Quieter Than Silence

Saturday 1 Sunday 11 Monday 16 Tuesday 25 Wednesday 28 Thursday 64 Friday 97 Saturday 141 Saturday I’m ready. Ready for it. Not a doubt. I’m tired of it. Tired of all the bullshit. Tired of the polite nods. The surprised nods. The exasperated nods. I don’t like being here either. Tired of funerals. Tired of being the last one. Tired of my second childhood. I couldn’t stand my first childhood. Tired of the baby talk. Tired of being told what I can and can’t do. Tired of patting arms and canes. Tired of my body. They always warn you. Started warning me forty years ago. I knew it was coming. Saw it coming. Felt it coming. But it surprised me just the same. The way it starts in your fingers. Swollen and crooked. Eases into your knees. Pours into your ears. Trickles through to your eyes. Pulses through your veins until they bulge, purple and wicked. Rips your hair out. Shoots up your back. Racks through your mind. Ravages you. Leaves you gasping. Hunched over. Like running. Back when I could run. I don’t care that no one cares. That doesn’t surprise me. That I see the look I see in them that I felt in myself so long. Disgust, maybe. Disgust hidden. Hidden in a veil of compassion. The nods. The opened doors. The waiting every five feet. The worst is that I need it. I don’t think anyone will miss me. I wouldn’t. And if they really would, they’ll understand. If they really care. No one will cry. Crocodile tears. But no real tears. Not from anyone who knew me. Really knew me. And that’s fine. I understand. I don’t want tears. I don’t want much. Just warmth. And rest. Warmth and rest I don’t deserve. But no one does. And that’s why I’m not sorry. I didn’t do anything wrong. Just what I had to do. And that’s what I’m doing now. What I need to do. She could see him through the phone, not long awake given the early hour of the morning, coffee steaming by his side and newspaper in his lap, nodding in feigned understanding of the latest news out of Sana’a while awaiting her call. She could feel the golden morning light tumbling through the shades, haphazardly drawn, scattering over the soft oatmeal carpet of her baby’s living room and dancing lightly into the receiver. “Good morning, Mom.” She could hear the sleep in his voice. “Good morning, hon.” Her voice was gruff, the same as always. She always sounded as though she had some place better to be, though her Saturday morning call could be expected at 8:30 precisely, like clockwork. “How are you feeling?” “Shit.” Her voice cut through the static of the phone as she spat into the receiver. “Did you get the charts I sent you?” “Yeah, Mom, but you know I’m not that kind of doctor.” “I don’t give a damn. Can’t be worse than the jackasses they keep giving me out here. Load of carpetbaggers too dumb for the coast who think a cowboy hat means more to us than a doctorate.” He laughed to humor her. “It does, too. I won’t miss these idiots.” “Mom, don’t talk like that.” “I’ll talk however I damn well please, Stephen. I spent thirty years not cursing for the sakes of you ungrateful little shits. That’s a lot of language to make up for.” “Mom, you don’t mean that.” She grunted. “That’s what I called to tell you.” “What’s what you called to tell me?” “You know how bad this looks. I’m dying.” “Mom, there are still a lot of treatment options. This isn’t a death sentence.” “You don’t understand me. It is to me. I’m dying. In one week.” The silence pulsed in both their ears for several seconds. “Damn.” She grunted again. “Have you told the others yet?” She grunted affirmatively. “All of them?” She grunted once more. “All of them?” She paused. “No. You’ll have to tell the other one.” “Mom…” “Don’t give me that bullshit. I’ll be living my last days however I damn well please. And it’d please me if I don’t have to hear her voice.” There was silence again. She sighed out of convention. “How’s Colleen?” “She’s good. A little overwhelmed right now. Sean’s hanging in there but it looks like Samantha’s due for a raise.” “I don’t know why. Girl never did do any work.” “Mom-” His voice had an edge to it now. “I know, I know. I trust she’s doing well.” The edge in her voice was sharper than a steak knife. “Cassie? Yeah, she’s great.” “Of course she is. Karma never did come back for her.” “Mom.” “Sure, sure.” “How’s the weather.” “How the hell do you think it is? Cold as shit. Bring a coat. You’ve got a week. Sunday at 5.” She paused and inhaled sharply. “I love you, dear.” The line had gone dead before he had a chance to reply. The knock rung out hollowly from the door to her apartment. She sighed. “Come in, Edward.” The door swung open cautiously and her third child shuffled in. The sun shone down with the arrogance of youth, beating down on the sheer mountains and shattering in through the lace curtains that lined the windows. Her son’s beefy neck popped out from the collar of his flannel shirt, buttoned to the top in some masochistic attempt at self-asphyxiation. His ruddy face shown out, plastered with a smile that was there more as a courtesy than as any sort of expression of joy. He hesitated at the door a second. His mother straightened the right leg of her pantsuit and smoothed some crinkles from her blazer before stalking over to her chair. “Oh, don’t bother with your shoes. I won’t have to vacuum the floors again so I couldn’t give a damn.” “How are you feeling, Mom?” His words carried a mountain man’s lilt about them. “Skip the bullshit, Eddie, and pour both of us a drink.” He feigned concern. “Mom, it’s not even noon yet.” “You of all people, Edward. I expect this bullshit from Jean, but not from you.” “Yeah, yeah, alright. Bourbon and soda?” “If you don’t know how I like my liquor by now you got even more of your father’s stupidity than I thought.” He grunted, and padding over to the kitchen counter, flicked the cap off the handle of bourbon that sat there half full waiting for its ritual and inevitable opening. He held it up first, allowing the sunlight to filter through before grunting in appreciation at its rosewood hue. His fingers manipulated the two glasses with a deftness hewn from years of practice that did not match their sausage-shape. The ice cubes tumbled into the glasses and skittered about like caged ponies before first soda crackled down upon them like a mountain creek in the midst of a spring thaw. Finally the bourbon trickled down and billowed out through the glass. Setting the bottle down he pinched the two glasses together with his thick fingers and waddled over to the old matriarch brooding in her chair, a high-backed throne like that of a royal of centuries past that was covered in a coarse and rough green fabric so dark it might as well have been black. Tiny fleur de lis dotted it. She snatched it from him without thanks and held it up to the light. “Too much ice.” “You’ll just have to drink it fast, then,” He said, sighing deeply as he lowered himself gingerly into the seafoam green loveseat opposite her. “Oh, but it’s not even noon yet,” she retorted in a sing-song tone. They sat in silence a few seconds before the ice began to rattle in the old woman’s empty glass. “Good God, Mom, I’m not even halfway through with mine.” “Well, hurry up then. I’ve only got seven days and plenty of liquor to run through.” He sneered into his glass. “You aren’t planning on leaving us anything, are you?” “I’m just draining my liquor cabinet-though I don’t suppose any of you would want anything else from me. I have to leave something in my bank account or else none of you will remember me in a month.” Setting his glass down, he removed his wire framed glasses and set to polishing them futilely on the lint infested sleeve of his flannel. “No, no, I suppose you’re right there.” He muttered absent- mindedly. They sat in silence a bit longer. He broke the silence to wet his lips and inhaled sharply, as if he were averse to the message he was to deliver. “Jean’ll be driving in. She’ll be here by tomorrow at mid-day. Alan’s flying in tonight and expects me to pick him up at the airport, so he’ll be sleeping overnight there. Stephen’s still working out his flight but don’t expect him here before Friday evening. I haven’t heard from Anna yet but I wouldn’t be surprised if she waits till you’re six feet under before hauling ass out here.” His mother harrumphed.

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