Justin Cronin - The Summer Guest

“What did… he eat?” she said when I was done.

“When? At the inn, you mean?”

“You… forgot… to say.”

“Steak,” I said. I showed her with my fingers. “A great thick porterhouse. With béarnaise. Are you hungry, M?”

“No.” Her voice was thin, almost a whisper. “We’re… alone,” she said.

“Yes.” And then I said it. “You’ve sent them all away.”

From her arm the slightest movement: she was reaching for my tears. I felt this as if she had actually done it, as if her hand were on my cheek.

“Don’t… be sad.”

“Do we have to, M?”

“I can’t…” she said, but stopped. Can’t go on, can’t do this alone, can’t can’t can’t. What would I have wanted, if I were she? And as I thought this, I knew my answer, though I had known it many months, all that year in fact, and my mind seemed to move into a place where what was about to happen already had, a room in which there were only two people, M and I, and this final night forever.

“Harry… help me… do this.”

There were medicines everywhere: on her table, in the bathroom, in drawers and the pockets of coats hanging in the closets. A house of medicine. But I knew which one she wanted. The doctor had given it to us with a warning, a warning I understood was also a promise: more than the prescribed dosage, even a little, and it could compromise her breathing. I was so nervous I could barely crush the pills with the back of the spoon I took from the kitchen drawer. Water would have been easier for her, but I chose milk to cloud the taste. In the blazing light of the kitchen I kept my thoughts trained upon these small, mechanical actions, as an archer holds the target in his sights. I mixed the milk and pills together, rinsed the spoon, placed the glass on a saucer, and, dousing the kitchen light behind me, returned to the library.

“I’ve made you something.”

The faintest smile crossed her lips, as if I’d brought her a present. “That… there.”

“Yes.”

She let a moment pass. “Leave it… for now. Harry… will you do something… for me?”

I placed the glass and saucer on the table. “Anything, M.”

“Come… to bed.”

“Get in with you, you mean?”

“Yes,” she said. “Like… before.”

Standing by the bed, I undressed: shoes and socks and pants and shirt. I folded these items carefully, placed my shoes on top, and rested it all on a chair.

“So… handsome,” she said. “Now… come… to bed.”

I cranked the bed down and climbed in beside her. The mattress was narrow, and had chrome bars on the sides; beneath the sheet I could feel the squeaking friction of the rubber barrier. I pulled her across me, so that her chest lay against my own, her head resting in the hollow of my neck.

“It’s good… to think… of Hal.”

“I wish you could have been there, M.”

“I was… Harry. You… told me… and I… was there. Don’t cry… Harry.”

“I’m sorry, M. I’ll try not to.”

“Remember… that… night? I told you… it would be… all right.” A long inhalation of breath. “It will… be.”

“I know that, M.”

“Tell me… another… story.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Yes… you… can.” I felt her nod, though this was, I knew, a memory. Her breath was warm and slow on my neck. “I know… you, Harry.”

I took a deep breath, then heard myself speaking. My voice was strange and far away, seeming to come at once from inside me and from the air of the dark room all around.

“Once upon a time, there was a man and a woman, and they had two boys. The first one was very little. He was sick, and for a time they thought he might die, but eventually he became well, though he stayed little because of this sickness, and his mother and father loved him very much. The second boy grew and became a man, and they loved him, too, though differently. That is what they learned in their lives together: that the little boy, because he stayed little, would always have a special kind of love, but that the other boy, who grew, would be the one who would take care of them, when they themselves grew old. The first love was sweeter, and a little sad, because when the man and the woman felt it, they were remembering. But the second was stronger, because they knew it would last them all the days of their lives. M?”

“Yes… Harry?”

“Was the story what you wanted?”

“It… was always… what I wanted.” Then: “Tell me… more. Tell me… anything.”

I did. I told her everything; I talked for hours, or thought I did. I told her every story I knew. Her breathing grew slow and heavy against my chest, like long waves on a beach. And when I was done, she said, quietly, “I’m… thirsty.”

“I’ll get you some water.”

“No… Harry.” She seemed to shake her head. “The… other. Please.”

“M. I just can’t.”

“Shhhh… don’t cry… Harry.”

“I can’t, I can’t.”

“I am… your wife, Harry. I am… your wife… and I need you… to do this.”

Then the glass was in my hand. It was warm, from hours of sitting, and thick with the grains of the crushed pills; the mixture had separated a little, leaving a dark layer of medicine at the bottom, and so I took a spoon from the bedside table to stir it, quietly, so as not to disturb the silence of the room with even the slightest contact of metal on glass. I slid behind her, taking her weight on my chest, and held the straw to her lips. She was forty-five years old.

“That’s it… Harry.”

Her sips were small, like a bird taking water from a garden fountain: delicate, and without hesitation. A dozen times she drank, taking the milk and the pills into her. A stream of the bitter liquid ran down the sides of her mouth, onto her chin and neck, and when she was done I used a washcloth to wipe it all away.

“Let’s go… to sleep… Harry.”

“M-”

“It’s… all right,” she said, and I felt her move against me and then stop. Her voice was faraway, a dreamer’s voice, and I felt a heaviness gather inside me, taking me with her.

“It’s… all right. Sleep… my love.”

And God save us all, I did.

Joe always said it was bad luck to watch him leave from the dock. He kissed me that day, the eve of Christmas, 1971, bounded up the gangway, and I went back to the motel and slept. I awoke to the sound of someone banging on the door, and a high, loud voice, jabbering in Spanish: the chambermaid. I took my watch from the bedside table; it was just past noon. I had long since missed my bus. Already Joe would be fifty miles out to sea.

I yelled something to the maid about coming back later, pulled the blankets tight around me, and by the time I awoke again the sun was setting. I showered and dressed and stepped outside. A stiff wind was blowing off the water. The sun had set completely; the buildings by the water were all dark, but up the hill I could see lights and feel the presence of the city. In the office, I found the same clerk who’d checked us in the night before, watching a football game on television and paring his nails.

“If it’s all right, I’d like to stay another night.”

He looked at his watch, then at me. “You already did.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’ve been here two days.”

I stood a moment, taking this in. Had I really slept through a day and a night and all the next day besides? Vague memories gathered in my mind, scattered images I’d thought were dreams: a second visit from the chambermaid, more insistent, and rising in the middle of the afternoon to use the bathroom and hearing, from outside, the rush of midday traffic on Commercial Street.