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- - - - Copyright 1995 Harper's Magazine (Harper's Magazine Foundation)
- - - - Title: Sleep.
- - - - Section: STORY
Several people wanted to see him to his car after the burial but he said, "No, I'd like to walk to it by myself, I don't know why. Do you mind? And everyone has a ride back? Good. Then thanks for coming, and I guess I'll be seeing you." He was thinking of sleep even then, during the short walk. How, in maybe an hour, or two to three, he'll be in bed, under or on top of the covers, phone off the hook or in some way disconnected, curtains closed. Moments after she died, or maybe a minute after, but anyway, almost the first thing he thought once he realized she was dead was, "Now I can sleep better." Or was it, "Now I can get some sleep"? Now in the car he thinks, "What'11 be my procedure for today, and one day at a time after that?" He'll go home, park, pick up the newspaper somewhere around the carport where it's always delivered, go in the house, take off his shoes, the tie of course, he won't get the mail, prepare a scotch on ice with his usual splash of water--a big scotch, so a couple of splashes: he wants to sleep--sit in his chair in the living room with the paper and read it while sipping the drink, not let himself go to pieces, maybe only one section, maybe the whole paper except the business section. That one he never reads unless it has something he's interested in continued from the first page. He'll start with the arts, food, science, and home section, the everything-but-news section, he calls it. It's usually light, uncomplicated, plenty of photos and reviews and sort of timeless articles, will be easy to read and maybe even distracting. He won't read the obituary page. It's never in the everything-but section, which may be why he thinks he'll only read that one. Or maybe he will read it. Hers will be there, or should, since he placed it yesterday and in plenty of time. "Hello," he said on the phone soon after he got home from the hospital and got the number out of the newspaper, "I'd like to place an obituary for one Wanda Monterra. Would you like me to spell it?" "Eventually, yes," the woman said, "but first let me have yours and how we should bill it." He started rambling on about what he wanted to put in and how he'd like it worded. The woman helped him. "'Loving wife of Courtney Patton,' okay?" "Fine," he said, "but the flowers." "Well, it could be 'in lieu of flowers,' or just 'no flowers,' or something about contributions to charities instead of flowers," and he said, "Come to think of it, none of that. I'd like to keep it short, only the essentials, and not to save money; just that that's how I think an obit should be: who it is, where and what day and time it is, and who survived, I don't know why. Meaning, I don't know why I think an obit should be like this." But when she died, in his arms, in the hospital, she was already dead. Of course she was dead if she'd died, but he means he saw her in the bed looking dead, rushed to her, held her in his arms, first lifted her up from the waist, he means from under her arms till she was sitting up straight from the waist and of course only with his support, and then held her in his arms. She was cold, motionless, lifeless, her eyes were closed, body seemed cold, she had that look he was told in a matter of days to expect, her skin becoming what they also said to expect. He thought, "My darling"--thought this then--"now I can sleep better." Or "Now I can get some sleep." Both sound right but he only thought one of them. And did he say it rather than think it? He doesn't know, and could be he did both. And it wasn't a hard thought or remark, was it? Meaning, not a cold one, a deliberately self-centered thoughtless one, was it? One could even say that at the time he said or thought it he was in some kind of shock. Probably, but probably not. Meaning, one could say that, but he wasn't. Now he's home, in the living room in his favorite chair, didn't get the paper, no, got the paper but not the mail. Way he sees it, won't get it for days. Phone disconnected?--forgets but thinks he did, drink in his hand, double scotch with a double splash, unopened newspaper in his lap. It was only yesterday, wasn't it? Knows it was only yesterday, and it wasn't a hard thought or remark, was it? and knows if he knows anything that he wasn't in any kind of shock. He'd taken care of her for months, so was prepared. Well, even then one could still not be, meaning that right up to the last minute and despite every kind of preparation for or against it, one still doesn't know. Meaning . . . well, he knows what. Took care of her for four years or more, five, six, at home, in the hospital, mostly at home but the last year or so each time a little more in the hospital, always by her side when she was home and sometimes in a bed beside hers in the hospital. He could have moved to another room at home. They had two bedrooms and a study that could be turned into one, but he continued to sleep with her. She made such noises at home. Not just snores and groans. He liked to joke about it with her if he thought she was in the right mood for it, though sometimes if he was feeling cross or exhausted because her noises had kept him up the previous night, he joked about it even when he knew her mood was sour or dark, but she never found it funny no matter how well he thought he'd gauged that her mood was good. "My hibernating Siberian bear--that's what you sounded like last night." "I'm not laughing," she said. Another time: "Really, you slept like a groveling warthog last night, and you rolled over like one too. You thrashed and spit and chomped as if you were eating bark or slop." "Screw you too," she said, "for it should be obvious I can't help it, and you think your blowing and snorting doesn't keep me up?" "Nothing like yours does, because nothing could be louder, and it just kept coming. I felt like leaving the room and sleeping in the guest room or on the couch." "So why didn't you? I only wish I could do that when you wheeze and grunt through half the night. But it'd mean struggling for an hour to get there if I didn't have your help. And if I fell down on the way and you didn't hear me because you were sleeping so soundly, I'd be there till morning." "You're just saying I make noises like that, or if I do, then saying I do it as much as you, to get back at me; but all right, I understand. But it's also that I get anxious every night I go to sleep, thinking I won't get any rest for the next day." "You get plenty; you sleep more than your fill. It's me who's starving for it and needs it much more than you. But as I said, sleep somewhere else if you don't like my moving around in bed and my sounds. And if you do want to sleep with me or just in this bed here, put up with it best you can. But not, which you like to do, wake me by jabbing or stabbing my back or yelling in my ear." "I only do that, and never that hard or loud, to stop you from making those noises; otherwise I'd never get any sleep." Another time: "It seemed like a whole barnyard of animals was sleeping on your side of the bed last night: mooing, whistling, growling, snarling, clicking, snapping, barking, and squalling, besides what seemed like blubbery bubbles popping out of your mouth and nose." "Thank you, oh thank you, but don't give me that crap you couldn't get any sleep again. I got up several times to go potty--I wish I didn't but my stupid body makes me--and you were dead asleep like a baby each time." "I was pretending," he said. "More lies." And he said, "That's what you'd like to believe, and I'm not going to start contradicting you now. Last thing I want, after everything else, is another big argument and you crying away with real fat tears. For the next hour just forget I'm alive." She said something to that but he forgets what. Tonight he'll sleep. Hasn't slept much the last three weeks, but tonight he thinks he will only because he's so tired and what's there now to stop him? Four nights ago she was up all night, coughing, breathing hard, complaining of pain. Took her to the hospital the following morning. Next two nights he slept in the hospital, in a chair in her room or in the visitors' lounge on a chair or couch. They weren't really sleeps. Her noises were very loud when he tried sleeping in her room, and the lounge was cold, and the couch, which was more like a long board with thin plastic cushions on it, was uncomfortable, maybe not so much for sitting but definitely for sleeping on, which might have been what the hospital had in mind when they bought it. Do you want to mention surviving parents?" the newspaper-obituary person said. "Or even grandparents or children, if there are any?" "Oh yes, her parents," and gave their names. "No grandparents or children, though. We couldn't have any--children, I mean." "I'm sorry," she said, and he said, "Oh, it wasn't a problem for us, and I apologize if I said it in a way to make you feel it was, for we didn't mind no kids. Short as it was, we had a nice life together, thought of each other as soul mates till she got ill. Meaning, we had a nice life together till she got ill, and even after that it was okay, and we were for the most part soul mates till she got very ill. Then we were still pretty good to each other but, as you can imagine, it became very hard on us both." "I'm sorry," she said. Friends wanted to go home with him, and his wife's sister. He forgot to put her name in the obit but she'll understand, if she even sees it, since she should already be on the train home by now and she probably also, like most people, doesn't read newspapers from any city but her own. He said to all of them he wanted to be alone today. He'll sleep, have a drink, have a drink first and then sleep, have two or three drinks, but anyway he'll be all right, so don't worry, he said. Tomorrow too and for the days to come, if they don't mind, till he phones them, if he does, or contacts them in some way. "Oh, do," they said. "A letter maybe," he said. "Whichever way you choose." And he said he would. "You know you can come to our house for dinner any night you want," one friend of theirs said. "Several nights a week even, and for as many weeks as you like. The invitation's open and open-ended." "I know," he said. His in-laws flew in from their city and were flying back soon after the funeral. Nice people. He said goodbye to them at the grave site and while he was kissing their cheeks he thought, "I'll probably never see them again." It must have been very tough on them the last few days. Of course, what's he saying? And of course for him too. He sips his drink, opens the paper, starts to pull out the every-thing-but section, then thinks, "Oh, go to the obits, you know you're curious." Curious? Well, something. He just wants to see, her name, his, together, his right after hers. "Just 'husband,'" he told the newspaper-obit woman, "for 'loving' goes without saying, or should. And even if it didn't apply, though in my case it did, it had to have at the start or some part of anybody's marriage, wouldn't you say? and who am I trying to impress with that word anyway?" "That's not why people include it." And he said, "Then why, can you tell me? I've always been interested, or have, occasionally, when I've read obituaries, or maybe only one other time but today," and she said, "Lots of reasons, too many to go into, for everyone seems to have his own." A little part of him also wants to see if the obit came out the way he wanted or if the woman didn't instinctively insert a few of those loving and adoring adjectives. No, they're pros, so they wouldn't do that, and they also know the customer pays by the word so might object to anything extra. And then to tear it out. Rather, fold it over in four places and then cut it at the seams carefully. That's what he really wants to do most and maybe even without reading it. For if he doesn't cut it out now he might forget for later and then he won't have it, the paper having gone out with the trash or, if he continues to do some of the same routines he did before she died, the biweekly paper pickup for recycling. And where should he put it after he cuts it out? Little things like that get quickly lost. In the intricately carved Indian wooden box on the fireplace mantel where he already has a pair of cuff links from when he was a teenager and a gold tie pin from then too with only his three initials on it and some marbles from when he was even younger that his mother found behind her stove twenty years ago when she had it replaced and a couple of his baby teeth, "two of your first three," she said, "though I can't say for sure if either of these is your very first," a metal token from a board game he had when he was around ten, the marriage announcement his in-laws placed in their local paper of his wife and him and her photo, and--who knows?-years from now, two, three, he'll see the obit folded up in the box and look at it as he did the marriage announcement a few days ago, though that one he did intentionally, and remember this day, the funeral, burial, walking from the grave to the car by himself, how he cut the obit out, what gave him the idea to do it--what did?--even him sitting here. So he opens the paper to the obituaries, finds hers, and reads. Everything got in right. The woman was a lot of help. Doesn't say anything about sleep or the need for it. For some reason he thought he put something about it in. He should have, for himself only, no matter how strange it would have seemed to anyone reading it. But why? Well, so years or a year from now when he takes it out of the box and reads it for the first time since today he'll recall his thoughts now about sleep. Not enough reason to risk seeming so senseless, and the news-paper-obit woman would never have let him put it in if he'd wanted to and was willing to pay, let's say, even triple the charge. They have standards to maintain that money can't buy. They can't have oddballs and brooders and loonies and practical jokers horsing around or making light of or acting crazy on what should be a solemn page. Most people take the obits quite seriously, and there are many who read them every day, and some where it's the first thing they turn to in the paper. They've told him, at least one or two have, how it makes life for them seem more poignant, or meaningful, or fragile, or something along those lines. Especially the paid obits that say "surviving parents and grandparents," for that says something about the deceased's age. They should have had children. He means he wishes they had had them, his wife and he. Sure, it would have been sad for a child to see his or her mother die, but he would have had these kids or at least one to be with after. He might even be taking care of them this minute instead of sitting here thinking about them. Making them lunch, or taking them out for lunch, or lunch home and then going to the park with them perhaps, places they'd like to go, like the zoo or merry-go-round or both, and then to some-place in the park for a snack, or nearby for dinner if it's around that time. Trying to distract them from their mother's death, is what he's saying, while at the same time using them to take his mind off of it too, rather than him drinking here alone, paper in his lap, place quiet, shades down, windows shut, curtains closed, chair he's in lit by a floor lamp in a room usually flooded at this time with natural daylight. Oh, best he cut the obit out now, and he tears that page of the paper out, creases the part around the obit, then thinks, "Too slow, it's going to tear anyway, or might, paper's so frail," and rips the obit out, tears off little pieces till the area around it is a square, and puts it on the side table next to him. No, he might spill his drink on it, or the next one, or almost certainly the one after that. Or it might be blown off the table when he just walks past it, or from the little breeze he makes when he stands, and then get lost under the couch or something and maybe when he next sees it in a month or two he'll have, without really looking at it, forgotten what it is, or he'll remember or read it but it'll be so covered with dust balls and stuff that he'll just throw it away, though regret that he did later. "Put it in a safe spot now," he thinks, "and you'll know you have it," and he gets up and sticks it in the mantel box and then sits again in the same chair. So where was he? Children he doesn't have. He'd see to them for sure. He'd do everything he could for them, try to be both parents, whatever that means. He would have been such a good father, he's almost sure of it. He'd probably cry a lot with them; over their mother, he means. They'd be crying, or intermittently, how could they not be? and he'd start in too when he saw them that way. He wouldn't be thinking of sleeping, he doesn't think. Or maybe just thinking of it but with no immediate plans to carry it out. He'd be too busy doing other things. He also wouldn't think of cutting out the obituary. Wouldn't want it around to remind them of their mother, if they found it. Well, instead he could put it in his wallet, to take out and look at when he wants, but it'd be in shreds in a couple of weeks. He's found that newspaper clippings don't last long there and magazine articles or pieces he's cut out of them do just a little better. He did think of sleeping when she died, though. Right after it, he means. Thought it right after. He held her in his arms. Picked her up, lifted her from behind. He was facing her, standing up but leaning over, and put his arms under her and held her back up as he lifted her toward him. He was standing, or sitting up on the end of the bed, he forgets which. At the edge of it, he means, and if there then he would have had to lower the side rail first and he doesn't remember doing that. The side rail was always up except when a nurse or aide was changing the bed. So, standing, most likely. Yes, standing, definitely; it makes sense and it's what he pictures too. "She's like a rag doll," he thought then, when he was holding her up. No, he thought that later. No, he thought it then but told a friend about it at the funeral home that night. "I picked her up." This was only last night. He can hardly believe it: just last night. "I picked her up. Lifted her away from the bed. I knew she was dead. Knew it beforehand, knew it now. She was like a rag doll in my arms. I know that isn't an original thought or comparison or whatever it is for what she was but it is what I thought." He didn't tell this friend that the first thing he thought or said aloud to himself after he looked at her and thought she was dead was, "She's dead, now I can get some sleep." Or "Now I'll get some sleep." Or "I can sleep better now" or "Now I can sleep better now that she's dead" or "I'll be able to." Or was it "Now that she's dead I'm going to get a lot of sleep"? Or "I'm so tired I'm going to bed right after the burial and sleep for I don't know how long. A day, I mean a whole one, or maybe two." He must have known he wouldn't sleep the night of the day she died. Wouldn't sleep that night, he means. There were still lots of things to do and so many things running around in his head, and where could he sleep, since he wouldn't be home or at least for sleep till the next day? Then he left the hospital room and went down the hall. Though first he rested her back on the bed, set her down with her back back on the bed, just put her back down the same way she was before he lifted her. He let her down, that's all, meaning, he put her down, or set her down, and right after that he kissed her lips. Wanted to do it then before things in her body really started changing. He was told to expect that too. Of course they were already changing but weren't yet visible, or to him. Well, to no one so far, for he was the only one in the room. "Do it now," he told himself. He definitely remembers saying that, and aloud. "Do it now, for you're going to do it sometime before you bury her." And then bent down and kissed her. He didn't press hard with his lips; he just let them rest on hers for a few seconds. He forgets what hers felt like, or never recorded the impression--the impression in his mind, he means--and he also probably closed his eyes--he always did when he kissed; hers had been closed for two days, at least every time he looked at them--and went outside her room--it was a private one--shut the door--he didn't want other people looking in--and went to the nurses' station and said, "I think my wife died, Wanda Monterra, or Mrs. Patton, you might have her down as. In fact, I'm almost sure she's dead--I'm positive, really. She shows all the signs you told me, or some other nurses did, to look out for--room 823. Please see to her right away." He rushed back to the room. He doesn't know why he rushed. After all, she was dead. Maybe because she was alone and he didn't want to leave her that way; he didn't know why or whom it'd hurt, but something told him it was wrong. But he thinks he thought then, "Maybe there'll be a miracle and she'll be alive when I get back, even beginning to recover. Maybe my kiss did it. That it was all she needed to pop out of it. What am I thinking of? She's dead, she's dead, so start getting used to it." He thinks he thought all that but maybe in different words or with some of the same. A couple of nurses, doctors, and aides--in other words, several people, maybe six or seven--barged into the room a minute later, so it took them about two minutes to come from the time he told the nurse at the station. They quickly sent him out. Later, he went to a public pay phone on the floor and called his wife's parents and a funeral home. First he waited outside her room for the medical team to come out. A few minutes later two nurses came out and walked past him and he caught up with them down the hall and said, "She's dead, my wife, in 823, isn't she?" and the nurse said, "Sorry, I didn't see you. One of the doctors will speak to you when he's through in there. Just stop him." He went back to the door and opened it, wanted to see what they were doing, if they were trying to revive her, if they were only cleaning her up, and an aide standing by the door inside said, "Something you want?" "I'm her husband." And the aide said, "Oh, excuse me. We're not ready yet; soon." A doctor came out about five minutes later, went straight to him, and said, "We thought it would be today, didn't we? We talked about it, you and I, I'm nearly sure I recall that. I knew, at least, it'd be soon: today, tomorrow, or the next day. I think that's what we said, so it's not we're surprised she died today; the medical staff, l'm saying." He asked what he should do now and the doctor said, "You can go in; everyone will leave. Then when you're done you can make your phone calls to people and to the funeral home you have in mind, but because we have some more work to do in here, from one of the phones down the hall. While you're doing that--phoning, I'm saying--your wife will be taken to another place downstairs, so don't be alarmed if you don't see her in here when you return. Though you might see her. Sometimes we don't get things done as fast as we want." He went into the room; the bed had been remade, covers pulled up to her neck and tucked over, her arms evenly by her sides. He lifted her hands and kissed them, said, "Good-bye, my dear." Of course he cried, a little, a Lot. In fact, he thinks he broke down; yes, he broke down, so much so that if someone had been there he's sure he would have collapsed or fallen or done something like that into that person's arms. Because no one was there--well, of course someone was, but he knows what he means--he thinks he had to hold on to something to stop him from collapsing: the bed rail or headboard. He tries to picture himself then. He thinks he actually braced his hand against the wall to keep standing, then sat in the chair by her bed and looked at her and left. He went to the pay phone down the hall and called the funeral home. Then he called her parents in the hotel they were at, hoping they were in. He didn't want to leave a message and have to call again and again. They took it badly. He realizes now he should have called them first and doesn't know why he didn't. There was no rush for the funeral home to send a hearse over for the body. She first had to be examined and there were some documents he had to sign, the doctor had told him, and the hospital was also going to remove a couple of her parts. Her parents had been there that morning and left an hour before she died, telling him they were coming back with their daughter that evening. Their other daughter, he of course means. He hopes he didn't offend or hurt them when he said he'd just got through speaking to the funeral home, which they must have picked up meant he hadn't called them first. Anyway, that's the order he made his calls yesterday, next calling a few friends and co-workers of theirs to tell other friends and co-workers that her funeral will be tomorrow at the Clementz Funeral Home sometime around noon, look for the obituary in the paper for the exact time. He of course first told these people that his wife had died. Then he returned to her room, but the bed was empty and stripped and the linen was in a pile on the floor. He thinks, "Did they remake her bed with fresh linen just for the short time I'd be in the room with her after the doctors and nurses left?" He means, did they remake it only for the time he'd be in there alone? He didn't ask anyone at the hospital if that was so. but if it was it was very considerate of them but probably unnecessary. But it's just linen, probably washed with a ton of other linen in a big vat somewhere in the hospital and not thrown out, so what's the difference? Then he went home, thought of having a scotch but made himself coffee, placed the obit in the paper, said he'd call back in an hour or so with the exact funeral time. Phone rang a number of times but he didn't answer. "Couldn't speak to anyone now," he thought, "just couldn't," and suppose it was someone who wanted a contribution of some sort or was trying to sell him something? A grave site, for instance. They've called for that, maybe more calls for it than for anything else they're selling. "We don't plan to die," he used to tell them. "We're both very healthy, and besides I don't like these calls coming to my home." Then: "We got two graves that were part of a friend's plot, all we need, so no thank you, and I also have to tell you I don't at all like these calls coming to my home." Changed his clothes, brushed his teeth, thought about shaving but didn't see any reason to. Now he has almost a two-day growth, or is it three? and it doesn't feel itchy, so he'll shave sometime after he wakes up. He's certainly not going to grow a beard. She always wanted him to, or said she thought he might look good in one and only way to find out was to grow it. Went to the funeral home to choose a casket and see to some details of the funeral: flowers, officiator-he had none, so they said they'd get someone for him. She was there by now, and he waited in the lobby while they worked on her, called the newspaper with the exact time of the funeral and where the burial would be, and when the funeral people had her ready he sat by her casket in the sitting room reserved for her. Some friends and her family came, sat beside him awhile, tried talking to him but he wasn't talking. He knew it was just as sad for them, but in different ways--after all, she was a loved woman and very close to her family--but nothing he could say could help them and they couldn't help him. Her mother asked if she could have the casket opened for a few minutes, and he nodded and left the room. Spent the night in the sitting room with the casket. Tried sleeping sitting up on the couch there but only got a half an hour in. He didn't sleep well, little there was of it. Of course she made no noises. Now that's a terrible joke. It's not a joke. He means, it wasn't meant as one and he doesn't know why he said it or what it is. It just came out. Out in his head, if that's possible. He said it seriously. Said it in his head, he's saying. He made noises, though. Not while he was sleeping, he means, though he could have. Things like: "Oh, my dear. . . . My darling. . . . Oh, my gosh . . ." Not noises really. Just things he said aloud once everyone was gone. He didn't cry, though. Doesn't know why. He can't say he did all his crying in the hospital after she died or over the last two days or three. Memories flooded through him like crazy in the sitting room. He'd think some of these would have started his crying, but they didn't. So leave it at that, for who can explain such things, and why does he think they need explaining anyway? And while he slept, that half an hour, he also saw her doing things she'd done before she got sick, so maybe he wasn't even sleeping then. Early next morning--meaning, this morning, morning of this day, which is still amazing to him; really, still--he went to a nearby restaurant for coffee and a muffin. Then, back at the home, he asked one of the funeral directors if they provided toothbrushes and toothpaste. He suspected they did, for the people who stayed overnight, just as he suspected enough people stayed the night beside the caskets to warrant the home getting a large supply of toothbrushes and toothpaste, and he was right. He wanted his mouth to smell clean. He didn't want to make the funeral any worse for guests who had to go through what they felt they had to with him, kissing, hugging, getting their faces close. And he only had the muffin because his stomach was growling and he didn't want to make noises during the service. Then he went back to the sitting room, and after the casket was wheeled into the chapel, spoke a few minutes to the officiator about his wife: where and when she was born, names of her parents and sister, schools she at-tended and professions she had, facts like that, plus two or three things she used to do to entertain herself: books, classical music, cook--and at eleven or so . . . actually, the funeral was scheduled to start at 11:15 and it did, on the dot. He yawned through a lot of it, at one point during the officiator's long opening remarks found himself falling asleep, but everyone must have known why or could guess. Now he'll sleep though, for real. He's home, whole thing's over. House is his; paper's his also. He doesn't, he means, have to divide it up every morning as he used to do before she got very sick or read the everything-but section to her when she couldn't sit up in bed, nor from now on think of moving to another room because of the noises she makes. He'll buy half as much food now. Well, he's been doing that for months. "You've got to eat something," he used to say, "you've got to--please, if only for me. . . . Well, if you can't, you can't, what can we do?" Won't buy milk because he doesn't drink it; she did, at the end by the spoonful, or tried to, so most of the quarts he bought went to waste. He won't buy lots of things, and he'll throw away lots too. All her clothes; he means he'll give them away. Her catalogues. She had a few hundred of them, and they'll be coming three a day maybe for the next year or two; maybe until he moves. He didn't want to tell the officiator that reading through catalogues was another of her great pleasures; it just wasn't something he wanted said. "In the end they paid off, didn't they?" she said. "For it's much easier ordering by phone than trying to get me to a store." Made sense; he never argued it didn't. If he had any complaint it was she had several boxes of them in the bedroom in addition to all her medical things, so there was little space for him to maneuver around in the dark or anytime wheel her out of the room. A couple of chairs she liked and he didn't-out. Lamp he hated, some things on the walls, and of course all those medical supplies. He won't feed the birds the way she did, filling up feeders every third day and the last three months having him do it, so they'll go too but on their own. He also won't take care of her fruit trees and flower beds. He'll mow the grass only when it's absolutely necessary and water around a little if the grounds look particularly dry, but that's about it. Maybe in time he'll get rid of the house too: sell it. Move into a small apartment. But right now, or soon, sleep. He held her in his arms and said, "Now I can sleep," or one of the others. Held her up, in a sitting position, as he said. He did what he could, took care of her fairly well, did his best, is what he's saying; and that's something--nobody could argue with that, not that anyone would, so why's he bringing it up? He cooked for her, dressed her, changed her bed every other day for months, sponge-bathed her daily, gave her shampoos the hard way, with her head lowered back into a basin, and sat behind her for thirty minutes holding the hair dryer to her hair. "You know," he said, "if you cut your hair to just shoulder length, not that I want you to, it'd probably save me an hour's work a week." Took her out for air in her wheelchair. Took her to places, not just for strolls in the park or on the street--restaurants, coffee shops, public gardens, museums. Tried to make things interesting and normal for her. Got her books from libraries and bookstores, and when she could no longer read, books on tape. Who'll do their income taxes now? That'll be a problem when the time comes around for it, which is a month from now, since he has no head for figures and following written directions and he'd hate spending money on an accountant. Fed her when she had to be fed, made her fresh dishes every day though she ate very little of them, gave her injections, cleaned her up after each bowel movement, did a wash a day at least, sometimes pulled her in her wheelchair up ten steps, twenty, once to a party four flights up but thank goodness some of the guests helped him carry her in the chair downstairs. He did just about everything, he's saying, though he's not boasting, or doesn't think he is. Well, who's to boast to anyway? When he was at work he called her every hour. "How are things?" "Fine." "Feeling all right?" "Good as can be expected." "Anything wrong?" "No, I'm okay." "I shouldn't worry?" "Don't be silly." "You're feeling better then?" "Than what?" "I didn't mean that than, but the other one." "I'm feeling the same." "I'll leave here soon as I can." "Don't hurry for me." "But I want to." "So, good, I like having you home, and it does make things easier." "See ya, sweetheart." "Bye, dear." Oh, he's going to miss her. He won't be able to sleep. He shouldn't have cut out the obit. He should have kept the whole page with the date on top and then done something with it, not frame it, of course, then what? He should have gone to a friend's house for the night. How would that have helped? No, he wants to be here alone but he doesn't want to think of her, or as much as he's doing. "Go on, think of her, think of her, why not?" It's the drink. He shouldn't drink anymore today. It'll make him sad, it's making him sad, very sad; so be sad, what of it? Cry, bawl, pound the chair arms with his fists; he should do what he wants or just comes, so long as it isn't destructive. Destructive physically, is what he means. For he doesn't deserve it? The bawling and pounding, he's saying, and who's talking about "deserve"? And he doesn't need a drink. He's tired enough after almost no sleep for three days, and just because of the emotional thing of it he's gone through, to sleep straight for a day without drink. Drink will probably even get him up in a few hours with a stomachache or just to pee. And then keep him up when he wants to sleep. He hasn't had enough to eat. It's okay, the drink feels good, paper on his lap feels good, he's not hungry--it all feels pretty good, in fact; suddenly he doesn't feel so sad. He did, but what's he going to do now? Sleep, what else? Long and hard, then wake up refreshed. It's going to be bad awhile, maybe a month, maybe half a year, maybe more--probably more. Well, that happens and should be expected. What's he mean by that? But start off right. Get to bed, out of your clothes, get under the covers, take the phone off the hook, and just sleep. He goes into the bedroom. A long yawn--a good sign, the best. Undresses and gets under the covers. The curtains, and he gets up and closes them. Back in bed. "Close your eyes," he thinks. Why did he think that when he was holding her in the hospital, that thing about now he can sleep? There he was, sitting in the chair falling asleep, maybe he did fall asleep for a few minutes but what of it? and when he looked up she looked different. So, something about her look. Wait a minute, he doesn't quite understand. He knew she'd died--that's it. Sensed it, rather--something about the frozenness of her face--and would have been surprised if he'd touched her and found she was alive. Went up to her. Felt her heart, temple, her wrist pulse. Pulled her eyelids back. She was dead, he thought, or maybe just in a deep coma. The deepest of comas, much deeper than the one she'd been in for the last day. The doctors had talked about a coma so deep it would seem to the layman's eyes she was dead. Did what they said for him to do if no doctor or nurse was in the room. Felt around her ankle where the pulse is. Her foot was cold. Other one, too. For the last half year they'd been cold, but now they were very cold. She was dead. No, there were other things to do, the doctors had said. Put his ear to her mouth, then to her nostrils. Felt her heart, temple and wrist pulse again and also her neck's, he'd forgotten to feel her neck's. She was dead, that's all, he was sure of it, there was nothing about her that showed any life. The pin, he remembered one of the doctors saying, and he got it off her side table and pricked the bottom of her foot. No response. Other foot. Nothing. Several fingertips. Same thing. That was it. She was lifeless, dead, what else could she be? "Oh no," he said. Aloud, definitely, remembers it clearly. And lifted her up and held her to his chest, her chest against his, her face someplace and same with his, his arms around her, and he closed his eyes, he thinks, and thought, "Now I can get to sleep." "Some sleep"? "Sleep better"? "Tonight I can"? "I can sleep better tonight"? Something like that. Not necessarily one of those. But how odd. Well, it's inexcusable--excusable, he means. For he didn't think, "Good, she's dead, now I can sleep." In a way, though, he felt it, about her being dead. All she'd gone through. It was good she didn't suffer like some people with her illness do. Suffer at the end, he means. She just stopped breathing. In a coma for a day or so and then just went. And he thought something about his future sleep soon after. Is he a bastard for having thought that? Of course not. He did his best, as he said. Did what he could for her, and for years. And just think of his state of mind at that exact time. The poor dear--she. He could never sleep, never sleep, maybe never again. That's ridiculous, but he won't sleep well or at all for a while, that's for sure. The phone rings. Forgot to leave the receiver off the hook, or he just could have pulled the plug out of the jack. It rings and rings, and he gets up and goes to it and lifts the receiver. "Yes?" he says. "My darling, I'm here. Where have you been, why don't you come see me?" "It's you," he says. "This is wonderful, a miracle, everything I wanted, you can't believe how great I feel. I'll be right there wherever you are." She sounds so healthy too. But he knows he's already asleep. - - - - By Stephen Dixon Stephen Dixon is the author of sixteen works of fiction. The Stories of Stephen Dixon, a selected collection of his work, was published by Henry Holt last April. - - - -
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