James Siegel - Epitaph

"Muscle relaxant," a voice said. "You won't be able to speak."

And then, William knew who it was. Because although he couldn't speak, he could still think. That's one thing. And although he couldn't speak, he could still see. That's the other.

"Please…" William said. Or tried to.

But Dr. Fern merely stared at him with a dead dis- passion.

"I said you've been given a muscle relaxant. You can't speak."

He couldn't speak. And he couldn't scream either. He knew he couldn't scream because that's what he was trying to do. Nothing came out.

He tried to move himself up into a sitting position. No go. He felt heavy as lead, as inert as the bed he was lying in. He was the immovable object, the one only an irresistible force has a Chinaman's chance at. But maybe not. His fear was an irresistible force, yet it couldn't make him move. He couldn't move.

"Parking's difficult around here," Dr. Fern said with a faint accent. "It took me over an hour."

This is how it will end, William thinks. With Dr. Fern relating the petty annoyances of his day while he checked out to the hereafter. It'll end with a whimper after all.

"My handyman saw you," Dr. Fern said. "He doesn't miss very much. He caught you watching us."

William had planned to go to Dr. Fern today. To confront him, to accuse him, and if he ever managed to think of some way to do it, to capture him. But Dr. Fern had come for him instead. Just as he'd come for Jean. That's the way it works. You don't ask death to make a visit. It visits you when it's good and ready.

Then, a sudden knock on the door. No doubt about it. That was a knock, and then the door opened, throwing in a shaft of light, a sliver of hope, and a very sunburnt Mr. Brickman.

William wanted to cry. He'd forgotten that there's another unannounced visitor besides death. One other. Mr. Brickman-Mr. Brickman come to save him.

"What's going on?" Mr. Brickman said.

Yes, what is going on?

"He's had a stroke," Dr. Fern said. "He called me over an hour ago complaining of dizziness. He's completely paralyzed. I have to get him to my office immediately."

"You're not his doctor," Mr. Brickman said warily.

Yes… yes… that's right, Mr. Brickman… he's not my doctor, he's not…

"Shouldn't he go to a hospital?"

Yes. A hospital. Make him take me to a hospital.

"He'll die before we can reach a hospital. My office is close by-I have everything I need there." Dr. Fern smiled, the Grade-A-bedside-manner smile. "Perhaps you can help me get him to my car."

No, Mr. Brickman. Not to his car. Speak up. Stop the carnivores, Mr. Brickman… the herd's in danger…

Mr. Brickman walked over to his bed and leaned over.

"How are you feeling, Will…?"

My eyes, William thought. Look at my eyes. Do you understand? Do you…?

"Don't worry, Will. The doc will have you up and at 'em in no time. Isn't that right, Doctor?"

No… he won't have me up and at 'em, Mr. Brickman. He won't. Look…

"How do you want to carry him, Doctor? Should I take his legs? Maybe I should call Mr. Leonati?"

"We can use the help," the doctor said.

Yes, we can use the help. We can most certainly use the help. Sweet Jesus… oh sweet Jesus…

If I could only… if I only could… if I could just roll over, William thought now. I could show him… I could. He tried. He put every ounce of energy into it, every single one. But it felt as if he was pushing against a brick wall. The harder he tried, the more palpable his sensation of lying still. It was like those dreams of running where your legs refuse to move. Death itself after you and not a thing you can do.

Dr. Fern leaned over and spread back the lid of one eye.

"Yes, I know it feels strange," he whispered, "even a little uncomfortable. It won't be long."

He might have been consoling a patient such was his tone, consoling him the way William had once upon a time consoled his parade of lonely hearts, with a voice as soft as sleep.

But he wasn't ready to sleep. If he could only roll over, if only… repeating this to himself like a New Year's resolution, believing in it the same way: If I give up smoking, if I pay more attention to Rachel, if I… if I… then you'd see. And now he was trying again, fortified by a kind of hope, battering against that brick wall with the unshakable belief in his ability to do it. And suddenly, he was moving-not a lot, not enough to see, but enough, barely enough, to feel. The wall was tumbling down.

He could hear footsteps moving quickly down the hall.

"Here, Doctor." It was Mr. Brickman again. "Mr. Leonati's gonna lend a hand."

He could see Mr. Leonati out of the corner of his eye, looking like someone who'd been woken by bad news. He fluttered over to the bed, all commiseration and concern.

"Don't worry, William. Do I look scared, huh. If I looked worried, then you should worry. But I'm not worried, see?"

Yes, Mr. Leonati, I see. But me, as for me, I'm very worried. But no one could see that, could they? The muscle relaxant had rendered him helpless, as helpless as that night outside the Par Central Motel, when he'd stayed glued to the window as his wife and partner broke his heart into shards. This one you take, William, Jean had said. This one needs your knowledge. But he'd had no knowledge-not of the real world, and so that night he'd gotten an education. Helplessness, hopelessness, and then he was old.

Roll… he screamed at himself… roll-you wasted life you… you quitter… you damn cuckold… ROLL…

He hit the floor with a dull thud.

Mr. Leonati was the first to reach him.

"William… you okay, William? Jesus-that must have hurt… what do you say, Doctor?"

"Let's get him back on the bed."

"Sure thing, Doctor. Okeydokey-it's gonna be okay, William. You hear me?"

"How did he do that?" Mr. Brickman said.

"Grab his ankles." Fern again. "Nice and slow," as William felt himself being lifted up, up, the way pallbearers lift a coffin, with a motion both delicate and firm.

"I don't understand," Mr. Brickman said, still standing over by the door. "How did he do that?"

Yes, William thought. Yes. Mr. Brickman was still looking out for him; Mr. Brickman was his last, best hope.

"What?" Leonati finally said, between gasps of breath. "What did you say?"

"I don't understand how he did that."

"Did what?"

"Rolled off the bed. You saw it. He rolled right off the bed."

"We have to get him to my car," Dr. Fern said, his voice completely calm, as if he hadn't heard, as if his only concern was the welfare of his patient-which, of course, it was-the welfare of his patient being something he was very concerned about right now.

"But you said he was paralyzed, Doctor." Mr. Brick- man again, showing an almost canine devotion, William thought, hoped, like one of those little terriers that fasten their teeth on to something and refuse to let go. Man's best friend. "You said he had a stroke. He couldn't move a second ago. How did he roll off the bed?"

"Muscle contraction," Dr. Fern said, still dispassionate, still the doctor in charge.

"But he couldn't move, Doctor. A second ago, when I came in, he couldn't move. Maybe… maybe he's trying to tell us something. Did you think of that?"

Yes, Mr. Brickman… yes… yes… now if only Mr. Brickman could understand what it was he was trying to tell. He moved his eyes in a sort of sign language-over to Fern and back again-over and back, over and back- willing Mr. Brickman to read the message and save him.

Mr. Brickman looked down at him with concern-but the wrong kind. Like… that freighter, the one that saw flares exploding over the dying Titanic and mistook them for fireworks. Mr. Brickman had misread the signs. All night long that ship heard those faint cries, drifting over the dead-still ocean, picturing hundreds of blue bloods drowning in champagne. Only they were all just drowning. He was drowning. Mr. Brickman hadn't spotted the danger.