Authors: Laura Pedersen
“I’ll be given a leave of absence for health reasons.”
“Very good. Like temporary insanity. That’s all it was anyway,” he says dismissively. “The crazy things we do and say when we think we’re dying,” he jokingly adds. But it’s apparent he’s crushed by the belief that their romance was nothing more than a fling on her part.
Rosamond is also distraught. “No, Hayden! It wasn’t like that, not for one minute. I was never thrown out of the convent. I left. I mean, I . . . I felt that I was falling in love with you. And I had to see . . . and I was . . . I mean, I am.”
“What about Him?” Hayden nods his head toward the ceiling.
“It wasn’t that I didn’t love Him so much as I didn’t know how to love fully, with all my heart.”
“But what about the fact that we, uh, you know?” Hayden’s not sure if he should feel guilty for having made love to a nun, especially so close to the hour of his death. He suddenly feels rather vague and thinks he hears the voice of his Presbyterian mother saying that near the end is when you should be busy polishing up your copybook, not sullying it.
“Yes,
that
.” Rosamond’s cheeks flush. “Actually, a substantial number of sisters enter the convent later in life, after being married, or at least after leading normal lives. Many have even raised families. And of course indiscretions occur. Celibacy is a Church principle, not a divine one. Some even believe the vow of chastity is a contradiction, that a life need not be devoid of love in a worldly sense if it is filled by Him who is all graces.”
“All right then.” He leans back into the pillows and loudly exhales. “I guess I’ll just have to wait for you on the other side.”
“I know you don’t really believe that,” she chides him, and yet there’s a trace of hope in her sky blue eyes.
“No, but I thought it might score me some points.” Hayden’s mischievous smile turns up the corners of his mouth ever so slightly. “Not with
Him
, I mean. With
you
.”
“You don’t have to score any more points with me. I’ll never love another man.” And it’s true. Now that love has finally ventured into her heart, mind, and soul, there can be no higher form of expression for Rosamond than to love her God. She looks at Hayden and a solitary teardrop trembles on her cheek like a diamond coming loose from its setting. The room is silent except for a dry leaf stirring against the door to the backyard.
By the time Joey enters the room with his breakfast cereal the sun has risen above the tree line and the room is filled with pure morning light that causes Rosamond and Hayden to appear pale against the yellow walls and sheets. Hayden nods toward the bagpipes in the corner and says to him, “Bring me my pipes, son.” Only his voice sounds too loud, as if in a fever, or else magnified by fear or hope or longing.
Joey brings the heavy set of bagpipes to his grandfather’s bedside. Hayden takes the gleaming black pipes in his hands and admires them one last time as one would a beautiful woman. “Here.” He hands the bagpipes over to Joey. “You’re an official member of the Greyfriars Gang now.”
Joey beams with pride and anticipation, not yet realizing that this is the moment signifying his grandfather’s departure.
“Listen to me now. Whene’er you blow those pipes I’ll hear you.”
A shadow suddenly crosses Joey’s face. “Grandpa, you’re not . . . you’re not going to die today, are you?”
Hayden musters all his remaining energy. “O’ course not!”
But Joey looks dubious.
“Tell you what, I’ll bet you a hundred dollars that I make it to see the Mets in the World Series!”
“You’re on!” Joey feels relieved. Hayden is never one to throw money around unless it’s a sure thing. Joey attempts to balance the heavy bagpipes in his arms. “But Grandpa, I hardly know how to play these.”
“Alisdair is going to finish teaching you. In fact, go call Alisdair right this minute and tell him that I’ve given ye my pipes.”
After Joey’s out of earshot Hayden quietly adds, “And that I’ll get to Scotland afore him.” But Joey is gone and only Rosamond is there to hear him.
Hayden scribbles something on a piece of paper and tucks it into an envelope that he hands to Rosamond. “I want you to give this to Joey as soon as I’m gone.”
“Of course.” She takes the envelope and sets it on the night table.
“Now hand me the pills, please.” His voice has acquired a hoarse, passionate timber.
“What!” says Rosamond, unsteadied by shock. “Why? Why now? Why today?”
“Rosie,” he says as he squeezes her hand, “I’m starting to be in a lot of pain.” Hayden’s face visibly tightens as he says this. “It’s no good anymore. Let’s face it, I’m ready for a clap in the head with a spade.” Only he’s not joking. His lips are thin and tense as wire.
Rosamond stares at the pill bottle on the dresser as if it’s a loaded handgun while a series of tiny pleats visibly deepen around her eyes and mouth. “You know I can’t do that Hayden . . . please don’t ask me . . . suicide is against . . .”
“I didn’t ask you to
take
them. Just
hand
me the blessed things. Besides, I’ve always wanted to have the courage to say to a woman: If you won’t marry me I’ll off myself.”
Rosamond hesitates and when Hayden starts to reach for the pills she seizes them. “Oh Hayden, oh God,” she says, as if it’s impossible to decide between the two. She clutches the plastic container to her heart as if she might scatter the pills out the window like birdseed rather than hand them over.
But after several moments of silence, eyes brimming with tears, she opens the small plastic bottle and slowly offers it to him.
Hayden takes Cyrus’s special capsules into his palm, breaks them open, and empties the contents into his waiting glass of scotch on the night table, which shines like liquid gold in the morning sunlight. He raises the glass and expertly swirls it until the powder dissolves.
“Last call!” Hayden announces cavalierly as he raises the glass to his lips, and empties it in a few quick swallows.
“Oh, Hayden, do you really not believe in God?”
“Rosie”—he smiles as he hands her the empty glass—“My God . . . my God took our farm with drought and disease. So no, he’s not the one for me anymore. But I believe in the God that’s in your head, honest I do.”
“Then don’t you at least believe in miracles? Like Jesus walking on water during the storm?”
“Maybe he did,” Hayden offers a cryptic smile. “On the other hand, maybe the lake was frozen.”
But Rosamond’s not sure if he’s answered yes or no to either of her questions, or else it’s the mumbo-jumbo of someone who’s just ingested a massive amount of drugs. “Please let me call a priest . . .”
“Do’an’ you
dare
let a priest into this house. Hank is priest enough. Now tell me one of those nun jokes.”
“Oh, Hayden!” A teardrop quivers on her cheek. “I couldn’t possibly, not at a time like this.”
“C’mon Rosie, one for the road.”
She’s flustered and can barely remember the Lord’s Prayer, no less a joke. But his charm hasn’t diminished and Rosamond finds him impossible to refuse in this bizarre last request. She wracks her brains and finally begins, “A man broke his arm and went to the emergency room of a Catholic hospital.”
A tiny smile plays across Hayden’s face to indicate that he’s enjoying the words as if they’re Chivas Regal turned into text.
Rosamond stumbles slightly from the awkwardness of the situation and continues through her tears. “And the nun tells him, I mean, she asks him what type of insurance he has. ‘None,’ the man replies. So the nun asks, ‘Do you have a relative who can help?’ And he says he only has a spinster sister who’s a nun. ‘Well,’ the nun says, ‘nuns aren’t spinsters, because they’re married to God!’ So the man says, ‘Then send the bill to my brother-in-law.’ ”
Hayden squeezes her hand to indicate that she’s turned in a tremendous performance under the circumstances. He tries to lean forward to kiss her but can’t muster the energy. She bends down and kisses him one last time, for the past, for the future.
“You’d better call them in,” he says. His green eyes are turning the color of leaden winter skies.
Rosamond begins to pray desperately, not for Hayden’s soul to pass quickly into heaven but for intercession by an angel. Surely a man who has embraced life with such heroic force isn’t meant to be snatched away in his prime like this. They will grow old together and live as love has made them. It must be some sort of test, like Abraham being asked to sacrifice his son Isaac for the sake of mankind. After all, it’s an angel who stays Abraham’s hand at the last moment, after having successfully tested his fidelity.
Her silent appeal is interrupted by the arrival of Diana and Hank, who appear in the archway as if they’ve been summoned. Having seen Joey with Hayden’s cherished bagpipes Diana sensed what might be happening.
“Now Diana, do’an’ forget to return this bed and get back the deposit. The receipt is in that top drawer.” Hayden rises slightly and nods toward the dresser.
Diana’s laserlike eyes immediately land on the open pill bottle and Rosamond tightly clutching Hayden’s hand. “Oh, Dad,” she says tearfully.
“You’re a bonny lass Diana, just like your mother,” he whispers, as if it takes all his remaining energy to speak the words. Hayden sinks back onto the pillows and closes his eyes, the latticework of wrinkles on his forehead turning smooth. Diana sobs into Hank’s shoulder and then sits down on the bed and takes Hayden’s other hand.
“Should we call Joey?” Diana sobs to Rosamond, so paralyzed by anguish that for once she is unable to gather her wits enough to make a decision.
“No, I think he said good-bye the way he wanted to,” Rosamond assures her.
“And what about . . . what about Linda?”
“He phoned her last night,” says Rosamond. “When he knew Ted was at Rotary.”
A few minutes pass in fretful silence, as if the entire room, including the air, is suddenly made of glass. It’s Hayden who finally breaks the stillness, whispering softly, barely moving his lips. Rosamond leans over to hear him. “It sounds as if he’s saying that the lights are falling.” She automatically glances toward the windows where the sunshine is smashing through the glass panes. “But the shades are wide open.”
Diana moves closer. “Dad, do you want me to close the window shades? Is it too bright?”
Hayden’s breathing has become measured and shallow and it takes great effort for him to move his mouth. Diana leans very close to listen for his answer.
Again Hayden murmurs the same syllables.
“The pipes are calling,” Diana slowly repeats, anguish tightening her throat. The significance of this shatters her remaining composure. “Oh, Hank! Do something!” she clutches at him with her free hand. “I . . . I think he’s hearing bagpipes.”
chapter sixty-one
W
hat exactly it is that he’s supposed to do Hank is not at all sure. He looks to Rosamond but she is off in a distant place with Hayden. He can’t give last rites. For one thing, he’s not a priest. And for another, Hayden would wake up just long enough to clunk him over the head. Hank quickly flips through his mental prayer Rolodex, clears his throat, bows his head, squeezes Diana’s hand and begins:
“They come God’s messengers of love,
They come from realms of peace above,
From homes of never fading light,
From blissful mansions ever bright.
They come to watch around us here,
To soothe our sorrow, calm our fear:
O heavenly guides, speed not away,
God willeth you with us to stay.”
On the final mention of God Hank tentatively lifts his head. If Hayden is still alive there’s no doubt that this is the point he’ll start an argument or crack a joke about God e-mailing people directly with His Will for faster turnaround time. But Hayden does not respond. His face has become altogether natural and lost any expression of suffering. He breathes softly for a few minutes and then appears to breathe no more.
Rosamond unconsciously murmurs “amen” when Hank has finished and then places her delicate fingertips on Hayden’s pulse. As the life fades from his body without a sound large tears glide down her cheeks. Unable to meet Diana’s gaze she slowly moves her head from side to side. And with the final beat of Hayden’s heart she is freed forever from the desire to possess another person or the temptation to belong to any other human being.
Rosamond touches his cheek one last time, which is turning cool, like a smooth stone. “He’s gone,” she says, and something inside her splinters like broken glass, leaving only razor-sharp edges and spiked points in her heart, head, and abdomen.
Then a strange thing happens. All the love and compassion trapped and aching within her body begins to flow outward like water pouring from a shattered vase, and is gradually replaced by a deep sense of calm. For Rosamond becomes aware that she has indeed been visited by an angel, and through an extraordinary voyage of the senses has had her faith restored. At last she feels the ecstasy of the spirit that had so eluded her in the convent and her entire being is flooded with peace. Is it possible to become more holy by becoming more human? Before Hayden her quest had been like a hand trying to grasp itself.
Rosamond rises slowly and Hank takes her place by the side of the bed, next to Diana, whose world has momentarily gone dark, as if the only candle illuminating it has just been blown out. All those long months of holding on and hoping had taken such energy. In imagining this moment Diana had somehow thought that it would be easier to let go than it had been to hang on. But it isn’t so. To bid farewell takes even more strength than she believes she possesses.
Rosamond dutifully removes the envelope from the nightstand and goes in search of Joey. The front door is open. He’s standing out on the lawn, engrossed in a conversation with Giovanni, who is throwing a plastic ball for Ginger. Off to the side of the front stoop fallen rose petals curl in the grass like bits of paper. Rosamond carefully selects her path to avoid the dark red berries from the overhanging cherry tree that are smeared upon the walk like bloodstains.