“It’s too early . . . ,” I wheezed, clutching my side and squeezing my eyes shut.
“Too early for what?”
“Shut up,” I growled at him. I managed to pull the watch out of my pocket. I still had one hour and forty-three minutes left. This couldn’t be happening. No. If I was dying early, then Constant wasn’t real, which meant that I was losing my mind. Or maybe it was going to take two hours to kill me. I couldn’t bear the pain!
I dropped the frying pan to the carpet and stumbled backward, falling into a floral wingback opposite Abbott. He was watching me with wide eyes.
“Are you okay?”
“Shut. Up.”
I wiped the sweat off my brow. When I leaned back, the pain eased up a bit. Enough for me to think clearly. I looked at Abbott. “I think my appendix may be bursting.” I didn’t expect him to feel bad for me, but I just thought he should know that had it not been bursting, he’d probably at this moment be dead by frying pan.
Abbott lifted a shaky hand, pointing to me. “You’re, uh . . . you’re . . .”
“I know. Four hundred something pounds.”
“Bleeding.”
I looked down to where I thought he was pointing but didn’t see anything.
“Lower,” he said. “Beneath your, um . . . at your waist.”
There was no way I’d be able to see where he was talking about. So I used my fingers to feel around. Leave it to my appendix to not just burst but burst right out of my body. My index finger came across something wet and a little sticky. Then my knuckles brushed against something . . . porcelain.
I pulled it out. It was the shard of plate that I’d tucked into my belt. The former murder weapon.
I sighed. Well, it was bloody all right. Just not with the right person’s blood.
“Mattie, what are you doing here?”
“Don’t call me Mattie,” I said. But then I added, “You know what? Call me Mattie. Yeah. That’s going to help a lot. And just for fun, I’m going to call you Abby.”
“Nobody calls me that.”
“And I’m Nobody to you. Don’t you see? Don’t you get why I’m here?”
Abbott shook his head. “I have no idea. I haven’t seen you since school.”
I tried to get comfortable in the chair, hoping the puncture wound in my belly was a surface cut. Probably. That shard would’ve had to travel through quite a bit to get to an organ.
“Expecting your family home?” I asked casually.
He shook his head slowly.
“Hm? No or yes?”
“No.”
“You’re sure? Because I’d hate for them to get caught up in this mess between you and me. If they’re going to show up, you better call and make sure they don’t.”
“They’re not going to show up.”
I waggled my finger in his direction. “So what’s going on here?”
“Cancer.”
“Terrible.” I said it coldly, but I had to admit, the guy looked dreadful.
“It started in my liver. Has spread.”
“That’s too bad. Guess it can’t get much worse than this, can it?”
“My wife left me. That’s how I know she’s not coming.”
I forced a gratified laugh. “Man. Cancer
and
your wife left you. Ouch.”
“She left me because I got cancer.”
I stared at him. That was . . . awful. What kind of person leaves a spouse because they get cancer? What happened to “for better or for worse”?
“I couldn’t work anymore. Couldn’t go to lavish functions. Couldn’t earn any more money. She took the girls and left. Heard she’s getting married in the fall.”
“Oh. Wow.” I hated it, but I was feeling sorry for this guy. And I couldn’t, no matter what, let that happen. “So you’re all alone.”
“Not all alone. I have God.”
I smirked. “Like I said . . .”
“He’s the only thing carrying me through this. And Rosemary.”
“Well, don’t expect me to feel sorry for you,” I said, even though secretly I did.
“I don’t even know why you’re here, Mattie.”
“And see,” I said, anger rising up in me again, “that’s the whole problem. I’ve carried it for years, and you never lost a moment’s sleep, did you?”
Abbott looked at the carpet, a wash of sadness changing an already-pathetic expression. “Dear God . . .”
“Your buddy God isn’t going to help you now, just like he never helped me.”
Tears welled in his eyes. “I was so awful to you.”
“Don’t start crying now. You’re going to get no sympathy from me. Do you hear me?”
“I don’t deserve any sympathy from you.”
“That’s right!” I shouted, even though he was, strangely, agreeing with me. Or maybe he was just faking it. “You don’t deserve anything at all!”
Abbott suddenly relaxed back into his chair. “Well, as you can see, I’ve gotten what I deserved. I literally have nothing left.”
“Well, I have an hour and a half left, and I intend on making the most of it.”
Abbott just sat there, his eyes searching me. Then he said, “I don’t know what’s going to happen here today, Mattie. But whatever does, I want you to know I’m sorry for what happened back in school. For what I did.”
“Sure you’re sorry. Now that your life is on the line.”
“No. I’m really sorry. My life is already on the line. I’ve done a lot of terrible things in my life. Honestly, yours was so long ago that I wouldn’t have remembered if you hadn’t come. But I have to trust that it matters deeply to God’s heart, or you wouldn’t be here.”
“This has nothing to do with God. It has to do with a guy named Constant, who . . .”
“Yes?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“So you’re going to kill me?”
“Of course I’m going to kill you,” I said. “I just need a minute to catch my breath.”
One minute turned into ten. Then fifteen. My heart was still racing and I needed it to calm a bit before I got on with it. And truthfully, I was exhausted. I really could’ve used a nap. Heck, I could take one. Abby over there wasn’t going anywhere.
“So,” I said, just to pass the time, “you’ve got daughters.”
“Yes. Two.”
“Little, I guess?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Noticed the childproofed drawer in there, guarding all the sharp utensils and such.”
“That’s not for the children.”
He blinked. I blinked.
“Oh.”
“I have suicide issues.”
“I see.”
“Rosemary fixed all that up.” He half smiled. “But she doesn’t know about the gun in a shoe box in the closet.”
I swallowed. This was going terribly. I narrowed my eyes, trying to stay focused. “Who’s Rosemary? Your mistress?”
“My hospice nurse.”
“Oh.”
“She’s real enthusiastic about the spiritual life. She’s convinced me there’s purpose in all this suffering. Or at least that God can make it purposeful. She’s been a little right. It wasn’t until I got sick that I realized what an awful person I’d been. I suddenly was thankful that I didn’t die in some kind of fiery car accident, instantly, you know? Then there would’ve been no chance.”
“No chance for what?”
“Repentance.”
“Yeah, well,” I huffed, “my timing isn’t so great. I’m going to kill you and then have to sit here with the body for an hour.”
“What happens after an hour?”
“Doesn’t matter. But I don’t want time to repent. I don’t want time to think. I want to kill you and drop dead.”
His finger rose slightly, pointing my way. “I don’t think you’re going to bleed out. You probably just need a Band-Aid.”
I sighed. He and I, we were never going to be on the same wavelength.
“For your information,” I said harshly, “I’m going to drop dead of a heart attack.”
“Oh.” His eyes had a curious roundness to them.
“It’s state-of-the-art medicine,” I lied. “They can actually predict things like that.”
He didn’t say anything. I just stared at him, selling it. Not sure if I did.
Suddenly Abbott grimaced. His face contorted and his lips stretched downward. He groaned, his eyes squeezing shut.
I leaned forward. Was he dying? No, no. He couldn’t die. Not yet. I stood and grabbed the pan off the carpet. It dangled from my hand as I watched him.
“Are you . . . okay?”
He finally opened his eyes. “I need . . . I need some water.”
His lips did look awfully cracked. Sahara Desert cracked. Bleeding almost.
“Like I’m going to go in there and get you . . . I mean, you could just jump up and run out the door . . . carrying your IV and your oxygen and urine bag . . .” I sighed. “Fine. I’m thirsty myself.”
I trudged back to the kitchen and opened four cabinets before finding the glasses. I grabbed two and went to the fridge with its fancy ice maker. It had a TV
in
the fridge door. I marveled at that for a moment. Technology was something else.
As I went to the sink to fill the glasses, I stared at the childproof lock. What kind of misery did a man have to be in for them to have to lock up the knives? I didn’t want to know. I wasn’t fond of pain. I figured I’d be the lucky one, just drop dead of a heart attack, you know? One brief, stabbing pain right at the chest, and before you can even cry out, boom, you’re gone. That’s the way to do it, I guess, if you have to do it at all.
I glanced at the watch. A bit more than an hour left. Well, maybe I could just sit here for a while, enjoy the luxury. Turn on that nice, big flat screen. Recline in that leather chair near Abbott. Maybe he had some decent food around here. Smoked salmon. Goat cheese. Truffles.
I returned to the room, carefully handing the glass to Abbott, who looked like he was barely strong enough to hold it. His hands were shaking as he lifted it to his lips. I took the glass when he was finished.
“Thanks.”
“No problem . . .” I was going to have to get my game on here. “I mean, whatever.”
I sat down in the leather recliner this time, not the stuffy, floral wingback. “So, Abby, why don’t you tell me why you were so mean to me all those years ago?”
He closed his eyes like he was having to think about it. I waited impatiently until he said, “Mattie, there’s no way to explain this. To say it wasn’t about you sounds so trite, but it’s the truth. It was about me. I had to keep my status. At least that’s how I felt. And I felt that was how to get people’s respect . . . to make them fear me. Nobody wanted to be tormented, so everyone made sure to stay on my good side. It’s how I conducted my whole life. You’re one of dozens, if not hundreds, of people I’ve plowed over.” He smiled briefly. “And you can see where it got me.”
“You think the Almighty is punishing you?”
“Rosemary says that’s not how he works. But he does use things to get our attention.”
“I kind of like the punishment idea more. I mean, justice is served here, right?”
He nodded. “Right.”
I tried not to roll my eyes. “I’d expect you to disagree. To beg for your life, you know? Surely you have
something
to live for.”
“No. Nothing.”
“What about this fancy place?”
“What about it?”
“It must make things . . . better.”
“Why would it?”
“Luxury just seems like it could . . . help.”
He stared at me again, that hollow stare of a man whose soul was slipping out little by little, like smoke under a door. Then he said, “Mattie, tell me about your life now. What’s it like?”
“Big.”
His expression didn’t change.
“Fine,” I sighed. “It’s not been easy. Obviously. I mean, look at me.”
“Don’t you have someone to live for?”
My gaze left his and I studied the expensive carpet. “My wife. Her name is Beth. We’re separated. She says she’s filing for a divorce. But I don’t think she means it. We’re just going through a rough patch. I, um, I lost my job. And maybe I wrestled with a little depression. Maybe I didn’t get off the couch for a week or ten. But now . . . now I’m back on my feet. Kind of.”
“I’m sorry. But I understand.”
“I don’t think you do,” I said, casting him a sharp look. I glanced out the large window. A little old lady, seventies, was shuffling by, wearing hot pink from head to toe. “I don’t think you do at all, unless you can tell me why that woman is wearing hot pink.”
He turned his head, squinting at the light as he observed. “Mrs. Cavington?”
“Sure. Mrs. Cavington.”
He watched her down the sidewalk. “I don’t know. She likes bright colors. She’s always wearing matching tops and bottoms like that. Like she’s about to go on a cruise.”
She walked out of sight and I looked at him. “Old women don’t start wearing bright colors because they want to go on a cruise, Abby. In their twenties, they were comfortable with black. Then in their thirties, they tried pastels. Forties, jeans and teal or orange. Fifties, it might as well be neon. Sixties, it’s now the pants
and
the tops. See where I’m going with this?”
He shook his head.
Figures.
“They wear color because they feel invisible. Nobody notices them anymore, unless they look like a hazard cone. Nobody
sees
them.”
Abbott looked like he was going to cry. His watery eyes locked on me. “Mattie, did I do all this to you? Did I?”
“All of what? This?” I asked, gesturing to myself.
He nodded slightly.
“Look, you really can’t take credit for all of it. A hundred pounds was already in place before I met you, mostly due to a mother who worked long hours because of a father who left the family. She felt so guilty for it that she’d always bake me special cakes and make me special meals.”
He blinked slowly. “That sounds nice. I can’t taste food anymore, but I remember it sometimes. Caramel cake. That was my favorite. My wife used to make it.”
“Beth’s a good cook too. And I’m a good eater, so I guess you’re off the hook for another fifty pounds. But the rest? All you, buddy.” Which, I reminded myself, was why I was here. I stood, startling him, and walked to the window, pulling the heavy drapes closed. The room darkened instantly and I squinted as I turned.
“Lamp’s over there,” Abbott said.
I walked over and switched it on. “Thanks. Now tell me this: How much longer do you have to live?”
“The doctor thinks days now.”
“Days . . . wow, that’s soon.”
“It’s actually been really long. It’s not coming soon enough. I’ve been sick for three years.”