Coming Home Again

COMING HOME AGAIN

Philip R. Sullivan

Published by Foremost Press at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Philip R. Sullivan

CHAPTER I

Malignant?

I’m sorry, replied Dr. Morley.

Couldn’t it be benign?

It would’ve been possible before we did the liver biopsy, Mrs. Gerard . . . but not now.

Oh God . . . I was hoping . . .

Dr. Morley said nothing. His lower lip puckered a little while his eyes alertly appraised her response.

It’s just . . . I can’t really believe it. I knew he was losing weight. And he had this drawn look on his face. He even said he was feeling rotten, which was a lot for him, because he’s not the sort to go around complaining about his health. . . .

Dr. Morley nodded over his half glasses and handed Joanna a tissue for the tears which were just now starting to brim.

Thanks, she said, then continued as she dabbed at her eyes. I begged him to see a doctor, but he just kidded me about it . . . said that, just because I was a nurse, it didn’t mean I had to go around diagnosing people all the time . . . and I said . . . I told him there was something wrong, and he couldn’t just put his head in the sand!

What was his reaction?

He said he had a bad case of writer’s block! Joanna let her gaze roam toward the ceiling for punctuation.

Writer’s block?

Well, you see, Jud writes freelance stuff, which brings in a few dollars. But, mostly, he’s a novelist. I mean, that’s what he sees himself as. And to this point, he hasn’t been very successful at it.

How many novels?

"Three . . . that he’s completed. None that he’s sold. He’s been pretty discouraged about it. Really down in the dumps! And it has interfered with his writing the past few months . . . but I knew it had to be more. . . ."

So he made his own diagnosis?

Yes,—she smiled sadly and shook her head—"after telling me not to play doctor."

What do you think’s the best way to handle the situation now, Mrs. Gerard?

Joanna looked back blankly; then tilted her head questioningly, as if she didn’t understand.

The ruddy face with the thinning gray hair studied her expression for a moment before restating the question: What should we tell him?

The truth . . . the whole truth. He’ll want that.

Are you sure?

What do you mean?

Now it was Dr. Morley’s turn to smile wryly. Patients have a right to know! Everything, of course. Our beloved courts are anxious to protect their civil rights! The only trouble is . . . not everyone wants to know. Or, more complicated, they do and they don’t.

Joanna nodded understanding, and he continued, Some people can take it. They’ll work with you . . . one day at a time, one step at a time. Others will panic . . . or just give up right there.

Jud wouldn’t.

You’re sure of that, Mrs. Gerard?

I wish you wouldn’t call me that! I’m not.

Not?

Not Mrs. Gerard . . . we just live together. I’m Joanna Montgomery.

Sorry for the misnomer. How long’ve you been together?

You mean, how well do I really know him?

Dr. Morley nodded. He settled back in his swivel chair and the white starched doctor’s coat flattened against his blue button-down shirt.

"We’ve lived together . . . for six years now. Hard to believe! She shook her head in a back and forth motion, then added, I guess I know him pretty well . . . but you seem unsure about telling him."

Well, he certainly was reluctant to see me in the first place, despite his weight loss and the back pain.

Oh . . . another of his diagnoses. He does a lot of work around the homestead, as he calls it. He figured he’d strained himself lifting bails of hay.

Could be misdiagnosis, but might well be what the shrinks call denial of illness.

That’s true.

Then, when you finally got him to see me, he was very hostile . . . as if he were doing you and me a favor.

I know. I’m sorry. I’d like to apologize for that.

Dr. Morley raised both hands, palms up. No need. No need. The point I’m making is that people will often shield their fear with anger when the anxiety’s too much for them to handle. I guess anger’s not as helpless a feeling . . . and it seems more manly.

I think you’re right, agreed Joanna. Jud laughs at other guys for acting macho, but scratch the surface . . .

Then, there’s today’s appointment.

I’m sorry about that. She hesitated. Guess I’m doing a lot of apologizing today, huh? But I phoned him when he didn’t show. I came straight here from the VA hospital where I work. He’d forgotten the appointment.

Ever hear of a Freudian slip?

You mean, he didn’t want to hear the news?

Dr. Morley nodded.

Maybe I don’t know him as well as I think I do. Still, when push comes to shove, I think . . . Her voice trailed off.

Well, let’s set up another appointment so the three of us can talk it over. Dr. Morley paused a moment. Say, what will I call you?

Joanna. This time a bright smile—maybe a grateful one—flashed. She looked more herself, a young thirty-five. Did my mascara run? she asked.

A little. Dr. Morley returned her smile.

Reaching for her bag, Joanna took out her compact and unbroached a circle of mirror. Wiping the black streaks from around her eyes, she quickly had things under control. I’ll make an appointment with your secretary, she said.

Dr. Morley came around the desk to open the door. I’ll go with you so we can set something up quickly.

Thank you, said Joanna. Then: I really appreciate this, Dr. Morley. I really appreciate your time.

* * *

He looked down at the handwritten letter, making one final cross-out and correction. Then he set a fresh sheet of paper in his old Royal Portable and started to type:

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Rev. Michael McNulty

Boston College

Chestnut Hill, MA

Dear Father,

Hi! Haven’t heard from me in a few years, have you? But I’m sure you remember me, one of your afflictions. As I look back, you were a terrific faculty advisor (although I still think the student editor should have full responsibility for what’s published in a college literary journal).

Just came across your recent volume of poetry and liked it. What really impressed me was its evenness: 92 pages and no fillers, every poem well worth reading and savoring! I especially liked your entry: Coming Home Again.

The above reaction is heartfelt. So much so that I wish it were the only reason for this letter of greetings and congratulations from an old student (16 years ago now since I graduated!). But, there’s more coming. I have a favor to ask. First, let me bring you up to date. You may recall that mom died right after I graduated (hung on for three years with the cancer to see me through). After that, I decided to get away from the bigness of city life, so I moved up to Maine and bought a homestead (as a widow, mom had managed well with the house and the insurance my dad left us). I got my Master’s in English Lit at Orono, and I’ve taught some evening classes there since (as you know, no PhD, no professor). I’ve done some freelance writing, a whole bunch of article bylines, but not much money. Never hit the big time, but that may be because my life energy is elsewhere.

Which brings me a little closer to the point. For some reason, I’ve always been focused more on what’s going on inside (Since you considered me a student revolutionary during my truncated tenure as editor, that might surprise you). I study. I think. I work on my land, and I have these visions. (I don’t mean hallucinations.) That’s what I want to share with people.

My visions are fictional, of course, (so is everything, which is one of my visions) so I’ve been working on novels—I mean hard, not just playing around. Now, you most likely see my problem: getting published. I really do think my new work’s a good one, well crafted, with an articulate message dramatized through the lives of its characters. Trouble is: I can’t seem to get a fair reading.

As the title Jasmine And Her Apes suggests, the story’s an extended fable, and that probably puts some editors off. Maybe they’ve never read Animal Farm or Watership Down—and believe it or not, my apes are a lot more interesting than a bunch of rabbits chomping their way across Merry Old England. In fact, my novel’s sort of the other side of Tarzan And The Apes. It’s not Man back to a state of Nature but Early apes starting to develop the crucial human social senses (i.e., fairness and guilt).

I know my new book doesn’t follow traditional Catholic Theology, but I’m trusting your poet’s feeling to prescind from that aspect. My favor is: would you read my novel? And, of course, if you like it, would you put in a good word for me with your agent and/or publisher?

Thanks in advance for your consideration.

Sincerely,

Jud Gerard

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Pulling the last sheet out of the typewriter, Jud slumped backward in his captain’s chair and tried to proofread for typos. His concentration started to wander, so he pushed himself away from the desk and looked at his surroundings. Once the front parlor of an old salt-box, this room had become the very first of his renewal projects fourteen years ago. Stripping the walls of their too busily patterned paper, he had painted the whole area off-white and had somewhat awkwardly constructed built-on bookcases, now filled with books that shed their own busy pattern of random color. He had attached an airtight stove-insert to the fireplace for heating efficiency (one with a thick glass window so he could see the logs glowing out their warmth). He’d had so much energy and so much anticipation then. But thirty-eight now. Time’s starting to close in, he thought.

The front latch lifted. It was Joanna.

Hi, dear, he said. Sorry I goofed.

Hesitating in the hallway, she seemed to stare at him involuntarily for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was gentle: That’s okay. Doctor Morley was very nice, and he set up another appointment for us right away.

Oh?

Thursday, at the end of office hours.

What for?

You know . . . to go over the results of the tests with you.

I know.

Is that all right?

"I mean, I already know the results."

She looked at him expectantly, seeming unsure of what to say.

He smiled—more of a grimace. Bad news.

Why do you say that?

You just told me.

All I said was that he’ll see us Thursday.

I mean . . . you’re not mad.

I don’t understand. Joanna walked through the study door and sat in the captain’s chair opposite. Her eyes were softly but continuously on him, as if, were she to stop looking, he’d disappear.

He continued, One thing I’ve always appreciated about you . . . you’ve never been a shrew. On the other hand, and his lips formed a more genuine smile now, patience is not your number one virtue. When I’m late—never mind when I stand you up—you usually let me know about it!

I don’t mean to. It’s just—

Jud interrupted. I’m not complaining . . . but I guess you’d better tell me what he said. No point now in waiting till Thursday.

Well, . . . he has the report on the liver biopsy and the CAT scan and the other tests, and he wants to go over it all with you.

"Stop stalling!"

Doctor Morley thought you may have forgotten your appointment because you were afr . . . apprehensive.

I can’t believe it! You know, I have a weird feeling this isn’t real . . . that it’s not actually happening!

She pulled her chair closer and took his hand.

What’s the outlook? he asked.

I don’t know. That’s what he’s going to go over with us.

Jud stiffened. Words are funny, he said. "I can’t get myself to use the word. It’s as if the word will make the reality. He spread the corners of his lips and pressed them together in the center till they were almost white. Then, with an obvious act of will, he said, Cancer!"

Joanna held on harder to his hand and looked in his eyes as if she wanted to follow right inside with the whole of her self.

The liver biopsy . . . that means it’s spread there already.

Now she was on her knees, cuddling him while he sat still ramrod straight.

How much time do we— He broke off. How long do I have to live?

Her voice was soft. It’s probably treatable. Maybe it won’t be that bad.

Sure! He put his arms around her, and she started to shake. Her tears, flowing now, were wet against his cheek and the side of his neck. He stroked her back. For a while, they stayed that way. Then he smoothed her hair, brushing the brunette half-curls back from her face and over her shoulders. Come on, that’s uncomfortable, he said. Let’s sit in the other room.

They got up and walked across the hall to the front parlor and sat together on the overstuffed couch that had never quite fit the room (He’d taken the piece years ago from the old house in Boston, as a sort of family keepsake). For a long time, they said nothing. They just touched their bodies, and the sensation felt warm and soothing to them both. Their eyes were closed, as if they had made some conscious choice to exclude visual distractions.

After a while, Jud asked in a whisper though there was no one else around, What’re you thinking?

Nothing, she answered. Then, after a pause: I love you.

I love you, too, he said (and did not add his usual: "whatever that means.").

Again, they were silent for a while. It was her turn: What are you thinking about?

I’m afraid, he answered.

She sat up from under the arch of his shoulder, turned to look at him directly, touched his face, and ran her fingertips over his ear to the back of his head. The first gray flecks on his temples stood out against the reddish brown, as his hair flicked back again in the wake of her gentle stroke.

He went on, "It’s weird. I’ve always been afraid of death . . . even more so since I lost my sense of immortality. It’s like: ‘Wow . . . you won’t be anything. You’ll be gone. Forever. Nothing left.’ It terrifies me to think about it . . . but that’s not what I seem to be afraid of right now."

She continued her stroking, slowly, silently.

It’s the . . . He paused with an expression as if he’d just taken in a lettuce leaf with too much vinegar dressing. It’s the crucifixion, the stations of the cross, the garden of Gethsemane . . . the whole bit!

Joanna tilted her head to the side with a questioning expression, so he restated his fear more directly, The bastards . . . Doctor Morley and whatever crew of Centurion’s helpers he can assemble . . . will want to cut out half my abdomen and then chain me to a bed with half a dozen tubes. And I’ll be so weak, someone will have to slip a pan under me just to defecate . . . to take a shit . . . and they’ll even have to wipe me.

Joanna said nothing as he paused again. She just continued looking and stroking.

Then they’ll get me up into the chair and tell me how good I’m looking. And they’ll take me down for X-ray treatment. Stretcher or wheelchair, ladies choice. Or they’ll give me chemo till I puke my guts and shed my hair. Then, the miserable paternalism: ‘You’ve got to eat to get back your strength, you know?’ But they’ll know I ain’t gettin’ back nuthin’. Or, maybe, just enough that they can do something else to me . . . prison camp doctors and torturers, all wrapped into one!

Jud?

What?

"We won’t let that happen. We won’t!"

Goddam right we won’t! Not while I’ve got my shotgun and a mouth to put it in!

You’re not that bad a shot, she said, managing an impish smile.

Jud’s face suddenly grew even tauter. You’re not taking me seriously, he said.

I love you, she replied, closing her eyes again and burying her head along the side of his neck.

He stiffened, so she lifted her head and looked straight at him. "I know you’re upset . . . we’re upset . . . but we don’t even know yet what the prognosis is . . . what can be done and what can’t. I agree with you! I don’t want them doing something just because, technically, they can do it. But we’ve got to take one step at a time. Let’s hear what Doctor Morley has to offer . . . and let’s tell him the sorts of things we’re not about