you’re as healthy as an Amazon.”

  “So,” I asked quietly, but I already knew the decision, “did you persuade the squeamish judge?”

  Adam took my non-IV’d hand, even in front of his father. I would never have dared do such a thing in front of my mother. We locked fingers as Mr. Bergen delivered the treacherous news: “The judge ordered that, beginning tomorrow, you’re to start on Cytocel, in the dose prescribed by Dr. Gregory.”

  “Any other drugs?” I asked. I tried to sound calm, but my heart was racing.

  “The hospital has to go to court for any other treatment, like combinations of drugs or immunotherapy or radiation. This is a one-trick pony, Miriam. But, once the judge has allowed one, the hospital won’t have any trouble convincing him of others. I’m sorry.” I thought he might cry. Adam looked positively jubilant, which was the answer to the question I hadn’t asked him.

  I felt the tears welling up but refusing to spill. I wanted to cry for the injustice of it all, for how they were violating my body and soul, for the nausea and hair loss I’d have, for the two or three people before me who’d gone into congestive heart failure, for Blanding’s children. But I couldn’t cry, because I knew that, come morning, I would have to face the sagging disappointment of Brother James, who had had such faith in me. I would save my tears until after Brother James left my side.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Told by Adam

  Eric and Karen were home for winter break and were in the final stages of planning the wedding. They’d reached the point where they were mad at each other all the time, and both families were feuding. As my mother said, things were progressing normally.

  But with Miriam, things were a long way from normal as we waited for the side effects to hit her during those first few days of chemo. I’d leave the hospital worn out from trying to make conversation when the only thing that really mattered was the one thing we couldn’t talk about. I really needed a break from the weight of her silence. It came in the form of a Christmas party, on the third night of Chanukah.

  Diana gave the party, with a DJ from T-95 and the spinning lights, the whole works. The Grande Room of the Olive Tree was decked out for Christmas, with a nine-foot flocked tree (fir, not olive) and ropes of evergreen with red bows scalloping the walls and tables. It was what my mother called High Goy.

  The week before the party, Diana asked, “You’re coming, aren’t you, Adam? Or am I supposed to invite someone else as my date? The rules are a little unclear these days.”

  “No, I’ll be there.”

  “Wow, what a prince. Well, I haven’t got time to develop a new relationship now anyway, because I’m working on the party and college applications and papers that are due right after Christmas. So, let’s stay together, okay? Adam and Diana forever? Or at least till after the pictures are taken at my party. Come and have dinner at the Olive Tree before the party. I’ve ordered a rack of lamb for the six of us. I’ll just put it on my father’s tab.”

  I wasn’t looking forward to the party, and I didn’t mention it to Miriam, since it made me feel like a worm, but once I got to the Olive Tree and the Grande Room, my hedonistic nature took over, and I had a great time. It was about 4:00 a.m. before I actually felt my first twinge of guilt.

  What a night. First there was the incredible spectacle of the rack of lamb.

  Brent said, “That’s disgusting. It looks like the king lost his head, with the crown still on. We’re gonna eat that?”

  “Poor little lamby,” said Monica Bliss, Brent’s date. “It never knew its life would end this way.”

  Terra, who was Diana’s best friend, had brought a date from The Academy. That’s not one of the public high schools, so they’re colossal snobs over there. They have cheers at their basketball games that go, PRIVATE SCHOOL, STATE SCHOOL, WE’RE SMART, YOU’RE DUMB! Also, YOU MAY HAVE MORE POINTS THAN US, BUT SOMEDAY YOU WILL WORK FOR US! Anyway, this Academy guy Mike had actually seen a rack of lamb before, and he took us on a guided tour.

  “They send somebody who’s into gourmet stuff to the farm. These aren’t Kansas sheep, you know. They’re from back east. Anyway, the guy picks out the cutest little lamb he can find, one with big, soft eyes.”

  “Omygod,” Terra groaned.

  “Wait, that’s not all. And the lamb’s still wobbly on its legs, but it’s got a plump gut. You see, this part comes from the central gut portion of the lamb.” The Professor of Sheep pointed with his fork, while the waiter cut the cord that held the crown on.

  “Excusez-moi,” the waited said, elbowing his way in between Terra and Mike.

  “Okay, so when they’ve got the cutest little fat lamb they can find, they kill it. Blood’s flying everywhere, they skin it for a lamb’s wool coat, and they chop off its head, but they’re real careful with the legs, because leg of lamb is a big treat, if you know how to carve it.”

  “This is fascinating, Mike. Do you guys have a course in butchering over at The Academy?” I asked.

  “Stop, I’m going to throw up,” Terra threatened, holding the stiff white napkin to her mouth.

  The waiter interrupted the happy banter as he slaughtered the remains of the poor little lamby and gave us each a jiggly slice. Thin pink juices ran from it.

  “Delicious,” Mike declared. The rest of us just sat and stared at the flesh that was brown and crusty on the outside, but a mooshy pink inside. The lamb came with vegetables that looked like toys, like corn on the cobs no bigger than my thumb but soft enough that you were supposed to eat the whole cob. It was all pretty sickening, but at least we had a good dessert. Diana had ordered Baked Alaska, and a whole tribe of waiters marched in with it, warming its little buns over a can of blazing Sterno.

  “Isn’t that the stuff that winos drink?” Brent asked.

  “Control yourself and be awed by this creation. Baked Alaska is one of the seven wonders of the world,” Diana proclaimed. She was glowing in the candlelight. “It’s paradoxical. It stays frozen inside and hot on the outside. Kind of like Adam.” I laughed along with the others.

  We got to the Grande Room just as the DJs were setting up. Diana was like the director of a TV show, telling them where to stand, how loud to talk, where to put everything, including the giant screen that would continuously show the videotape of every move we made.

  “Look, miss, we do this two, three times a week. We can figure it out for ourselves,” the Velcro Voice of T-95 said.

  “You don’t understand.” Diana nodded her head furiously and loosened a strand of hair from her high-rise hairdo created for this occasion. “I’m going to be an architect. I have an inherent spatial sense. Also good taste.”

  “Well, I’m going to be a DJ,” the Velcro Voice oozed, “and you’re not. So get outta our way.”

  “I’m paying the bill,” said Diana.

  The Velcro Voice turned to the guy behind him, who was on his hands and knees, laying ca
ble. “Hey, Grotto, did you hear that? They’re gonna pay us for tonight.”

  Grotto, who was not a recognizable on-air personality, said, “Wow, now my kids won’t have to sleep in doorways at Douglas and Broadway.”

  “Shake it off, shake it off,” Diana said quietly. “I’m determined to have a good time tonight.”

  Kids from Eisenhower started coming in, followed by the expected crashers from Southeast and The Academy. Except for those tightwads who slipped by, they each paid a dollar toward the DJ’s kids, but Mr. Cameron would still have a whopping bill, because the food wasn’t cheap.

  I wouldn’t call it real food. It was art pretending to be food, things like puffed up mushrooms filled with mystery vegetable products, and chicken drumsticks no bigger than the legs of a rat, and hotdog bites rolled in bacon, and celery stuffed with cream cheese that had suspicious red flecks in it, flecks that lodged in your teeth and that I could feel under my retainer the next morning. Then there were the meatballs that disintegrated when tortured by fancy toothpicks, and pizzas the size of a silver dollar, and about as hard and dry. But what could we do, after the disgusting rack of lamb? Brent popped in the hors d’oeuvres by the handful. “I hear these suckers cost a buck a piece. I guess I’ve had my money’s worth.”

  “Oh, yeah, you paid your dollar,” I said.

  The DJs started spinning some discs, and before I knew it, the whole dance floor was full. Diana was circulating, she said, performing her duties as a hostess, but she found me for the first slow dance. With her hands locked behind my neck, she pulled herself close to me. Her dress was some shiny bronze fabric that itched me right through my shirt. I also discovered that I was allergic to it, and my eyes started getting watery. Diana put her head on my shoulder; we couldn’t have been much closer if we’d been Siamese twins joined at the navel. Tears ran down my face and landed in her hair, but her hair was in such a bird’s nest of curls, she didn’t feel the tears until she turned her face up toward me, and one dripped onto her forehead.

  “Why, Adam, you’re crying.”

  “No, no,” I protested. A sneeze would have helped the whole situation, but I couldn’t force one up.

  “Is it the music?” she asked softly.

  I grunted something unintelligible. I wasn’t a terrific slow dancer; we mostly moved in a tight circle. If her feet had been on top of mine, we could have corkscrewed ourselves right into the floor. Then my nose began to run, and I lifted the back of my hand off her waist to catch the drip. Finally I was forced to reach into my pocket for a tissue and to feel around to make sure my little nose spray bottle was there, in case things got desperate.

  Diana pulled herself away from me. “It’s your allergies, isn’t it? How predictable. I actually believed the music and the nearness of me had moved you to tears. I’m going to remember, in my next life, not to go out with a guy who has allergies.”

  “I’m taking shots,” I said feebly.

  “What is it, my hairspray you’re allergic to?”

  “I think it’s the dress.”

  “It was nearly two hundred dollars, Adam. I guess I’m going to have to find hypo-allergenic clothes. Maybe I can order them from a hospital supply catalog.”

  The music changed to something fiercer, and once I wasn’t close enough to breathe the fumes of her dress, my eyes dried up. “I’m okay now,” I shouted over the music.

  The party got wild. Of course, no liquor was served on Mr. Cameron’s tab, but a lot of people had bottles stashed around the room. Diana got officially crocked and draped herself across my lap. I had to pull my head back as far as I could to avoid her dress. “I don’ wan’ you to think I have a drinking problem,” she said. “I’m jes unner a lotta pressure. Iss tough being perfec.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “But I’ll get uze to it.”

  I gave her coffee to drink. She hates coffee, but she gulped it down. “Jes fer you,” she said, scrunching up her nose with the bitter taste. She picked up a fondue fork and scratched through the nest of her curls. “I feel mush bedder now.” I took the fork, ditched it into a potted plant, and led Diana to a couch out in the hall. She fell asleep with her head hanging on the offending bronze dress.

  The rest of the party went really well. Diana slept through the best part of it, while I danced, I ate, I drank Dr Pepper, I mugged for the photographer, and checked every so often to make sure Diana was still breathing. I hadn’t had such a good time since Mrs. Loomis turned my life upside down over poetry partners.

  I didn’t even go to the hospital on Saturday or Sunday. My excuse was that I had to finish my college application essay to turn in to Mrs. Loomis. That involved retyping Diana’s paper, changing a few semicolons to periods, and looking up synonyms for some of Diana’s more exotic words, such as avuncular and peripatetic. I was very satisfied with the finished product, which I turned in on Monday, so satisfied that Brent and I cut out at lunch period and snuck up to Burger King.

  “How did you like the party?” I asked him, while we waited for our Whoppers.

  “Great. Diana was bombed. Too bad she missed it.”

  “A lot of people were bombed.”

  “That’s a sign of a good party.” We took our orders to a table under an obnoxious hanging plant. “You kept your head up,” Brent said. “It must be from hanging around with the Holy Roller. What does she do for kicks?”

  “Puzzles,” I said, stuffing an onion ring into my mouth.

  “Gimme one.”

  “No.” It was already going down his throat.

  “Puzzles. Say, there’s an exciting woman. Listen, I read in the National Enquirer that over in Salt Lake, where it’s about eighty-five percent Mormon, kids don’t drink or dance or anything, so you know what they do to pass the time?”

  “Puzzles?”

  “Screw. Fornicate, copulate, you name it. Everybody gets pregnant. You gotta do something on Friday nights. So, what’s the deal with Miriam? Are you getting anywhere with her?”

  “She’s in the hospital, for Christ’s sake.”

  “In bed?” He waggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx.

  “Jesus, what a pervert.”

  “Okay, okay. Lemme have another onion ring.”

  I shoved the whole bag toward him. Suddenly I was getting nervous about being AWOL from school, like Coach Ortega might come into Burger King at any moment and catch us, and I’d have detention, and they’d call my parents, and my mother would ground me until I was forty, or went to college, whichever came first. “Let’s get back. I’ve got to return a book to the library before the bell rings.”

  “I read a book once,” Brent said, “but not recently. If you’re smart enough, you don’t have to. My sister left me a whole library of Cliff Notes when she went to college. Hawthorne, Shakespeare, Melville, Tolstoy, you name it. I’ll rent any of them out to you if you need one. A buck a book a day. Hey, what are friends for?”

  “Forget it. I hear the Cliff Notes are out on video now.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Told by Miriam

  After ten days on Cytocel, I’d had very few bad effects, but neither had there been any evidence of the tumor shrinking. The hospital went back to Judge Bonnell and asked him to approve radiation along with the chemotherapy.

  Radiation. I was to have mysterious invisible X rays, thinner than a fine stream of boiled syrup, burned into my body. Brother James was furious. But he had a way of turning his fury into a compressed knot of quiet rage. He would never explode; he would implode.

  “These people are barbarians,” he said, and a muscle throbbed just above the hollow of his cheek. His fingers on my arms felt like taut ship ropes.

  Uncle Benjamin was tired of waiting around. “Well, what are you gonna do, James?”

  My window overlooked the parking lot, and Brother James looked down at the little Matchbox cars. He jiggled peppermint wrappers in the pocket of his overalls. He took a deep breath that caused his plaid flannel shirt to pull across t
he back of his shoulders. “‘To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.’ It’s time we took things in our own hands, with God’s help.”

  “Me and Vernon are ready. Just give us the word.” Uncle Benjamin jammed his fist into his other hand, eager for action.

  “I swear, Brother Benjamin Pelham, the child will not spend Christmas in this Godless place.”

  “And meanwhile, what am I to do, Brother James?” I asked.

  He turned from the window, and I had the familiar sensation that he was surprised to find me still there. “Nothing, child. Leave it all to us.”

  “Shall I cooperate with the doctors and nurses?”

  “By all means. You’re not to let on that anything’s up.” He came over and patted my head.

  “You mean I have to go to radiation?” I was shocked that he’d let it go so far.

  He pulled a chair up beside my bed and waved Uncle Benjamin away. “Listen.” He cocked his head.

  I listened for the still, small voice beyond his.

  “Your strength is vital, Miriam. You are not to let them do anything to you.”

  “You mean not go to radiation?”

  “Go, but you shall close yourself to their machines and poisons. They can do what they will, and none of it shall penetrate your flesh. You will lock them out, do you understand?”

  “I think so.” I did not understand at all.

  “Fine.”

  “But how will I do it?”

  “With all your power, child. With all the horses of the kingdom of Christ pulling you, with chariots of fire rushing you away from their needles and rays.” He engaged my eyes; I almost felt that I was being hypnotized. “You … will … not … feel … anything … they … do to you.”

  I yanked my eyes away from his, as though my head were being tugged from behind. “Yes, Brother James.”

  There was Adam—how much had he heard?—standing at my door with a pizza in the flat of his hands. “Adam,” Brother James said, with a gesture not unlike the tipping of a hat. “There’s no pork on that pizza, I reckon.”