‘So if a radiologist doesn’t come to talk with you after a scan or an X-ray . . .’
‘It all depends on the hospital. In a big hospital, like the place down the street, Mass General, I’m certain that there’s an enforced protocol about never speaking to the patient. But we’re not a world-renowned hospital. As you know we’re completely local. So we bend the rules a bit when it comes to Dr Harrild meeting with the patient if the news isn’t sinister.’
‘Which means if he doesn’t meet with you . . .’
‘That’s right. It’s probably pretty damn dire.’
‘I’ll remember that.’
‘Hopefully you’ll never get a diagnosis like that,’ I said.
‘The truth is, we’re all going to eventually get a diagnosis like that. Because my work is, in part, all about risk assessment. So I too am looking – in a wholly different way – at the frailty of others. Trying to ascertain whether they are the type whose heart will explode before they’re fifty-five due to lifestyle and the usual self-destructive habits. Or perhaps a family predisposition to cancer. Or the fact that, to my trained eye, they just look so beaten down and defeated by life that they are simply not a good bet.’
‘So you too have a trained eye.’
‘Well, if someone walks into my office carrying three hundred pounds in weight and looking like they have had trouble getting up the stairs to meet me . . . no, I am not going to agree to a one-million-dollar life policy.’
‘Then again, they might live well into their eighties, despite all that weight. Generic roulette, right? And there’s one empirical fact that none of us can dodge – the price of admission for being given life is having it eventually taken away from you. Anyone who says they don’t think about it all the time—’
‘I think about it all the time.’
‘So do I. That, for me, is an ongoing preoccupation since stumbling into middle age – the realization that time is such an increasingly precious commodity. And if we don’t use it properly . . .’
‘Does anyone really use it properly?’ he asked.
‘Surely there are people out there who think themselves fortunate and fulfilled in their lives.’
‘But the truth is, no matter how successful or happy you may consider yourself to be there is always a part of your life that is problematic, or deficient, or a let-down in some way.’
‘That’s all a bit actuarial, don’t you think?’
‘Or just completely realistic. Unless you think otherwise?’
Before I could pause and appear to think this through I heard myself say:
‘No, I’m afraid you’re absolutely right. There is always something not working in your life. Then again, the great hope is . . .’
I stopped myself from finishing that sentence, and was relieved when the waiter arrived with our coffees. I added milk to mine and stirred it many times, hoping Richard would not ask me to complete the thought. But, of course, he said:
‘Go on, finish the sentence.’
‘No need.’
‘Why “no need”?’
‘Because . . .’
Oh God, I want to say this and I so don’t want to say this . . .
‘Because the great hope in life is being with someone with whom you can weather all the bad stuff that life will inevitably toss into your path. But that’s perhaps the biggest fairy tale imaginable. The idea of—’
The check arrived, allowing me not to finish the sentence, which was a relief. I suggested we split it.
‘Absolutely not,’ he said.
‘Thank you for such an excellent lunch.’
‘Thank you for being here. It’s been . . . well, wonderful is the word that pops to mind.’
‘And what are you planning to do next?’
‘As in tomorrow, the day after, the week after, the month . . .?’
‘Very funny.’
‘I have no plans for the rest of the day.’
‘Nor do I.’
‘Shall we invent some plans?’
‘Absolutely.’
Another smile from Richard.
‘Right then,’ he said. ‘Can I show you where I plan to live?’
‘You’re moving to Boston?’
‘I’m moving just down the street to the corner of Beacon Street and the Common.’
‘And when are you doing that?’
Without taking his eyes off me he said:
‘In the next life.’
Four
I MAY NOT know the world beyond the eastern corridor of the United States, but I can’t imagine I will ever encounter anything more perfect than the inherent perfection of a perfect autumn day in New England. Specifically, this day, this afternoon. The sun still radiant, but bathing the Common in coppery late-afternoon incandescence. The sky pure unadulterated blue. A light breeze, the mercury still hovering somewhere between the vanished summer and the impending dark chill of winter. And the foliage festooning the Common in its autumnal eruption of primary colors. The reds and golds of the oaks and elms electric in their intensity.
‘Can foliage festoon a park?’ I asked Richard as we crossed Beacon Street and entered the Public Gardens. Had I asked Dan such a question he would have rolled his eyes and accused me of one-upmanship for showing off my love of ‘big words’. Richard just smiled and said:
‘“Festoon” works. And it’s more poetic than “embellish” or “adorn” or “decorate”.’
‘“Decorate” is a synonym I would definitely sidestep.’
‘It depends how it is used. For example, “Back then, the Common was decorated with the corpses of the condemned, dangling from trees.”’
‘My God, where did that come from?’
‘Once upon a time, in the early moments of our country, this Common – our first public park in the then-colonies – was also the public hanging grounds. Being Puritans with a rather bleak view of human nature, they believed that public executions set a fine example for the community.’
‘And do you know where exactly the executions took place?’ I asked. ‘Is there a three-hundred-and-eighty-year-old tree in the Common with a plaque on it, informing all visitors that this was the spiritual home of the death penalty in America?’
‘I tend to doubt that the Boston tourist board would want to promote such a thing.’
‘But up in Salem you can see where all the witches were tried and, no doubt, burned.’
‘They actually hanged a witch here on the Common, Ann Hibbens, in 1656.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘History is a pastime of mine. Especially colonial American history. And the reason why the folks up in Salem have cashed in on the witchcraft trials is because they understand that they can make a tourist dollar or two by playing to that aspect of American Gothic which everyone embraces. It’s the Edgar Allan Poe part of our nature. Our love of the Grand Guignol, of the freakish and unsettling. The belief – and this is the big one which all the evangelical Christians embrace – that the apocalypse is coming, that we are in “the end of days” and it’s only a matter of time before the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse show up to announce that Jesus is returning to re-establish his dominion on earth, and all the born-agains will get shuffled off to heaven, leaving the rest of us heathens here to live out our lives of eternal damnation.’
‘But, yesterday, you were defending the family values that all those evangelicals trumpet all the time – and sounding very Republican.’
‘How do you know I’m a Republican?’
‘Are you denying it?’
‘I have voted Independent on a few occasions.’
‘But never Democrat?’
‘Once or twice. But they’re just not what I am about. Then again, neither is the new Republican Party – which has turned so extreme and mean.’
‘So where does that politically put you then?’
‘Confused – and unable to figure out where I belong anymore.’
‘I feel that all the time.’
‘About politics?’
‘About everything.’
‘“No direction home”.’
‘Exactly – and that’s Dylan, isn’t it?’
‘It certainly is.’
‘You like Dylan?’
‘Clearly – and that surprises you, doesn’t it?’
‘Did I sound surprised?’
‘Yes.’
‘Pleasantly surprised.’
‘Because I’m such a gray middle-aged man who dresses like a weekend golfer.’
‘If you don’t like how you dress—’
‘I know. The C-word. Change.’
Then, looking into the distance, he said:
‘A truly perfect day.’
‘I was just thinking that a moment ago.’
‘I wonder if the British were as entranced by the New England autumn back when this Common was used as a camp by the forces of the Crown during the Revolutionary War?’
‘You know your Massachusetts Bay Colony history, Mr Copeland.’
‘Anytime I start spouting off about such things my wife tells me I am showing off.’
‘That’s sad – and sadly not unusual. My husband does the same thing whenever my vocabulary obsessions get articulated.’
‘But doesn’t he see that this curiosity, this need to learn, is an expression of . . .’
Now it was his turn to terminate the sentence before it was finished.
‘Go on,’ I said. ‘Finish the sentence.’
‘I can only speak for myself. But . . . the reason I read so much, the reason my head has always been in a book . . . well, it’s an antidote to loneliness, right?’
‘I think so.’
We then fell silent for a few moments, continuing to stroll towards the Public Gardens. Richard broke the silence.
‘Now, as I was saying, the Brits used the Common as an encampment. And the hanging continued up until 1817. Oh, and there was a major riot here in 1713 when a big mob reacted against food shortages in the city. And do you know the Puritans actually hanged a woman here in the 1660s for preaching Quakerism, that’s how doctrinally extreme they were. And . . . oh God, will you listen to me, spouting on as if I’m on one of those quiz shows where you have a minute to show off everything you know about something so trivial as the history of Boston Common.’
‘But I actually find what you’re telling me interesting. And impressive. And when did you read up about it all?’
Without breaking stride, and with his gaze still very much on a distanced corner of this public park, he said:
‘Just last night, online back in the hotel. I wanted to sound erudite when I saw you today.’
I found myself smiling again.
‘Well, you succeeded. And I find it rather touching that you would go to the trouble of finding out so much about the Common for my benefit.’
We turned north towards the Public Gardens.
‘So, go on,’ I said, ‘tell me everything you know about this place.’
‘You sure you want to hear the prepared spiel . . .’
‘No, I’m just saying that to show off my masochistic tendencies.’
Richard laughed.
‘You are a toughie.’
‘Hardly . . . though if I make a somewhat sarcastic comment like that one to my husband, Dan takes umbrage. Whereas you laughed.’
‘Familiarity always breeds . . . complexity.’
‘Why didn’t you say “contempt”?’
‘Because . . . I wish it didn’t breed contempt. But it does.’
‘In every marriage, every long-term domestic relationship?’
‘I can’t say I’m that knowledgeable about other people’s marriages – which are usually something of a mystery to those on the outside, let alone those actually in the middle of them. But from the ones I do know – and I don’t have that many friends who share stuff like that with me – I can’t say that I know a great number of people who are genuinely happy. Do you know many happy couples?’
‘No. And like you, I can’t say that I have many friends.’
‘That surprises me. You strike me as someone who—’
‘Outside of my family and my best friend Lucy I largely keep to myself. I was this way in school, in college. One or two close friends. Cordial working relationships with those around me, and always this tendency to be standoffish a bit. Certainly not towards my children. Outside of murder and mayhem, I would literally do just about anything for them. And, once upon a time, Dan and I were close.’
‘But now?’
‘I don’t really want to talk about all that.’
‘Understood.’
‘Now you are being too nice,’ I said.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because you told me a great deal about your son and your wife. And I’m hedging my bets, as usual.’
‘You shouldn’t feel in any way obliged to tell me . . .’
I stopped in front of a park bench and suddenly sat down, no longer wanting to have this conversation while perambulating. Taking my cue, Richard joined me on the bench, sitting at the far end of it, giving me the distance that he cleverly understood that I needed.
‘Dan is a man I don’t know anymore. Though I’ve talked a little about this with my one great friend Lucy, the fact is, I’ve kept much of it to myself. Because he’s been through a major personal crisis with the loss of his job. And because I always felt that I needed to be loyal to Dan. God knows, I wanted things to somehow revert to that time before he was laid off when we had a reasonable and reasonably easy relationship with each other. Now I’m not saying that ours was ever the most romantic of stories.’
‘So who was the love of your life?’
The question – so unexpected, so deeply direct – threw me. But without pausing for a moment to reflect about the wisdom of even going there, I heard myself saying:
‘Eric. His name was Eric.’
I looked up to see my use of the past tense register on Richard’s face. Immediately I regretted letting this small piece of information out. Immediately I was so grateful to Richard for not bringing it up, though again I heard myself say something unexpected:
‘That is the first time I’ve mentioned his name in around fifteen years.’
I held my breath for a moment, hoping that Richard would not follow this revelation with a question. To his immense credit he said absolutely nothing, letting a silence hang between us as I scrambled to think what I should say next. Which turned out to be:
‘And now I’m dropping the subject.’
‘No problem,’ Richard said.
I stood up. Richard followed suit.
‘Shall we continue walking?’ I asked.
‘Absolutely. Where to?’
‘You told me you wanted to show me where you’d live in “the next life”. So show me.’
‘It’s not far.’
We headed further on through the Gardens, past a small pond and flower beds still festooned – that word again! – with the final vestiges of that summer’s flowers.
‘Let me guess,’ Richard said. ‘Does “festooned” work here?’
I laughed.
‘That’s impressive.’
The Gardens ended and we found ourselves facing a long avenue, fronted by venerable nineteenth-century residences, a central barrier of greenery stretching all the way north. Directly in front of us was a church clearly dating back to the colonial era, and an apartment building that looked like it belonged in some jazz-age Scott Fitzgerald story.
‘So is that where you want to live in the next life?’ I said, pointing upwards to the penthouse.
‘In my dreams. That used to be the Ritz. Now it’s apartments for the super-rich. Even in reserved, button-down Boston – where ostentation and flashing the cash are still considered bad taste – there is, like everywhere else these days, truly serious money floating about. Especially with the density of mutual funds and bio/info tech people concentrated here.’
‘
Those mutual fund folk get two-to-three-million-dollar bonuses every year.’
‘Minimum two-to-three-million. If you’re at the top of that financial food chain, it’s probably somewhere over ten million. Unreal, isn’t it?’
‘What makes it even more unreal is that everyone who is not a member of that wealth club – by which I mean anyone who doesn’t make over a couple hundred thousand a year – is struggling. I speak from experience. The last eighteen months, with Dan out of work, have been very tight. As much as he hates the stockroom job he starts on Monday, the fact that we’ll have an extra three hundred dollars a week . . . well, there will finally be a little breathing space. Not exactly “take the family skiing in Aspen” breathing space. Just “we can now meet our basic bills” breathing space. God knows I don’t begrudge anyone their success or wealth. I chose my profession, my career. I also chose to stay in Maine where I knew that the salary would be small. And I am also someone who hates to complain.’
‘There you go again, making apologies for yourself, instead of just speaking the truth. Which is, in America nowadays, you either have big bucks or you just about get by. And I speak as a Republican – yet one who was raised with the idea that the middle class could actually have a very good life; that if you were a teacher, a nurse, a cop, an ambulance driver, a soldier, you could still have the house, the two cars in the garage, the two weeks by the lake somewhere every summer, put your kids through college without having to take out crippling loans, cover your family’s monthly health insurance bill without worry, even heat your home throughout the winter without fear. Now, the amount of clients I see who, even in full-time jobs, find the cost of living impossible . . . well, it’s a good thing that your husband took that job.’
‘Even if it’s going to make him even more miserable.’
‘Better to be miserable earning a salary than be miserable earning nothing. I wish I could say something upbeat and Horatio Alger-esque like, “If he hates the job so much, he can always find another.” But in this market . . .’
Five Days Page 17
