"Get hungry later," said Lem, "we can always eat one of those guys."
"Full of disease."
"Glass houses, pal."
Traffic was jammed up at the intersection. Stop-and-go all the way to the bridge. Families on the other side of the river were probably boiling their dinner pouches, cursing the tardiness of their pouch-winners. Surly sons punched down the channel changer for some late-afternoon bikini tit before Mom came home. Disaffected daughters carved Wiccan proverbs into their arms. Cats dozed on quilts, recovering traumatic memories in dream. Most cats were once mishandled kittens. This was all waiting for the men and women in the cars and they leaned on their horns as though they did not know they were already home.
I decided to die. I figured I owed it to myself, maybe to future personal extinction victims everywhere. Cleaved, sawed, prised open, my corpse would yield the secret to their salvation. Maybe it was fair penance for the damage I'd done.
Tough cookies.
"Come on," I said to Lem. "I've got to make a call."
We took a train back up to Port Authority. We had an hour to kill before the next bus, found a lone porn shop tucked off near a parking lot. New laws had reconfigured the stock. Teen comedy up near the register, teen anal in back. Somehow it reminded me of a medieval synagogue I'd once visited in Spain.
Tenakill was a leafy ville out past the city limits. The plaque at the bus stand explained the name was Dutch but that the Dutch had left before explaining what it meant.
Maryse was out by the curb in what must have been the latest in suburban transport. You could see where the gun mounts had gone, how you might secure the wounded. The color was a cousin to teal. We climbed in back and Maryse nodded, peeled out toward the hills. The vehicle shook with Bach.
"You used to call this math rock," I said.
"I appreciate it now," she said. "I'm a much more evolved appreciator."
We passed a chain video store and a shop selling "locally scented" candles. The Latte Da, Tenakill's most stylish cafe, advertised an open mike sonnet slam to benefit victims of the victim culture.
"By the way," I said, "this is Lem."
"Okay, Lem," said Maryse.
"Thanks for picking us up," I said.
"I take it this isn't just a friendly visit."
"I think we're being very friendly," I said.
"Look," said Lem, pointed out the window. "It's a white person."
"Kid's a comedy gem," said Maryse.
Business news burbled out of the wall. William was asleep on modular suede. His laptop was sliding off his lap. His slipper had fallen to the carpet. There were bruises on his toes.
"Oh," said William, waking. "Hey. Hi. Wow. Look at you. Hey. Hi. Come sit down."
"He called before," said Maryse. "I didn't want to interrupt you."
"Trading in my sleep," said William. "Nap trader."
"He hasn't told me why he's here," said Maryse. "He said he wanted to speak to the both of us. Coffee?"
"Coffee," said William. "Terrific. Coffee?"
"I'm in," said Lem.
"He's in. Terrific."
William looked down at his swollen toes.
"Thought we had a creep," he said. "A prowler. I kicked the credenza."
We sat quietly for a while. William seemed to be conducting vital transactions on his laptop. I peered over, watched him switch his desktop photo from a seascape to an apple basket. Lem was scoping the stock quotes on the wall screen. He had this look on his face, some annihilating wonderment.
"Has anyone ever explained this stuff to you?" I said.
"What, why the biotechs are diving?"
Maryse came back with a tray full of cappuccinos.
"Cinnamon?" she said. "Nutmeg? I recommend cardamom."
"She's never wrong about this shit," said William. "Am I right?"
"We used to drink instant," I said.
"Is that true, honey?"
"God," said Maryse. "I can hardly remember. Could be. It's the kind of life we were leading."
"So," said William, "what brings you to Tenakill? Not that we're not thrilled to see you. Especially, you know, considering. I mean you're really bearing up, aren't you? I mean, under the weight. The weight of your illness. Is illness okay?"
"I'm not," I said.
"Not what?"
"I'm not really bearing up. I'm gearing down. Do you get what I mean? That lap you run after the race is over?"
"The victory lap?"
"Not that one," I said.
"The cool-down," said Maryse.
"That's it," I said. "The cool-down. My race is run. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"Wow," said William. "Terrific. I mean, not terrific. I mean the opposite of terrific. Do you need money? I have money."
"I know you have money."
"It's well known, I guess," said William. "My frugality is less documented. But I can do something for you. Some cash. A check. We'll call it a loan but only to call it something. Look, you're my friend. A friend is forever. Or until there's a problem with the friendship. But this isn't about friendship anyway. I can see that. Where are my glasses?"
"I don't think he wants money," said Maryse. "Am I right?"
"Yes," I said.
"I think he wants more than money. Am I correct?"
"Yes," I said.
"More than money is tough for me right now," said William.
I took a sip of cappuccino, coughed it up into the cup.
"That's not cardamom," said Maryse.
"Looks like blood," said Lem.
They gave me the guest room.
The guilt room, I heard William call it from the hallway. He'd have to work on his whisper.
His portfolio was in good shape, he told me, even in the wake of Cruel April, that rash of crashes last spring, and I was not to fret expenses. Besides, he'd had a little chat with Leon Goldfarb. Arrangements to ease various individual and collective burdens were in the offing.
"What does that mean?"
"You tell me," said William. "It sounded like Jew talk."
"Watch it," I said.
"Don't be a child," said William. "My uncle hid yids in Rotterdam."
"You never told me that."
"You never asked."
"What part of the war was this?"
"What war? This was the early seventies."
The guilt room was a good room.
I got fresh flowers, fresh linen, fresh fruit, audiotapes of tides and typhoons, waterfalls, gales, natural sounds to confirm one's droplet status in the eternal downpour. I got satellite TV, a universal remote, a Dictaphone for last words if the ligature of my pen hand failed.
I got my daughter, bedside, reading me box scores and poems. I couldn't fathom the math of either, but Fiona's voice eased the pain somehow. Maybe the pills did, too.
I sensed something torrid going on between Lem and my little girl. The idea made me glad. I liked to picture them in faraway rooms, confessing their secrets, flaunting their moles, vaulting themselves into some soulful teen future. William's place was enormous so I never saw those rooms. I was bed-bound, mostly, or wheelchair'd when my color was up and I could join them all for a few minutes at table, feign delight in food.
I was dying well, could detect a certain shimmer in the mirror, a made-for-TV terminal glow. I was going to light up the land with love and forgiveness, die with a wide wise grin. Angels in work casual sweaters would chaperon my ascent to paradise. Maybe my soul would return on occasion, spook my family into betterment. I'd smash a vase or burn a curtain and Fiona would finally know that nicotine was addictive, that sex with her soccer coach had repercussions.
Maryse was spooning broth through my teeth when she said she thought Fiona was no longer disaffected.