by Brian Keene
I drove by my old high school and stopped for a moment back behind the gym. I saw myself, sixteen and hanging out in that very spot, cutting class and smoking cigarettes and selling weed to the jocks and the National Honor Society kids. John used to chill there with me. We'd known each other since first grade, grown up together, gotten in trouble together. Now the two of us, along with our friend Sherm, worked together and drank together at Murphy's Place on Friday nights.
Cancer. Terminal cancer. Growing at an alarming rate. One month to live, probably . . .
I was going to have to tell John. He would have to watch over Michelle and T. J. for me.
I took another look at the school. That was where I'd met Michelle. Where we'd first started dating. How was I going to tell her? I couldn't. There was no way. It would destroy her.
Eventually, I replaced Dr. Dre with Tupac, and continued on down the road.
Snubbing a cigarette out in the ashtray, I coughed, felt something loosen in my throat, caught it in my hand, and looked. My palm was slick with blood and saliva. Nothing new—that had been going on for weeks. But now I knew why. Before this, I'd figured it was just a sinus infection. Lots of guys get them from the foundry dust.
I wiped my hand on my pants as I drove by Genova's Italian Restaurant. They had the best subs in the fucking world; fresh rolls piled high with meat and cheese and veggies. I was definitely going to miss those. I was going to miss a lot of things.
On my way out of town, I passed by the big hill that John and I used to sled down every winter when we were kids. Past the newsstand where I'd gotten my first summer job, delivering weekly newspapers (I'd toss them all in a Dumpster behind the Laundromat and collect my pay from the newsstand owner—lasted three weeks before he caught on). Past the bowling alley, where Michelle and I would go sometimes, when we could find a babysitter for Tommy Junior (I haven't told you much about T. J. yet—but I will. It just hurts to talk about it, you know?). Past the Fire Hall, where we had our wedding reception. Past the movie theater that still showed The Rocky Horror Picture Show at midnight on Saturdays. Past the strip mall and the fast-food joints.
Past my whole world. My entire existence. The place I'd known for twenty-five years.
It wasn't much, but I liked it. I hadn't realized how much I'd liked it until that moment. I mean, I hated this fucking town; the smell of the foundry hung over everything and the dirt from it coated our cars, and the people here just seemed so beaten. They looked tired and worn-out. They didn't wish for a better life, because they didn't know that one was possible. All they knew was taxes and late charges and shutoff notices and interest and child support payments. The town was full of churches and temples: Take your pick—Catholic, Episcopalian, Jewish, Methodist, Lutheran, Presbyterian, Baptist, we even had a Mormon temple. But despite all those choices of worship, the town had no faith. No belief. The only thing the people of Hanover believed in was that no matter how bad things were, something worse was lurking around the corner. I've got to admit, I thought this way too. I called it my “Theory of Gravity”—no matter how high you flew, gravity was there to pull your ass back down and smash you to bits.
Everything was so run-down—the buildings, the people, the cars—everything. But despite all that, right then, I loved it. I loved it all.
I cruised out of town, took Dogtown Road, and drove through the woods and up to the top of The Hill. We called it The Hill because you could see the entire town from the top of it. I parked, turned off the truck, and just sat there, looking down on everything. I'd always wanted to see more of the world, but I'd never had the chance. Now I never would. This was my world, this town, these woods and fields. They were my world and not for much longer.
Michelle and I had always talked about going on vacation; something within a day's drive—maybe a trip to Washington, DC, to see the White House and let T. J. gawk at the dinosaur bones in the Smithsonian, or head down to Baltimore to visit the Inner Harbor and take T. J. to the National Aquarium. We'd never had the money to do it though, and even if we had, the foundry paid me at the end of the year for any unused vacation time—and that money came in handy. I found myself wishing now that we'd gone, that we'd visited the museums and the attractions. I imagined lifting T. J. up to see the sharks at the aquarium, or maybe holding Michelle around the waist and staring at the nation's capitol at nighttime from our hotel balcony, and looking out at all the lights. She liked romantic stuff like that, and to be honest, so did I (though I'd never admit it to John or Sherm—especially not to Sherm).
Another headache kicked in then, this one so bad that it made my teeth hurt. I tried cracking the joints in my neck and rubbing my temples, but it refused to go away. Resolved to suffer, I got out of the truck and stood at the top of the hill, stepping to the edge and silently watching my world below. A breeze rustled through the leaves overhead, and I thought about how it felt on my skin, that cool air. It felt good. It felt so damn good. I didn't want it to end—just wanted that wind to keep blowing forever. I would miss the breeze when it was gone. I can't describe it. It was just one of those little things we all take for granted, you know? We never think about the air we're breathing or how we actually breathe it—our lungs working twenty-four/seven without us ever consciously willing them to.
But the breeze never dies, does it? It just moves on, unlike us. Eventually we stop moving.
I watched the treetops sway in the wind. The leaves were new and green. Just a few months ago, everything had been white and brown and barren. Now the snow was gone, and the whole countryside was alive. A dandelion grew at my feet, and it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Without thinking, I plucked it from the ground and brought it to my nose—killing it. For a second, I felt guilty about that. I couldn't smell its scent at all so I let it slip from my fingers.
When I was a kid, one of my mom's boyfriends was a big Iron Maiden fan. He'd listen to them all the time while working on his car or puttering around the house. Being a hip-hop fan, I was never into heavy metal, but a snatch of lyric came back to me now: “As soon as you're born, you're dying.” I hadn't understood the line at the time, and he'd explained to me that from the very moment we're born, our cells begin to break down, effectively starting the dying process. It continues all of our lives, until we're old and gray. It was happening inside me as I stood there on the hill, except that while my good cells were dying, bad cells were growing; growing at an alarming rate, according to the doctor.
I glanced down at the ground. Michelle and I had once made love on that very spot when we were in high school. We'd stopped coming to The Hill after we got married, but sometimes we'd joke about dropping by again, just for old times' sake. Now we never would.
That was when the full enormity of it sank in, hitting me with the impact of an airplane slamming into the ground. I sank to my knees.
Soon, I wouldn't feel the wind in my hair and see the green leaves sprouting or the dandelions blooming. I wouldn't feel the sun or be able to watch the clouds floating by overhead. I would never attend my high school reunion and laugh at those same National Honor Society shitheads who I'd sold pot to, the same ones who were working in fast-food joints or selling used cars now. Michelle and I wouldn't be going on vacation, or even to the bowling alley, and John and Sherm were going to have to hang out by themselves at Murphy's Place on Friday nights, and my foreman was going to have to find somebody else to run the Number Two molding machine at the foundry, because I wasn't going to be doing it for much longer. I wouldn't be standing there for eight to ten hours a day, wincing every time a hot piece of metal landed on my arm, or picking foundry dirt out of my teeth and ears, or rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet because they hurt from standing so long, and even that I would miss because feeling pain at least meant that I was still alive.
I was never going to catch the new X-Men movie or watch the Orioles make it back to the World Series or see the Steelers go to the Super Bowl and kick some ass. I would never find out
what happens next season on 24 or hear the new Wu Tang Clan disc. I'd never take T. J. sledding down the same hill John and I had rocketed down as kids. Never know what Michelle was getting me for my birthday this year, because there would be no more birthdays or anniversaries or Christmases, because no, Virginia, there is no fucking Santa Claus and even if there was, the only thing the fat fuck would leave in my stocking would be a lump of coal, shaped like a tumor and growing at an alarming rate.
I coughed more blood and stood back up. I was scared and my hands shook so bad I could barely light my next cigarette. But eventually I got it lit, so that was okay. The nicotine coursed through my body like rocket fuel.
Never again would I stand in the doorway to T. J.'s bedroom late at night and just watch him sleeping, mystified and speechless at the sheer power of the love I had for him. I wouldn't hold my wife while she slept next to me, stroking her hair and breathing her scent and feeling her warmth beneath the sheets. I would never hear them tell me they loved me, and I wouldn't be able to tell them. At that moment, I wanted to tell them so bad.
I got back in the truck, drove out to the cemetery, and visited my mother's grave at the other side of town. It had been years since I'd stopped by, and it took me a while to find the tombstone because I couldn't remember exactly where it was. There were no flowers or trinkets covering the spot, and brown, withered weeds had grown up around the stone.
“Hi, Mom.”
I noticed the wind had stopped blowing.
I stood there for a long time, smoking and thinking, and dying. I talked to Mom but she didn't talk back—just like it had been when she was alive.
After a while, I got back in the truck and went home.
It was dark by the time I got home, and the lights were on in the trailer, their soft yellow glow shining out onto our scraggly crabgrass-and-dandelion yard. Our place wasn't much; just a double-wide with shitty brown vinyl siding, and an old wooden deck that was starting to sag in the middle as the untreated lumber slowly rotted away. The trailer sat on a quarter acre lot with one anorexic tree and a prefabricated toolshed that John and Sherm helped me put together two summers ago. I'd always said that when I grew up, I wouldn't live in a trailer—but of course, I'd been wrong.
I sat there in the darkness, smoking my cigarette down to the filter and trying to get my emotions in check. It was a struggle. Finally, I went inside.
When I walked through the door, Michelle had just finished giving T. J. a bath. She was sitting on the couch reading an Erica Spindler novel, and he was plopped down in front of the television, watching SpongeBob SquarePants and getting Goldfish cracker crumbs all over his pajamas.
“Hey, baby.” She looked up from her book. “How was your day? You're a little late. I was starting to get worried.”
I shrugged out of my jacket and flopped down beside her.
“I went back to work after the doctor's appointment. Worked a little overtime to make up the hours.”
“Daddy!” T. J. flew across the room and jumped in my lap, peppering me with wet, Goldfish cracker kisses.
“What's up little man?” I ruffled his hair and hugged back, squeezing him tight. When I look back on all of this now, I think that moment with T. J. in my lap, more than anything, was the toughest. That's the one that almost destroyed me.
I swallowed hard and forced a smile.
“Were you a good boy today?”
He nodded. “Guess what? At day care, Missy Harper said she liked me, and I told her she could be my girlfriend, but Maria is my girlfriend too.” He shoved another fistful of crackers in his mouth. His cheeks bulged like a chipmunk's.
“T. J., don't stuff so much in your mouth,” Michelle scolded. “I thought Anna Lopez was your girlfriend?”
“Yeah,” I said, “and what about that little blond girl, Kimberly? Didn't she like you too?”
“They're all my girlfriends.” He grinned around a mouthful of half-chewed crackers, then jumped down from my lap.
“My little Mack Daddy is a player.” I laughed. “Like father, like son, right babe?”
Michelle punched me in the shoulder, and T. J. giggled.
“So what'd the doctor say?”
My mouth opened but nothing came out. I wanted to tell her. Believe me, I wanted to tell her more than anything in the world. I was fucking scared, and Michelle could have made it better. She wasn't just the woman I loved. She was my best friend. But I couldn't. I couldn't hurt her that way. I couldn't bring her world crashing down. Maybe I just needed time to process it, but at that moment, I couldn't let Michelle know.
I've often wondered if things would have been different if I had.
“Everything's cool,” I lied. The words felt stuck in my throat. “Just a bug. Must have picked it up at work.”
“A bug? You've been sick for a couple weeks, Tommy. And you've lost weight too. You don't look good.”
“I know, I know. But he said it wasn't anything to worry about. Besides, I needed to drop a few pounds anyway. Those baggy jeans weren't getting so baggy anymore.”
One of my Mom's boyfriends used to say, “If you're gonna lie, Tommy, then lie big.” That was what I did. I lied real fucking big. It was a preview of the days to come.
“Did the doctor give you a prescription?”
“Yeah.” I dug myself deeper. “But I didn't get it filled. We ain't got the money right now. I'll do it next week.”
“Bullshit.”
I winced. We'd both gotten into the bad habit of cursing in front of T. J., but Michelle was worse at it than me. I glanced over at him, but he seemed oblivious, absorbed in the cartoon again.
“Not bullshit, Michelle,” I lowered my voice. “After tomorrow, I don't get paid for another two weeks. Tomorrow's check has to pay for the truck inspection and yours has to go to groceries and day care. The credit card payment is already late too.”
“So is the electric. It came today.”
“Shit.”
She frowned, then brightened.
“We've got my bingo money. You can get your prescription filled with that.”
Every Friday night, while I was drinking down at Murphy's Place with John and Sherm, Michelle dropped T. J. off at her parents for a few hours and played bingo at the Fire Hall with her girlfriends. Most of the time she lost, but occasionally she'd win, and she kept that money in a coffee can under her side of the bed. She was saving it up to take her Mom on a bus trip to New York City, one of those day-trips to see a musical and do some shopping. She'd been squirreling the winnings away for over two years.
“No way, babe. That's your money. I can do without the medicine for a while. I'll just take aspirin instead.”
“You've been taking aspirin, and they're not helping.”
“Aspirin are good for my heart. The commercials say so.”
“Tommy . . .”
“Goddamn it, Michelle, I said no!”
Silence. I hadn't meant to snap, and I think I was just as shocked as she was. I hated the wounded look in her eyes. Immediately, I felt like an asshole. My temples began to throb, heralding the onset of another headache. My teeth hurt, and I fought back a cough, knowing there would be blood in it. I could taste it at the back of my throat.
T. J. whimpered, his cartoon forgotten, and Michelle looked wounded.
“I'm sorry. Okay? I'm sorry . . .”
She shrugged.
I got up from the couch, picked T. J. up, and gave him another squeeze.
“Daddy didn't mean to yell,” I told him. “I just had a really bad day and I'm a little grumpy. That's all.”
“It's okay, Daddy,” he said, then hopped down.
“I'm sorry too,” she said, softening. “It's sweet of you to think of me and Mom's trip, but you need to take care of yourself, Tommy. You need to think of T. J and me. What would we do if you got really sick?”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Instead, I just shook my head. The pain exploded behind my eyes and I fought to keep from showin
g it. A metallic blood taste welled up in my mouth. I collapsed back onto the couch.
“You're right,” I croaked. “I'll pick some up tomorrow. But we're not using your bingo money and that's final. I'll see if I can slide on the inspection. I can put some mud over the sticker so the cops don't see it.”
“Will that work?”
“It has before. It'll be okay as long as it doesn't rain and wash the mud off.”
I got up and walked unsteadily to the kitchen, feeling Michelle's eyes on me. She knew I didn't feel good, but she also knew better than to keep harping on the subject.
Instead, she put her book down. “T. J., it's time for bed.”
He turned to face her, and said, “Bullshit.”
There was a brief pause. Then we both laughed, and what little tension remained in the room dissipated.
“What did you just say?”
“I don't want to go to bed,” T. J. pouted. “I want to watch SpongeBob.”
“You've seen this one a million times,” Michelle said firmly. “It's time for bed. And don't use that word anymore.”
“What word?”
“The bad word you just said a second ago.”
“What bad word?” He was grinning now. “You and Daddy said it.”
“Maybe, but that doesn't make it right.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so, that's why.”
“But why?”
Michelle rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Never mind.”
She scooped him up from the floor and carried him to me.
“Tell your father good night.”
He held his arms out. “Good night, Daddy.”
I took him from her and hugged him tight against me. He kissed my cheek and wrinkled his nose.
“My whiskers bothering you?” I asked.
“No,” he replied, “but your face is wet, Daddy.”
I realized then that I'd been crying. I hadn't known.
“Daddy's been sweating. I worked hard today. You go on to bed now.”
I kissed him and he kissed me back again, carefully avoiding the wet patches this time. Then we did our familiar, nightly ritual.
