Other Plans (30 page)

“You'll get in, John. No doubt about that.” It looked as if there were to be no more diatribes, no more sessions about maturity, responsibility. There wasn't time.

“Daddy,” Leslie bounced in, “I've been looking for you.” She went to him, kissed him on both cheeks. “I love you,” she told him severely, keeping his head in a tight grip. “You're a wonderful father. You know that, don't you?”

He watched his father's face flood with color. Les had the light touch, the right touch. Without being self-conscious, she said the important things straight out. Why couldn't he? Because he couldn't, that's all. He turned and, dragging his tail behind him, went out to await Keith and Mr. Tyler, purveyor of first-class fertilizer.

He and Keith whiled away the time by turning over the soil in the garden, getting rid of the rocks that seemed to grow there. Connecticut was famous for its rock crop. Mr. Tyler must have been delayed; didn't show until almost five.

“Sorry, lads. It's my busy season. Spread it in dawn's early light, lads. Gives the green things a better chance if the fertilizer's spread early.” Mr. Tyler never referred to it as anything other than fertilizer. Though he resembled a linebacker for the Rams, Mr. Tyler had the sensibilities of a patrician.

“Don't forget to set your clocks ahead tonight, lads. We gain an hour's daylight, an extra hour of sunshine. A present from the Almighty.” Mr. Tyler sent a reverent glance skyward, giving credit where credit was due. Also covering all the bases.

John had been trying not to dwell on the swift passage of days. Daylight savings time meant it was the last weekend of April. Spring was really here. His father was getting his wish.

There was a lot of fertilizer. He and Keith went to work. By dusk, they still hadn't finished. “Spend tonight here, why don't you?” he said to Keith. “That way we can get at it in dawn's early light, like the man said.”

“I can't.” Keith wiped his forehead. “I don't want to leave her overnight. It's better if I'm there. It keeps her mind off the bottle. I'll be over first thing, though, John.”

He went on raking after Keith left, liking it out here; the smells of earth, of manure, the promise of warmth to come.

Leslie found him. “He looks awful, John,” As usual, Les got right down to it. No beating about the bush for her. Hit the nail on the head. Nail everything to the wall.

Leslie shook her head. Even in the dim light, he felt the motion of Leslie's head, expressing bewilderment. “I thought he might beat this somehow,” she said in a small, sad voice. “I'm always hearing about people being cured of cancer. One way or another. I kept thinking Daddy might be one of the lucky ones.”

“No,” he said. “He's one of the other kind.”

“I can see it in his face. I couldn't before, but I can now.” Leslie picked up Keith's discarded rake and began to work beside him.

“What will we do without him?” she said in a small voice.

“I don't know,” he answered.

He and Keith worked all day Sunday. His father came out to supervise, offer tips. The sun was hot. It was a day worthy of full summer, a present from the Almighty. Les put on some shorts, found a nearly toothless rake somewhere, and worked alongside, singing old Beatles songs in a loud, enthusiastic voice. He saw Keith regarding her now and then, a bemused expression on his face.

His mother brought them a pitcher of iced tea and some plastic cups. His father sat in one of the canvas chairs, watching them, his face tilted up to the sun. His belt was pulled to its last notch and his pants and shirt billowed around him like a jib filled with wind. He dozed, and his mouth opened a little, making him look like a very old, very frail child.

“I think it's nice enough to cook outside tonight,” his mother said. “I can make some potato salad, and Les brought a bottle of rare old Bardolino. We can have a picnic.” She smiled at Keith in an open, friendly way, and Keith smiled back. “You'll stay, won't you?” she asked Keith, who said he'd like to, very much.

“I'll cook the burgers, Dad, if you want.” His father always cooked the burgers.

“If you promise to remember about dousing the fire when it gets too hot, John.”

When at last they sat down, the sky was perfectly clear, almost without color, except for a band of pink that circled the horizon, as if just beyond it lay an all-night carnival; or a terrible fire raged, consuming acres of timber, herds of wildlife. There was no moon, and the stars showed off brilliantly.

“I don't think we've ever been able to eat out this early before,” his father said.

When John was small, he'd asked where mosquitoes went in the winter. His father had told him mosquitoes holed up in a cave, hibernating, like bears, waiting for the first warm weather so they could come out and start biting people. He had believed his father and imagined a big cave, bulging with mosquitoes, lined up and waiting for the go-ahead from the head mosquito. On your mark, get set, GO!

Tonight, blessedly, there were not yet any mosquitoes.

He drank two glasses of wine and felt slightly tiddly. They all drank the Bardolino, which was as good as Les had said. Two spots of bright color decorated his father's face.

“How's my friend Emma?” his father asked Leslie.

“Oh, fine, Daddy. Sent you and Mother her best.” Leslie refused to meet his eye.

His mother rested her elbow on the table, then set her chin inside the pocket made by her cupped hand.

“If you ask me,” she said, taking a long sip of her wine, “that Emma is some tough little broad. That is my considered opinion.”

“Ceil!” his father said, a look of amusement on his face. “Such language.”

John saw Keith and Leslie smiling across the table at him.

Ma's really flying tonight, he told himself.

“Be a good boy, John,” his mother said, “and get two glasses and the bottle of calvados for Dad and me. Leslie?”

“No thanks, Mother.”

He rounded up the bottle and the glasses. Solemnly, he poured the brandy out, handing a glass to each of them in turn.

His father took a sip.

“Ceil, I think I'll go up now. I feel tired, and cold.” His father rose in slow motion. They rose with him.

“Good night, everyone. Thanks, Keith, for all your help. It's been a fine evening, all around.”

“I'll come with you, darling.” Ceil took her husband's arm. Together, still in slow motion, they went upstairs.

When they'd gone, John picked up his father's unfinished brandy and drank it down, fast.

“That makes my eyes smart,” he said, blinking.

That evening, as it turned out, marked the last time for a lot of things.

The last time they all sat around a table together. The last time his father felt well enough to be among them. The last time they would love life as much as they had before.

Ben called, several times a week, his voice reassuring, consoling.

Dr. Hall, it developed, was not without compassion, after all. They became friends, of a sort. He watched the doctor's face closely as he examined him, looking for signs first of puzzlement, then of astonishment, indicating the patient had confounded the medical experts, the patient was on the road to recovery.

With a longing so intense it was almost palpable, he imagined the day the doctor reared back and exclaimed, “You're cured! You're a well man!” and joy would illuminate the room.

John was a good and tireless companion, ready to run errands, read aloud, recite poetry if that was what his father wanted. Too late. He felt a surfeit of love clog his throat as he looked at his son. Too late. What had happened, why had he allowed this to happen? This was his son.

And Ceil was there. She was always there now, never distant as she had sometimes been in the past. He no longer had the energy to make love. His love for her was all in his eyes, his hands, whose strength was fading.

When he woke from one of his increasingly frequent naps, he found Leslie sitting beside his bed, reading, or sometimes just sitting quietly. He studied her, the planes in her face, the way her hair fell over her shoulders. Leslie would be all right. They would all be all right, in the long run. John would turn out to be a fine man. A responsible, loving man with a good heart and a good head. The children would take care of Ceil, as she had taken care of them. That, ideally, was how it should be. And very often wasn't.

They would pick up the threads of their lives and time would work its usual healing.

“I'm so tired,” he said.

Leslie stirred, laid a hand against his cheek.

“Can I get you anything, Daddy?”

He shook his head with great effort. “If only I weren't so very tired.”

Les seemed not to hear him. She brought him a glass of water and smoothed the sheets and put her face next to his. “I love you, Daddy,” she whispered. “I love you.”

Ceil made custards, floating island, chocolate pudding. No amount of sweetmeats could fatten him up. His flesh was melting away, his bones lay close to his skin.

“I've let you down, Ceil,” he said. “All the things we planned to do when we had the money and the time, when the children were grown up and on their own, and now we'll do none of them. I'm sorry, Ceil. I'm sorry I've let you down.”

She buried her face in his pillow. “Henry,” she said. And although she wanted to close her eyes against the sight of his ravaged face, she kept them open, exerting her will so strongly that when he turned away at last, to sleep, she was nearly unable to close them then.

“This is for you, Dad.” John laid a package on the bed. “Open it, why don't you?” Inside lay a medium-sized camouflage suit, the real McCoy, genuine army issue.

“You said you wanted one,” John reminded him. “So I sent away for it.” What John didn't say was that he'd paid for it with money earned shoveling snow, that it was meant as a birthday present. An early birthday present. With John's help, he put it on, over his pajamas.

A perfect fit, they both agreed.

“It's supposed to be loose,” John explained. “You know the army.”

“Yes.” His father smiled. “One size fits all. Thank you, John.” He raised his arms, laid them across John's shoulders. “I didn't realize how tall you'd grown. And still growing.” John inched forward, so his father wouldn't have to reach so far. The arms encircled him, tightened. He's hugging me, John thought in amazement. He's actually hugging me. He hugged his father back and even through the heavy medication he could smell the much-loved scent of his father.

“It's the nicest costume I've ever had,” his father said, releasing him at last. “I thank you for your thoughtfulness, John.”

“That's okay, Dad. Glad you like it.” His father looked pale and tired. “I better go,” he said.

“John.” His father's voice came clear, distinct. “I'm going to miss you.”

His throat was very dry.

“Same here,” he said.

28

In the late spring, with the lilacs in full bloom, his father died. At home, right on schedule, quietly, with no fuss, without pain. Mrs. Bickford, the day nurse, called them to his room.

“I think it's time,” she said softly.

Any time might have been time. The day before his father had grabbed their hands and, for a minute, his grip was incredibly strong. He knew they were there, all of them, Mrs. Bickford said. She could tell.

His mother went downstairs, to call Grandy, to let him know. Grandy said, “I hoped for a miracle.”

“You wouldn't have,” his mother replied, “if you'd seen him.”

His father had expressed a desire to be cremated and that no service of any kind be held. There was some tongue-clicking over this, but his wishes were observed to the letter. His mother kept busy answering letters of condolence, among them one from Emma Kendel.

“Dear Mrs. Hollander,” the letter said. “I am so sorry. I remember the time I spent with you and your family as one of the happiest of my life. You were all so kind to me, especially Mr. Hollander. I will remember you and him always. Love to you and John, Emma.”

His mother asked him to answer this letter as well as others she'd had from his friends. He thought about it but, in the end, he tore up Emma's letter and did nothing.

Keith wrote to all three of them:

Dear Mrs. Hollander, John, and Leslie:

I would like to help you in any way I can. Please call on me for anything you need or want, and that includes spreading manure.

Your friend, Keith Madigan

His father had left a note addressed to him, which he kept folded into a neat little rectangle and transferred from pocket to pocket, as he changed clothes.

It said:

Dear John,

You have been a source of great joy and pride to me. I only regret my inability to let you know this more often while I was still around. I have discussed this with Grandy and he blames this inability on himself. He told me he never allowed himself the luxury of being tender (his words) with me as a boy and felt it was his fault that I had, in my turn, done you the same injustice. I tell you this so that when you have a son, you will do better. I love you, John. Rest assured I will always love you.

Dad

He read this letter for perhaps the fiftieth time and then tucked it away carefully, ready for the next read. He considered going down, maybe making himself a peanut butter on rye, turning on the stereo, dancing by himself for a while. But music, which had always cheered him, had ceased to do so. “I lose myself in music,” Les had told him. “No matter how bad things are, I wallow in it. I don't know what I'd do without it.”

He went instead to check the garden. The scent of lilacs was overpowering. The deadheads of the tulips and daffodils waved sadly at him, begging to be picked off, put out of their misery. He checked the pond for trout. There were none. He threw some stale bread on the water to see if anything would bite. The swans were gone. After a while, he went to his room.