The Last Day

SEVENTEEN

When headlights illuminated the backyard it was eight- twenty Ward was in his kitchen and had poured a Scotch to help obscure the memory of his afternoon visit with his mother, who hadn't spoken to him for the hour he'd been there. The disease had about run its course, reducing her to a slow- breathing mannequin lying in a bed staring at the ceiling.

Standing at the sink, he noticed the glasses still there from the night before, and Natasha's orange juice glass from her morning jolt. Thinking he should put them in the dishwasher, he was struck by the fact that he'd put his expensive Riedel glass, designed specifically to allow for the appreciation of fine Scotches, rim down in the sink. He never did such a thing. No, he didn't recall putting that glass in the sink the night before, but he always set glasses base down, especially those, to prevent chipping the delicate rims. He wondered if Natasha had done it without thinking, but that was not like her. If she touched it, she would have only done so to put it into the dishwasher.

He heard Natasha's car door slam shut out in the garage, followed by the sound of the garage door's motor engaging. When Natasha came in, Ward was drying the clean glasses with a towel. He opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of Pinot Grigio, pulled out the cork, and poured some into her glass.

“How was your day?” he asked her.

“Not real good,” she answered, fingering her way through a stack of unopened mail he'd left on the counter.

“Generally or specifically?” he asked.

“I had a session with Dr. Richardson this afternoon.”

He handed her the glass of chilled wine. “And did the shrink make you feel better?”

“No. But I appreciate your genuine concern.”

“I didn't mean anything, but if he doesn't make you feel any better, why do you keep going to him twice a week?”

“You can take one of the sessions.”

“Did he tell you again that I'm in denial?”

She glared at him reflexively for a second before looking away.

“Have you eaten?” he asked, changing the subject.

She shook her head.

“Good,” he told her, handing her the glass. “I'll whip us up a little something.”

She frowned. “Like what? Peanut butter on rye?”

“How about pasta with garlic butter and a delightful Caesar salad?” Ward had already checked the fridge when he had been trying to decide if he had the energy to make himself dinner.

“Sure,” she said, smiling quizzically. “You make the salad while I boil the water.”

“You don't trust me to boil water?” he asked. He gave her a reluctant smirk. “God, you have an impeccable memory, Natasha.”

“How about because you make a great salad,” she replied, a smile gracing her face for the first time in days.

Twenty minutes later, Natasha and Ward were seated at their dining table with the lights dimmed. Although he'd brought the bottle to the table, her wine was untouched.

“How was your day?” she asked, taking a mouthful of her salad and chewing slowly.

“I had lunch with Gene,” he told her.

“Did you?” She looked down at her plate as she rolled linguini onto her fork delicately.

Ward took a sip of his Scotch, savoring it before swallowing. He wasn't hungry. “He told me you're willing to settle with Lander. He seemed to think you'd sign a nondisclosure agreement.”

Natasha set her fork down. “I don't want this dragging out for years over that one point.”

“I thought we agreed on that point.”

She lifted her glass of wine and stared at it. “Barney's gone. Nothing will bring him back, but we have to go on. I have to go on.”

“He's not gone anywhere,” Ward said quickly. “He's dead.”

Natasha's eyes filled with tears. “You imagine I don't know he's dead. He was killed by the actions of some idiot and I'm mad as hell about it. Beyond mad. I just want to stop feeling so mad, so damned empty, or whatever it is I'm feeling all the time. Maybe if this suit was over we could get on with our lives.”

Natasha looked out through the windows. “I can't keep hating faceless electricians.”

“Natasha,” Ward heard himself saying. “I'm dead set against settling. This is not something we're doing to be vindictive. This suit is supposed to be for Barney, not us. So they'll remember. So some good can come from this. The money from this suit is going to help children who need helping. Kids who will have a chance to live longer lives because of Barney.” Instead of Barney living longer.

Natasha said, “I know all of that. Can we please change the subject?”

Ward finished his Scotch and set his glass down. Natasha took a sip of her wine.

“Flash Dibble raised his offer for the company,” Ward said.

“The amount hardly matters, does it?” she said.

“The idea of selling the company to the Dibbles makes my skin crawl,” he said honestly. “I don't know how much clearer I can make that to Gene. Trey was there and I told him to his face that he'd never get his hands on the company. I think even Gene understands, but I doubt it.”

“Gene's a lawyer,” she said.

“He's my best friend.”

“Yes, he is. But he is seeing the fees attached to a twentymillion- dollar transaction he'll handle.”

“That's true enough. Can't blame him there.”

Natasha took another sip. “What does your uncle want to do?”

“We haven't discussed it lately, but Gene told me he'd sell. Unk stands to make seven million dollars. I'm sure Bunny knows.”

“Well, couldn't you buy Unk out?”

Ward hadn't thought about that, but he imagined he could get a loan to buy Unk's stock. “I suppose I could.”

Natasha put it into words. “It wouldn't be the same company without him. No offense, but he is the people person. He has the close relationships with the clients.”

Ward tried to imagine the company without his uncle, and couldn't, because he knew that his uncle was such an integral part of the business that his absence was unimaginable. It would take a team to replace him, and Mark was RGI in the minds of most of their client base.

“I'd need at least two people to take his place. We have other salesmen, but he's the closer. He makes sure the contracts are fair to us, and to the customers.”

“Gene could help you with the contracts,” Natasha said. “He looks them over and passes on them anyway. And I'm sure Unk would still help you out. You could pay him, pay for his entertaining the clients.”

“I hired the guy who's been dating Leslie.”

“For what? I thought he was a private investigator.”

“I hired him to be a private investigator.”

Natasha's eyes grew large with disbelief. “Why would you hire a private detective?”

Ward told her the story about the stolen prototype, and how Todd had already located the girl who took it.

“Why did you take it with you?” she asked. Precisely the question he didn't want her to ask, because she knew the answer. It was Barney's favorite toy.

He shrugged. “Just an impulse. I shouldn't have. Maybe the same reason you took Barney's baseball out of his room and put it in the bowl in the den.”

“What are you talking about? I found that ball where you put it.”

Ward couldn't believe what he was hearing. “Where I put it?”

“Under the other pillow in my bed. The one you used to lay your head on. Remember that pillow?”

“I'm pretty sure I would have noticed taking the ball out of Barney's room. Why the hell would I put it under your pillow?”

“Your pillow,” she said angrily. “Just like you didn't take Barney's watch from my jewelry box, or any of the other things you don't want to or can't remember. I'm sick of these games, or whatever they are.” She looked at him with genuine concern. “Maybe you should see someone to make sure it isn't…” She didn't say it.

“It is not early Alzheimer's,” he said defensively, but he'd sure as hell wondered the same thing over the past three months.

“I never said it was. You're way too young. You're just under a lot of pressure. We both are. But it worries the hell out of me, and it should worry you. I have no idea what it is, but it's sure something. Maybe it's your nightly Scotch consumption.”

“Maybe it's not all me,” Ward said.

“Ward, you have to see a professional. If not Richardson, then someone else. Find out what this memory loss is. Deal with your grief. The sleeping late is probably because you don't sleep at night.”

“Don't sleep! I sleep like a dead man. Is this going to be the grief counselor discussion?” he said. “Someone who can help me forget about Barney? I don't want to forget about him like you seem willing to do.” He immediately regretted saying it.

“I'm not sure what I want,” she replied sadly. “But I can't keep going like this. I just can't. It's killing me, Ward.”

“Natasha, do you still love me?” He wished he hadn't asked the question, but there it was, hanging like a cloud in the air between them.

“What kind of question is that?” she asked, looking at him angrily.

He shrugged. “One that has been on my mind lately.”

“You honestly have to ask me that?”

“I saw the letter from your doctor friend in Seattle.”

She didn't accuse him of snooping, nor did she say it was an old letter that was of no consequence. What she said was, “I was seriously considering his offer, but just as an alternative. I'll tell you the truth. I don't honestly know how I feel about anything or anybody at this point. I have feelings for you, but you're a different person. I never know how you are going to react to anything. You forget things and you do things you say you didn't do, things only you could have done. Maybe you're walking in your sleep. That might explain things. Who else could be moving things around?”

“You blame me for Barney,” he said. Natasha rolled her eyes. “The only person who blames you is you. It was a horrible accident. That's what accident means. If one of us blames the other, it isn't me.”

“But you could have saved him,” he said, an anger growing. “Don't tell me you haven't thought a million times that if you'd just been here instead of me, he'd be alive. You would have resuscitated him. Admit it. You think I killed him.”

“Your feelings of guilt are self- induced. You're projecting what you feel inside onto me.”

“I can't talk about this,” he said, feeling nauseated.

“Then what else can we talk about?” she asked, throwing her napkin on the table. “You want the truth? My son is dead and now I feel like you want me to get into his grave with you. Maybe you want to die, but I don't. I won't.”

Natasha stood and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Right now, I just want to take a hot bath and go to sleep.” She started to leave, her eyes filled with fury, perhaps disgust, but definitely tears.

“Don't forget your Ambien.” He knew better than to say that, but he'd said it anyway.

“Go to hell,” she said, storming from the room.

After she slammed her bedroom door, he stared at her plate, her nearly full glass, and for a second Ward had the strangest feeling that Barney was watching him. He stared out through the dark window and he could almost see his son standing there, staring at him. His look would be asking, Why are you being mean to my mama?

I don't know, Barney, Ward thought. He was sure Natasha had put the ball under the pillow. Why would anyone else do such an absurd thing? It wasn't the first time in recent weeks; either she'd moved things around and accused him or he had done so and didn't remember. Sure, he had felt oddly detached from the real world, but not that disconnected. If one of them was losing his mind, he didn't think it was only him.

Ward walked down the hall and stood frozen outside Natasha's door. He wanted to go to her. He wanted to hold her, to be in her arms again the way it was before. He raised his hand, but he couldn't force himself to knock. He imagined her lying alone in their bed. He wanted to comfort her, to make love to her, to make her feel something for him, but somehow he couldn't make the leap.

He thought about the last time they'd made love, seven months before, and how mechanical and unsatisfying it had been. Love with a stranger, but who had been the stranger? Filled with the fog of uncertainty and perhaps insecurity, he just could not make himself open the bedroom door.

He moved silently into the guest bedroom and, without taking off his clothes, lay awake in the dark for what seemed like hours after getting into bed. Something he couldn't understand, or didn't want to admit, was keeping him from reaching out and trying to make things right.

Ward couldn't imagine life without Natasha, but forgetful or not, he wasn't going to pay some pompous, two-hundred-dollar-an-hour asshole to make him let go of Barney.