Dot serves me a cup of instant decaf, then leaves to check on her husband. I take my coffee to the back of the house, to Donny Ray’s room, where he’s sleeping under the sheets, curled on his right side. A small lamp in the corner gives the only light. I sit close to it with my back to the open window, catching a cool breeze. The neighborhood is quiet, the room is still.
His will is a simple two-paragraph document leaving everything to his mother. I prepared it a week ago. He neither owes nor owns anything, and the will is unnecessary. But it made him feel better. He’s also planned his funeral. Dot’s made the arrangements. He wants me to be a pallbearer.
I pick up the same book I’ve been reading intermittently for two months now, a condensed book with four novels in it. It’s thirty years old, one of the few books in the house. I leave it in the same place and read a few pages on each visit.
He grunts and jerks a bit. I wonder what she’ll do when she eases in one morning and he doesn’t wake up.
She leaves us alone when I’m sitting with Donny Ray. I can hear her washing dishes. Buddy, I think, is in the house now. I read for an hour, glancing at Donny Ray occasionally. If he wakes, then we’ll chat, or perhaps I’ll turn on the TV. Whatever he wants.
I hear a strange voice in the den, then a knock on the door. It opens slowly and it takes a few seconds for me to recognize the young man standing there. It’s Dr. Kord, making a house call. We shake hands and speak softly at the foot of the bed, then walk three steps to the window.
“Just passing by,” he says, still whispering, as if he drives through this neighborhood all the time.
“Sit down,” I say, pointing to the only other chair. We sit with our backs to the window, knees touching, eyes on the dying kid in the bed six feet away.
“How long you been here?” he asks.
“Couple of hours. I ate dinner with Dot.”
“Has he been awake?”
“No.”
We sit in semidarkness with a gentle wind against our necks. Clocks rule our lives, but right now there is no sense of time.
“I’ve been thinking,” Kord says, almost under his breath. “About this trial. Any idea when it might happen?”
“February 8.”
“Is that definite?”
“Looks that way.”
“Don’t you think it would be more effective if I testified live, as opposed to talking to the jury through a video or a written deposition?”
“Of course it would be.”
Kord has been practicing for a few years. He knows about trials and depos. He leans forward, elbows on knees. “Then let’s forget the depo. I’ll do it live and in color, and I won’t send a bill.”
“That’s very generous.”
“Don’t mention it. It’s the least I could do.”
We think about this for a long time. There’s a random light noise from the kitchen, but the house is silent. Kord is the type who’s not bothered by long lapses in conversation.
“You know what I do?” he finally asks. “What?”
“I diagnose people, then I prepare them for death.”
“Why’d you go into oncology?”
“You want the truth?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“There’s a demand for oncologists. Easy to figure out, right? It’s less crowded than most other specialties.”
“I guess someone has to do it.”
“It’s not that bad, really. I love my work.” He pauses for a moment and looks at his patient. “This is a tough one, though. Watching a patient go untreated. If the marrow transplants weren’t so expensive, maybe we could’ve done something. I was willing to donate my time and effort, but it’s still a two-hundred-thousand-dollar procedure. No hospital or clinic in the country can afford to eat that kind of money.”
“Makes you hate the insurance company, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. It really does.” A long pause, then, “Let’s stick it to them.”
“I’m trying.”
“Are you married?” he asks, sitting up straight and glancing at his watch.
“No. You?”
“No. Divorced. Let’s go get a beer.”
“Okay. Where?”
“You know Murphy’s Oyster Bar?”
“Sure.”
“Let’s meet there.”
We tiptoe past Donny Ray, say good-bye to Dot, who’s rocking and smoking on the front porch, and leave them for now.
I happen to be asleep when the phone rings at three-twenty in the morning. Either Donny Ray’s dead, or a plane’s gone down and Deck’s in hot pursuit. Who else would call at such an hour?
“Rudy?” a very familiar voice gushes from the other end.
“Miss Birdie!” I say, sitting and reaching for a light.
“Sorry to call at such an awful time.”
“That’s okay. How are you?”
“Well, they’re being mean to me.”
I close my eyes, breathe deeply and fall back onto the bed. Why am I not surprised by this? “Who’s being mean?” I ask, but only because I’m supposed to. It’s hard to care at this point.
“June’s the meanest,” she says, as if they’re ranked. “She doesn’t want me in the house.”
“You’re living with Randolph and June?”
“Yes, and it’s awful. Just awful. I’m afraid to eat the food.”
“Why?”
“Because it might have poison in it.”
“Come on, Miss Birdie.”
“I’m serious. They’re all waiting for me to die, that’s all. I signed a new will that gives them what they want, signed it up in Memphis, you know, then as soon as we got down here to Tampa they were real sweet for a few days. Grandkids stopped by all the time. Brought me flowers and chocolates. Then Delbert took me to the doctor for a physical. Doctor checked everything, and told them I was in great health. I think they were expecting something else. They seemed so disappointed at what the doctor said, and they changed overnight. June went back to being the mean little tramp she really is. Randolph took up golf again and is never home. Delbert stays at the dog track. Vera hates June and June hates Vera. The grandkids, most of them don’t have jobs, you know, just up and vanished.”
“Why are you calling me at this hour, Miss Birdie?”
“Because, well, I have to sneak around and use the phone. Yesterday, June told me I couldn’t use it anymore, and I went to Randolph and he said I could use it twice a day. I miss my house, Rudy. Is it okay?”
“It’s fine, Miss Birdie.”
“I can’t stay here much longer. They’ve got me stuck back in a little bedroom with a tiny little bathroom. I’m used to lots of room, you know, Rudy.”
“Yes, Miss Birdie.” She’s waiting for me to volunteer to come get her, but it’s not the thing to do now. She’s been gone for less than a month. This is good for her.
“And Randolph is after me to sign a power of attorney that would allow him to do things on my behalf. What do you think?”
“I never advise my clients to sign those things, Miss Birdie. It’s not a good idea.” I’ve never had a client faced with this problem, but in her case it’s bad business.
Poor Randolph. He’s busting his butt to get his hands on her twenty-million-dollar fortune. What will he do if he finds out the truth? Miss Birdie thinks things are bad now. Just wait.
“Well, I just don’t know.” Her words fade.