This Is the Life (9 page)

14

Jack and May

Louis used to house-sit for a couple of people who were elderly but loaded and who liked to travel. He just seemed to let himself be taken advantage of, or that was how it appeared to me. But, plainly, he didn't see it that way.

“Louis, could you just . . . ?”

“Yeah, sure thing.”

“Louis, would you mind?”

“That's no problem.”

They had a nice house, a swimming pool, antique furniture, and cats. Louis would keep an eye on the place for them—go around after a long day's work, pick up the mail, feed the cats, come back the next morning, feed the cats again. They invited him to dinner once in a while and that was it.

“Louis, we know it's Christmas coming up, but would you mind?”

“Louis, we hope it isn't too inconvenient, but you're such a good friend. . . .”

They went quiet when the tumor arrived. They went to ground, like the enemy was coming.

“It's strange I've not heard from Jack and May,” Louis told me. “Maybe I ought to ring.”

He could barely dial a number straight by then.

“What's the bits and pieces again?” he said.

“The number? You want me to ring them?”

“Okay.”

So I did and left messages telling them he had this thing growing in his head. After a couple of weeks they got around to ringing back.

“We are so sorry to hear of your troubles, so sorry, Louis. Why don't you come over and bring your brother to see us?”

No question that they might head in the opposite direction and come over to see him.

“Shall we go to see Jack and May?”

“If you want to, Louis.”

“I'll take you around to see them.”

So we went in the ute, with Louis sitting in the passenger seat, giving the customary directions, such as “Turn left at that last corner,” and “Stop at the green light.”

Jack and May lived in a kind of faded splendor, with an unplayed piano in their huge sitting room, with Turkish carpets on the floor and soft, sinking sofas in chintz and silk coverings, deep in cushions.

“Louis, how are you, and how nice to meet your family. You'll have a drink, of course?”

It was quarter to three in the afternoon and May was already on the chilled white and Jack wasn't far behind her.

“Can't drink anymore, because of the tumor,” Louis said.

“And I'm driving.”

She made us tea and proffered a plate of cookies and a brittle chocolate confection called Rocky Road.

“I made it myself. Louis loves my Rocky Road, don't you?”

“It's very nice, May.”

“I always give him some to take home. I'm going to give you this when you go.”

We sat and made small talk, or rather, to be more truthful, we listened to theirs. They had a litany of anecdotes concerning themselves and their travels and Jack's considerable successes as an amateur actor.

“I was once offered the opportunity to go professional. But I have no regrets, no regrets.”

I don't know why it is, but whenever people start reassuring you that they have no regrets, it always seems like an admission of the opposite.

May was like a faded beauty from a Tennessee Williams play, only with an Australian flavor. She dressed in flowing pastel shades and wore significant jewelry, and the rings on her hands clinked against the crystal of her wineglass, which she refilled often.

Most of her traveling anecdotes involved situations and circumstances in which she was forced to seek shelter and sanctuary upon premises where alcohol was served.

“So we were in New York, weren't we, Jackie, and the weather was so vile, so vile, so cold. Well, I thought I was just going to freeze, and so I said to you, didn't I, ‘Jackie, I've just got to go in here and get something to warm me up or I'm simply going to die.' ”

“That's right, May.”

“But he had some gallery to go to, so I said, ‘Well, you can go there without me.' ”

“I said I'd join you later.”

“So I went into this place and I said, ‘Gentlemen, I am just so cold here in your city. We live in warm places and I'm not used to it, so what do you suggest for a warming cup?' And the man at the bar there, he said, ‘Lady, you want to try one of these.' So I said, ‘I'll have the same as this gentleman's having.' ”

“Bourbon, May. It was bourbon.”

“Well, whatever it was, it worked. It warmed me up nicely, so I just stayed there and kept warm until Jackie found me.”

“That's right, May.”

“And by then it was even colder outside, and so I said, ‘Well, you can do what you like, Jackie, but I am staying here.' And so I did.”

“You did, May. We did.”

“And then, Jackie, if I may interrupt you for just one second, there was that time in Bath. Do you know Bath, maybe? Louis said you lived near Bath? You do? Well, you'll know it then. Very Georgian, that's right, with the Roman baths. But the rain. The rain! And I said to Jackie, I said, ‘Jackie, I simply cannot stay out in this weather. I simply cannot. I just have to get inside to get dry.' And fortunately—fortunately—we were walking past a very nice, very English, very friendly—it was a hostelry. That's right. And I said, ‘Jackie, you can go and look at all the architecture you like, but right now I need something to keep me dry.' So I left him to his own devices.”

“I said I'd see you later.”

“That's right. He said he'd see me later and abandoned me to my fate, and so I went into this hostelry and I could have been raped or mugged or God knows—”

“May—”

“Well, for all I knew I was taking my life in my hands.”

“May, it was slap-bang in the middle of town, about twenty steps from the Roman baths—”

“Well, I wasn't to know that, I could hardly see the pavement under my feet with all the rain. And my shoes, well—soaking. I should have had wellington boots. So I left Jackie to whatever it is he gets up to when he goes off on his own—”

“May, I didn't go off. It was you who went off. We were heading for the museum—”

“And so I went in and I said, ‘Gentlemen, I am so soaked through. I cannot believe the weather you have here. Now, what on earth would you suggest that a visitor to these climes ought to have to keep her dry when the rain's coming down like this?' So a gentleman at the bar, he said—”

“It was white wine, May.”

“It was not white wine, it was no such thing.”

“That was what you were drinking when—”

“Well, you didn't turn up again for hours.”

“No, but I—”

“So anyway, Louis, how are you? And how sad to hear about this tumor. But you're going to be all right. They can do such marvelous things now—marvelous things. Well, I'm going to have one more drink before teatime so why don't we all do the same? Oh no, you can't, can you? Then how about your brother? Oh, he's driving. But he could have one? No? Just one?”

“May, don't force him—”

“I am not forcing him, Jackie, not forcing him. I have never, ever forced anyone to have any kind of drink of any kind, I am merely being hospitable. Hospitable. And making people welcome.”

So she filled up her glass and Jackie's glass too.

“Well, Louis dear, before your brother goes home you must both come and eat some dinner, mustn't they, Jackie? Mustn't they?”

“Well, if Louis is up to it.”

“Of course he's up to it, look at him, he's like an ox, and you've had your beard trimmed, haven't you, Louis?”

“We went to the barber's.”

“I thought you had.”

“I think we ought to go now,” Louis said.

“But you've only—”

“Louis gets very tired, very quickly, it's the radiation treatment and all the drugs.”

“Of course, of course. Well, let's make it next week, next Tuesday. And you take the Rocky Road with you. You take the Rocky Road, Louis, as I know you like it and I can always make some more.”

So we left with a bag of Rocky Road and they saw us out to the ute. A blind cat watched us leave—or, at least, its head pointed in our exiting direction.

“Do you think this is a good idea, Louis?” I asked him as we drove away. “Going over for dinner?”

“Nice people, aren't they?” Louis said.

I didn't answer. We drove a few streets and then I needed navigation.

“Which way, Louis?”

“You don't remember the way back?”

“No, I don't.”

“Next left at the lights.”

“Shall I follow the car behind us then?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you losing your marbles or something?”

“More than likely, Louis. I wouldn't be surprised.”

“Fourth exit at the next roundabout.”

I took the third exit. I assumed that was what he meant. The fourth one would have taken us right back the way we had come. He sat there eating May's world-famous Rocky Road as we drove along, with his eyes nearly closed, and his beanie hat down over them.

Sometimes you drive, and time seems suspended. You know your general location, but you don't really know where you are. You could be anywhere.

Yet everywhere you go there's some world-famous thing that you never heard of before. There are so many famous such things in the world, which languish in total obscurity. They seem like drowning men, calling for help, reaching out for a hand to save them, saying to indifferent and tardy strangers that if you knew who I really was, and how much I mattered, you wouldn't hesitate—you'd jump straight in.

15

Numbers

Louis got out of the hospital after a couple of days, and by then I was able to drive the ute, so we canceled the hospital car service and I drove him in for the radiotherapy treatment every day.

They give you fifteen to twenty minutes' worth, five days a week for six weeks, and then you're done. You rarely get more than that, even when some time has gone by. The body can only stand so much radiation.

If they gave you the amount of radiation in one session that they give you over the six weeks, you'd be dead two weeks later.

The routine now was that Louis woke at six, then went to the kitchen, wearing the underpants that had long since gone out of style, then he'd take his anti-nausea and put his glaucoma drops into his eyes. An hour later, he'd take the chemo. An hour later, we'd get into the ute, with Louis wearing the clothes that he'd worn for the last week, and off we'd
go to the hospital. His breath was terrible, so maybe it was a good thing that the window kept sliding down.

It would take us twenty minutes to get there and I don't remember what we talked about. Nothing important, probably, just morning talk, the kinds of things people say to each other when sitting in commuter traffic jams. We could have listened to the radio, had it been working.

The only thing I recollect is Louis trying to recall that week's parking lot code. If you were going for radiotherapy, there was a special free parking lot for you. You were privileged.

“It's four numbers,” he'd say.

“Yes, Louis.”

“Do you know it?”

“No. I can never remember it but it's written down on your appointment card.”

“It's the same as yesterday? It's the same all week, right?”

“Yes.”

“Something to do with the time of day?”

“No, Louis, that's your PIN number.”

“Strictly speaking, you should just say PIN.”

“You told me.”

“You listened then?”

“Just habit.”

“It's 1954. That's the parking lot number.”

“I don't know. I don't remember.”

“Aren't you worried that you don't remember?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Louis, nobody can remember everything. Why do you beat yourself up about it?”

“Because I'm screwed. I can't read.”

“You can if you take your time.”

“Is it 1954?”

“You need to look on the back of the card.”

“You look.”

“I can't. I'm driving.”

“Where's my card? Where's my appointment card? Where's the card? Stop driving! I've lost my card. I'm so stupid. I've lost my card. What are we going to do, we've lost the card!”

“Louis—it's in your bag. Your blue bag.”

“Where's my bag? I've lost the bag!”

“Under the seat, Louis.”

“I'm so fucking stupid.”

“Louis, you're anything but. You are not stupid. You just need to take your time. But you panic, and that makes things worse. Just tell yourself, It'll come to me.”

“It's here.”

“Good. So what's the parking lot code?”

“I can't read it.”

“Is that the right card? Louis, what else have you got in there?”

“That's my drugs and my phone.”

“What's the paper?”

“My will.”

“Louis, you carry your will around? What for?”

“Safekeeping.”

“You call that bag safe? It gets lost ten times a week.”

“I've left you everything.”

“I don't want anything. Leave it to your friends. Leave it to the cats' home.”

“Never had a cat.”

“Why should that stop you? Leave it to cancer research.”

“There's a few bequests.”

“I know. I've got a copy. It was e-mailed to me, remember?”

“I've left Bella some of my share of the house. We own it fifty-fifty, but I've given her an extra ten percent.”

“Why'd you do that? You broke up twenty years ago.”

“We agreed.”

“Your money, Louis. So what's the parking lot code?”

“What's that say? What's that sticker say on the back of the appointment card?”

“It says 1954.”

“What'd I say it was earlier?”

“You said 1954.”

“Then I got it right!”

“You did.”

“Nah—you're just saying that to make me feel better.”

“Louis, I am not just saying it. For Chrissake!”

“We're screwed.”

“Louis, we are not screwed. We're going to get through this. You finish the treatment and then you can book your flights and come over to visit us for a few months.”

“Left here, then straight over the underpass.”

* * *

We'd get to the hospital with time to spare.

“I'll shout you a flat white.”

We'd go to Starbucks at the main entrance and he'd insist on buying me a coffee. He couldn't drink or eat anything until after the radio. Then we'd walk back to the department and wait; then he'd go in for the session. I'd go back to Starbucks and buy him a danish pastry. I couldn't
buy it the first time because if I tried to do that he'd tell me he didn't want it.

I'd sit and read the magazines and look at the other patients and their relatives. About half an hour later Louis would reappear and he'd sit down next to me.

“I'm starving. I've had no breakfast.”

“I got you this.”

So he'd eat the danish while I fetched him some tea. Then we'd drive away and go to the shops, or there would be another appointment. You could be in that hospital all day, mostly waiting. There's an awful lot of waiting when you're ill. There are social workers to see, occupational therapists, consultants, doctors. A lot of the time, we'd just go home, and Louis would crash for three or four hours, and I'd try to sort out his impenetrable paperwork and fill in his insurance forms, and his claim forms for the government. When he woke I'd get him to go out for lunch.

“We'll go and see the Malaysian girls for lunch. Have a panini.”

“How come we're spending so much money on lunch? I've been out to eat more times since you got here than I have in the last five years. We can stay in and have cheese on toast.”

“Louis, I'm feeling cooped up in here.”

But once out, he was different. He'd sit at the table, watching the traffic go by, and say, without irony, “This is the life.”

Though it wasn't. It was the opposite.

In the afternoon, he'd crash again. I'd go to the supermarket. Some of his friends might stop by in early evening, bringing beer and encouragement.

Don and Marion lived a few doors down the street. One night, entirely seriously—while Louis was asleep in the back
and not there to hear her—she said, “You know why Louis has the tumor in his head?”

“No, Marion. But I've looked on the Internet and it says no one knows the cause. There are theories, but no solid causes.”

“Well, I know.”

“So what was it?”

“Thinking. Louis—always thinking. Every time I see him—thinking. Never stops. Always thinking.”

“But, Marion, isn't everyone constantly thinking all the time? But we don't all get tumors.”

“Not like Louis. Louis, I believe, always thought very deep.”

“Deep thinking gave him a brain tumor?”

“I believe so. He overdid it.”

“Well—I don't know. I mean, say you got stomach cancer instead, what would cause that?”

“Eating the wrong things.”

“So Louis thought the wrong things?”

“It's possible.”

I didn't want to argue it, so we moved on to something else.

* * *

I can't go with the being-responsible-for-your-own-disease theory either. All right, you can unarguably eat, smoke, drink, or indiscriminately fornicate yourself to death. But every disease? Leukemia? Motor neuron disease? Typhoid? The endless list of bad things that happen to people? You're responsible for the mosquito that bites you? For the infection that gets you? For the multiplying cells creating havoc in your body?

Nor am I deeply impressed by the intervention of prayer and the laying on of hands and the phony “healing” that seems to cure only those ailments that would cure themselves anyway, given time. If prayer cures people, why does everyone die?

I was watching the news and some twenty people or more had been killed in a multiple car crash. But a woman who had been due to travel along that route that day had had her journey delayed.

“I think God must have been watching over us,” she said.

It seems like a highly selective and random business—who gets forgotten and who gets saved.