The Living End Read online

  After my date with Euell Gibbons and his evil nuggets, I am as ready as I can be. I stack all the items in a tote bag, gather my purse and throw, and head out to the car. My heels resound, as though I am walking on empty caves. They used to bury people in caves, didn’t they?

  Time to kill Joey. I wonder where that thought came from. But I know exactly where. This feels so awful, worse than putting our cat to sleep five years ago, a calico named Mr. Stuffin’. I hear all the things we said to each other on the way to the vet’s.

  It’s better this way.

  He needs to be put out of his misery.

  He doesn’t understand the pain he’s in.

  Why should he suffer for our sake?

  Are we keeping him alive for ourselves or for him?

  It’s better this way.

  Joey reaches for my hand. “It’s better this way, Pearly.”

  But my hand still rests on the door handle of the car. I could have sworn I felt his touch just then.

  I bite my lip almost the entire way into the city. By the time I walk into the ward, it is swollen and numb like the rest of life around me.

  The doctor won’t be in for another hour or two. Emergency surgery. I ruffle through the Joey items in my tote bag, and since he cannot speak to me aloud right now and never will again, I open the journal. I don’t know when he began this particular volume, or this first passage, because Joey journaled in whatever book lay at hand.

  Oh good, this passage rings somewhat familiar. They always include it during funeral scenes in movies and, well, funerals in real life. I’ve attended plenty of those over the years. We all do, I guess.

  Meditation on the 23rd Psalm

  No. 1: The Lord is my shepherd.

  The Lord: Jahweh, Jehovah. Almighty God. Eternal, unchanging, beautiful, terrible, just, merciful, compassionate, slow to anger. His mercies are new every morning. Faithful and true. All-powerful, all-knowing, everywhere at once. The Lord.

  This is my shepherd, this stunning Being who created me in His image, so that my hand would fit flawlessly in His own. The Lord is my shepherd. And with pillar of fire and cloud He leads me through the wilderness, through the deep waters of my Red Seas, through the bitterness of my Maras. He leads me through disease and the pestilence of my own sin, my own wanderings away from His care. I am unworthy, and my wounds of humanness ache as I look upon the Hand that holds my own, the Hand of the second person of the Trinity, my Lord Jesus Christ. And the Hand, through which my own gaze, my sinful sight passes, pulls me across the mountains, valleys, and rocks, pulls me like a Father would a child, with a certain, steady yank across streams—sometimes raging, sometimes deathly calm—into His arms. For sometimes simply the Hand is not enough, sometimes the embrace of Deity is called for, and He knows when to extend such affection and when to continue onward. I do not know this. I possess not this Divine sense of timing, for I would be drunk upon the Holy embrace all the day, willing to stand unmoving. But the Lord is my shepherd and forward I must go.

  I cannot read on. Joey’s told me everything I need to know, and now I wait, wishing for silence so that I can hear his heart beat. But only my own pulse thunders in my ears, sounding like my mother s old dryer. I feel dry but cannot leave this chair for a drink. The moments wane, more precious now, so few of them left to us. Well, to me, I guess. Joey’s gone. Remember, Pearly?

  So I pull the tote bag onto my lap and rummage through its remaining contents. I lay Joey’s belongings out on the tray table. The Bible, the prayer book, the journal, the razor, the tea, the diamond tiepin, and the two-dollar bill.

  “Something special. I’m saving it to buy something special.”

  Joey’s beard has always been so special to me. So soft and comforting.

  I grab the bill and head down to the pharmacy, where I buy a travel-sized can of shaving cream. I want his beard. I can’t imagine it being buried with him. He threatened to shave it off every summer, but I talked him into keeping it, year after year. It’s my beard, really. He kept it for me.

  “I just need to shave my husband,” I explain to the Middle Eastern young man behind the register.

  “Yes ma’am.” Yezmaahm.

  “Do many women come down to buy this?”

  “Yes ma’am. That’s two fifty-three.”

  I hand over the two-dollar bill and some change.

  I stop at the nurses’ station. “Have you got a Ziploc bag or the like, Cindy?”

  The nurse sitting at the computer nods. “Just a minute, Mrs. Laurel. I always keep an extra one in my purse for emergencies.”

  “You got kids?”

  She nods, her auburn hair reflecting the lights. “Yep. Five of ’em.” She hits one key and turns to face me. “There. That’s done. I swear, they got computers to make things easier, but it only serves to keep us at the keyboard a lot longer than we should be. I did not get into nursing so I could do a bunch of data entry. Now let me get that bag.”

  She reaches into a drawer and pulls out a large canvas bag. I lean forward and am amazed at the variety of items inside, the most unusual being a garlic press. Why in the world would anyone be walking around with a garlic press inside her purse?

  “Here you go! Found it!” She hands me a bag.

  I try to chuckle as I take it. “You’ve probably put some amazing things in Ziplocs.”

  “Oh, yeah. They find all sorts of things they simply have to keep, things deserving of a Ziploc.”

  I lean onto the counter. “You sound like you enjoy being a mother.”

  “Oh, I do! How many kids do you and Mr. Laurel have?”

  I shake my head. “We weren’t able to.”

  Her face falls. “I’m so sorry! I’m such a boob. I really should be more tactful.”

  “You’re not a boob, Cindy. Most people do have kids.”

  “He doing any better today?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what? I just got on.”

  “We’re taking him off the machines.”

  Her heavy chest heaves in a sigh. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Laurel.”

  I simply nod.

  “Is there anything you need me to do?”

  “I’ll let you know. I just want to shave his beard now.”

  “Want me to help?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Buzz me if you need anything.”

  I smile as best I can and turn away.

  Joey’s skin in these parts hasn’t seen the light of day in twenty years. I lather up the beard with probably too much cream, but having never really done anything like this before, I figure it’s better to overdo it than underdo it. He looks like a whipped-cream dessert.

  Grabbing a kidney-shaped bowl, I examine the terrain, hoping against hope I won’t shave open an artery or something very damaging. Oh, right. Like that matters. Actually, perhaps bleeding to death falls into a more humane category than suffocating.

  I drag the straight razor down from his sideburn, and I kiss the pink skin, leaving my lips to linger after each stroke. I taste the invisible remains of the shaving cream. “When did a cement truck pull up and fill my insides?” I whisper to my husband. “I want to say something to you, Joey, but nothing sounds right coming out into this room here. It’s cold and it’s lonely and so unworthy of you.”

  The music stops, and I hear the sound of a single pair of feet loping in my direction on the grass behind me. I turn, and he stops abruptly, right in my face. Yes, it’s the guy with the guitar. I knew it would be him. Out of that entire weird group, he would run after someone.

  What a tan!

  “Whoa!” he says. “Sorry! Didn’t expect you to pull up short like that!”

  His voice sounds scuffed, naturally hoarse. Sexy. Very. His hair, striated with sun-soaked silver, shines even more brightly close up. I want to rub my hand over it, or tug the ponytail.

  I smile. “That’s okay. I heard somebody running up behind me.”

  “I’m not exactly the Indian Guide
type.”

  I cross my arms. “So can I help you with something?”

  “Well, no. I noticed you standing there for a bit and wondered if you had any questions or anything?”

  “Questions?”

  “About God. People hanging around on the fringes usually have questions about God.”

  How’s this for direct? I shake my head. “Nah.”

  His robin-egg eyes go round. “Really? None?”

  “No.”

  So I’m lying.

  He shrugs. “Well, then. But just in case you find you do have some, we meet over at the lawn in front of the art museum, weather permitting, every Thursday at five for Bible study, singing, etcetera.”

  “You a graduate student?” I change the subject.

  “Yes.”

  So I’m right.

  “What about you?”

  “Freshman. Journalism.”

  “Brilliant.”

  “Yeah. I like it.”

  He shuffles from one foot to the next. “Would you like to grab a cup of coffee?”

  I decide I need to know more. Journalistic curiosity, of course.

  “If you tell me your name.”

  “Joe Laurel.”

  “I’m Pearly Kaiser.”

  “Brilliant name! Worthy of an explanation, surely.”

  “Pearls were my mother’s favorite gem. They’ve always brought good luck to our family.”

  That satisfies him. “Brilliant. Interesting name matching an interesting woman.”

  Woman? I look down at my speckled arms. Me? A farm girl from the Eastern Shore? We walk toward the coffee shop in the basement of an apartment building across the street.

  “When you say ‘brilliant’ do you mean, like, ‘groovy’ or something?”

  “Precisely.”

  He’s a smart guy.

  “What are you getting an advanced degree in, Joe?”

  “Education and literature.”

  “Brilliant,” I say.

  “Groovy,” he says.

  “No. I really meant brilliant.”

  And Joe blushes. “You know you have a beautiful smile, Pearly.”

  “Brilliant?”

  “Precisely.” His grin injects me with a warmth like that of stepping onto a warm school bus after waiting at the stop for fifteen minutes in the bitter cold. Without mittens.

  Though I’ve only just met him, I slip my hand into his, and he holds tight. I know I’m embarking on a journey. Several times I’ve heard wives say they knew they’d met the love of their life upon first introduction.

  Am I experiencing that now?

  It sure feels like it.

  You’re such a dummy, Pearly. This guy’s only trying to sell you Jesus.

  I feel like a tree that’s had the heart of its branches cut out to make room for the power lines. Trees in that condition sadden me. They become inorganic, more object than life form.

  There’s something I need to know about Joey. Something definite I need to take away with me today besides the beard, which, now washed free of the shaving cream, inhabits the Ziploc in my tote bag.

  I admit, I do fixate on moles and liver spots. But what other marking, besides a wrinkle, behaves more like a yardstick than age spots? Why human beings enjoy measuring their surroundings and the items contained therein mystifies me. But I can’t claim to be otherwise. I suppose I could choose to count wrinkles, but it could take so long, I would definitely lose count, and my close vision isn’t what it used to be either. At this moment, exactly twenty moles and ten liver spots adorn my hands like mud puddles in a snowscape. They are not evenly distributed, for my left hand has more liver spots than moles, and my right hand more moles than liver spots. Two raised moles decorate each hand, moles which I would love to bite right off, but then the scars would be far worse!

  I take Joey’s right hand in my own, thankful no IVs spear it. They installed a central line yesterday. Counting, I pair one wonderful thing about this man with each blemish. His hands are not as littered as my own.

  Loving.

  Hard-working.

  Witty.

  Kind.

  Batty.

  Understanding.

  Patient.

  Hopeful.

  Gullible.

  Absent-minded.

  Sweet.

  Innocent.

  Curious.

  Holy.

  Giving.

  Trusting.

  Strong.

  I am done with both hands. Seven liver spots: two on the right, five on the left. Ten moles: five tiny ones on the left hand, three tiny ones on the right, and two raised ones on the right as well.

  I write that down on the back of my social security card.

  I count the marks on his face. Fifteen. I write that down too. Reaching into the drawer of the nightstand, I remove his silver pen, a gift from me for our twenty-fifth anniversary, and place everything back into my tote bag. I search for one more memento.

  Joey’s feet stick out from the bottom of the pink cotton blanket. Yellow terry socks with skid pads stretch over them. He always had pretty feet, none of those finger-toes so many males sprout.

  Joey’s last socks.

  I smile. Joey would smile too if he could read my mind. “For heavens sake, Pearly. They’re socks!”

  But Joey’s almost dead.

  I pull them from his feet, settle my hands inside them, and wait.

  I look better than I ever have before, and that’s not being vain. I should look better today, for I am a bride.

  The blue Chesapeake waltzes in the golden June sun, and the corn has just begun to sprout a tender green in my father’s fields behind me. Mom’s purple irises wave in the zephyr, blessing the air with their perfume, and everybody’s waiting for me to appear at the door and sashay up the grassy aisle between the bright white rental chairs. An insane desire to “mash potato” my way to Joey makes me giggle.

  Dad squeezes my hand. “Nervous, Pearly?”

  “No, Dad.” For through the screen I see my love, handsome in a charcoal gray suit and a light blue tie that matches his eyes. I never thought of myself as corny, but this man brings out all the corniness I must own. Like writing his name on scratch paper, ringing it with hearts. Or lying next to him on the couch and just staring into his eyes for, how long? Hours usually. All those falling-in-love things that will fade with time but will always be looked upon with fondness. For time will not split us apart as it does some couples. It will only serve to meld us together until we are truly one heart, one mind, one soul.

  See? How corny can you get?

  I don’t care.

  It’s all brilliant to me.

  Yet something about watching him through the screen saddens me, for the old screen sags, and I see we are young and taut for but a season.

  He sports a haircut for the occasion. “It’s the least thing I can do for Dad,” he said yesterday when we walked across the lawn toward the rehearsal. Joey’s mom died years ago. His father’s sister Evelyn, a “gay divorcée” in from Las Vegas last night, is his only other relative attending. A tight floral sheath girdles her curves, and a smart hat, resting on beige blonde hair and matching her purse and shoes, tops the classy yet impertinent ensemble. When she first saw Joey yesterday, she left a big lipstick mark to the left of his mouth and didn’t wipe it off.

  Joey didn’t either.

  I wear my mother’s wedding gown from the forties, only we pinned some flowers here and there to freshen its look. A lovely something old. I made the veil for something new by sewing yards of chiffon to a crown of roses and daisies from my cousin Peta’s garden. Some Indian beads of Grandma’s circle my left ankle. One of the beads is blue. Sad, right?

  I borrowed some deodorant from Dad which has to count for something borrowed because nothing else on me qualifies. Sadder still!

  Oh, who cares? I’m marrying the love of my life. I’ve known Joey for three months, and that’s plenty, because when you know, you know.
/>   His priest, a man named Father Damien from their Episcopal parish on Charles Street in Baltimore City, waits there with Joey at the head of the aisle. My father pushes open the screen door, both of us wincing as it groans and wails. The aroma of pit beef cooking and crabs steaming in the side yard summons that overall aura of childhood, and I begin to shake. I step onto the porch, and Father Damien whispers something to Joey. Joey looks at me, and we smile.

  How can I live without you?

  The doctor said he would be done by now. The twilight thickens into a deeper dusk, a gauzy world tottering on the edge of velvet. Machines hum and click, and alarms sound every so often. I see that nothing collects in the round, malleable cavity of the urine bag.

  How can I live without you?

  Nine o’clock, and Joey’s chest still rises and falls in that jerky pip and thunk of the confident ventilator. I feel as if I am the one expiring with each tick of that horrible second hand on the clock over the doorway, dying to the beat. I will the doctor to arrive soon, and each time I picture his shadow falling across the tile, another shot of adrenaline releases. I am skittish and nervous and sick.

  The time has come. I keep thinking that. The time has come.

  But the time isn’t coming because, according to the nurse, this emergency surgery turned into a doozie. I just tried to smile at her.

  She brought me a sandwich a few hours ago. Turkey and American cheese on rye bread. I actually ate it. I couldn’t believe it. How can I eat at a time like this? What’s wrong with me? Don’t I love him the way I think I do?

  Every minute delivers a wash of tears that I refuse to free, because I don’t want to spend the last moments of Joey’s life crying. There’ll be time enough for that.

  Or will there? And then what?

  Then perhaps the time to pull the plug on myself will have arrived.

  I feel antsy.

  Joey’s clothes lie folded in a white plastic hospital bag in the closet. I decide to go through them in a last effort to connect with a living man.