“I would certainly think so.”
“And who knows, huh? Miracles happen. The medical profession just calls them something else, that’s all. Spontaneous remission, they call it. Or they say the initial diagnosis must have been inaccurate. But who the hell cares what they call it?” She shrugged. “To tell you the truth,” she said, “I don’t honestly expect a whole hell of a lot. But you never know.”
“You never know,” Elaine said. “Doctors don’t know everything.”
“No.”
“All they know is drugs and surgery and radiation. There are a lot of alternatives to traditional medicine, and sometimes they work a lot better. It sounds as though she’s doing some really good things for herself. What could it hurt?”
“I don’t see how it could.”
“No, and the attitudinal change might make all the difference. I’m not saying it’s all in her mind, it’s very obviously in her body, but your state of mind makes a difference, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely.”
“And miracles happen, just the way she said they do. God, look at all the miracles we both know walking around. Look at us, for that matter. We’re a miracle, aren’t we?”
“I’d say so.”
“So why shouldn’t Jan be one? I’ll tell you something. I think she’s going to make it.”
“Jesus, that would be great,” I said. “I hope you’re right.”
“I think I am,” she said. “I’ve got a feeling.”
She died in April.
The cruelest month, Eliot wrote. Breeding lilacs out of the dead land. Mixing memory and desire. Stirring dull roots with spring rain.
That’s about as much of the poem as I’ve ever felt I really understood, but it’s enough.
The cruelest month, and I guess it got pretty cruel for her toward the end, but she made it through all right. She never did take any painkillers, although a few of us tried to talk her into it. She didn’t shoot herself, either. She wouldn’t part with the gun, wanting to have the option always available to her, but she never chose to use it.
Nicholson James was arrested in due course and charged with the murder of Roger Prysock. I haven’t followed the case too closely, but it sounds solid. The police turned up both eyewitnesses and physical evidence, and whether he stands trial or pleads to manslaughter, he’s a good bet to wind up doing some serious time. Meanwhile he’s chilling out on Rikers Island while his lawyer keeps getting postponements.
I’m in my hotel room now. From where I sit I can see the Parc Vendôme across the street, but I can’t see our apartment. We’re on the fourteenth floor in the rear of the building, with good views south and west. This room is nominally my office, although I can’t think why I would want to meet a client here. I can’t say I use the place to house my files; what records I keep would fit handily in a cigar box.
But I still seem to like having this private space, and Elaine doesn’t seem to mind.
I can see another building besides ours from my window. I have to look all the way to the right, and then I can just get a glimpse of the high-rise where Glenn Holtzmann lived, and where his widow continues to live. Again, I can’t see her window. It’s on the building’s west side, looking out over the Hudson, looking across to New Jersey.
Sometimes I sit here and look over there, and sometimes her phone number pops unbidden into my mind. Because I remember stuff, I guess.
This is Matt, I could say. Would you like company?
Acknowledgments
I am pleased to acknowledge the substantial contributions of the Writers Room in Greenwich Village, where the preliminary work on this book was done, and of Marta Curro, at whose house in Chelsea it was written.