Epitaph

I.

He pondered that word for a long time-it seemed to stand for so very little. It seemed to point a finger at him. So in the end, he just gave up.

First, a light. A small cool oval, like a winter's sun. It didn't radiate warmth as much as dread. It turned his dream sour, curdled its mood, which had been syrupy-sweet and achingly familiar. A summer's day with Rachel transformed into a January's solitude. That fast. Then, a slight pinch on his upper arm. Someone was pinching him but no one was there. So the dream adapts. It's his father, his mother; it's Aunty Em. Rachel? She's not there, she's back amid the bouquets of August. Can't have her back. Gone. So the dream evaporates like water held too close to the light. And he's suddenly, miserably, awake. The light is a penlight. That's what he noticed first. He was in the process of being examined. "Who are you?" he said, or at least thought he said, but the remarkable thing is, he didn't hear himself say it. He could swear he said the words, but he could also swear they never left his mouth. He could swear both.

"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.

"Don't worry, William," is all he said. "Don't worry."

The ship was sailing off into the night. There was just a slow death left, and no one there to hold his hand.

The trip downstairs was quick and painless. The two of them carried him down after putting on his shoes- Leonati and Brickman-just as they'd carried him up the stairs after the hospital. William made no effort to stop them; he'd used up whatever strength he had left and was feeling the awful impotence of the mute. The world had turned deaf to him.

Dr. Fern held the door of his Volvo wide open as Leonati and Brickman slid him in. Like sliding a body into the crematorium, he thought, conjuring up the sight of Jean's family as the firemen discovered them-like so many bits and pieces of a photograph consigned to the living room hearth. And now there was nothing he could do. He'd tried, he'd tried harder than anyone could have asked of him, harder perhaps than even Jean, who, after all, was after the killer of his flesh. He'd tried, tried mightily, but he'd failed. Perhaps, in a day or two, Mr. Weeks would write a better ending to the story. But Mr. Weeks was old and Mr. Weeks was strange, and if he wasn't exactly senile, he was close, and it was anybody's guess if anybody at all would believe him. Three people can keep a secret, someone once said, if two of them are dead. And one of them was dead-Jean-and one of them was about to be-him-and Weeks, well, he was maybe half dead. Petoit had outmaneuvered two police forces and an occupation army; he wouldn't have much trouble with Weeks. Whoever said the meek shall inherit the earth was probably being beat up on a regular basis, and was just doing some wishful thinking. The meek inherit whatever the strong decide to deed them. Jean knew that; so did Santini. Leonati and Brickman patted his arm through the open window.

"Take care, William," Mr. Brickman said. "We'll come see you tomorrow."

No, you won't, Mr. Brickman. And even if you do, I won't be able to see you back.

The car pulled away from the curb.

Dr. Fern didn't talk very much on the ride to his office.

"Do you remember the hospital?" was all he said. "I came to see you there."

So, it wasn't a dream after all. Not a dream. Maybe that explained why Dr. Fern seemed so spooky when he'd seen him for the first time. Aside from the obvious reasons. Because he hadn't been seeing him for the first time. Fern was the stuff of nightmares, and that's where he'd seen him first, smack in the middle of a bad dream that had been all too real. He'd been begging for his life, and somehow he'd won. But not this time.

His head lay flush against the cold metal of the doorknob. He could feel the hum of the engine and every bump in the road. Fern was a meticulous driver; he flashed his signal lights at every turn, the click… click… click like the soundtrack to a cheap melodrama. The End of the Road maybe. Or Dead End. Something that reeks of despair, something whose very title promises an unhappy ending. Only there wasn't an audience, not a single soul. There should always be a witness to death, William thought, someone to share its terror and mark the end. There ought to be a law about it.

They were passing over Flushing Bridge now. The tires had hit metal grating, and the vibrations were knocking his head stacatto-like against the doorknob. He remembered the clock now, frozen stiff, finally telling the right time. For he was winding down too, almost there, his hands nearly still. Of course, his hands had stopped moving a long time ago-sure they had, only to be awakened by an unexpected jolt, the way a dropped clock suddenly springs to life. If there was something positive to be said about his life, maybe it was that-that he, like Jean, had saved the best for last. That final dizzying movement of the hands, when the parts were old and rusted and better left alone. Maybe he could give himself a bravo, maybe he could clap for himself like an audience of one, and see the curtain go down with a smile on his face. Maybe.

And yet, try as he might, and he was trying-honest- he couldn't quite come to terms with it. With death. With his own death. There was too much unresolved here, there were too many bodies under the bridge.

And now the car was slowing down, the kind of slowing down that says you're almost there. And time was too, slowing down for him, each passing second like a blood relation he was mournfully waving goodbye to. Come and give old William another kiss. His heart was banging against his ribs like an angry prisoner on the door of his cell; it wanted out. But the only thing it was out of was luck. The motor suddenly cut off, the car stopped dead.

Dr. Fern wrenched the emergency brake into position, then unclasped his safety belt, each sound like something you hear in death row melodramas. The sliding of bolts, the strapping in of legs.

When he opened the door by William's head, his face was framed by the moon, reminding William of a picture he'd once seen as a child-old man moon as a jolly night watchman. Goodbye moon.

Dr. Fern lifted him from under his arms and dragged him out of the car. His body settled onto the cool grass, and for just a moment the crickets grew silent and gave the night the sort of dignity befitting an execution.

The dew soaked through his pants and made him feel naked and ashamed, as if he'd just wet himself from fear. It was possible he had. He could feel tears on his cheeks, hot and salty, running slowly past his mouth.

Dr. Fern began to drag him through the grass. Feet first. He had to stop every few feet or so to catch his breath, the barest mist rising from his mouth like steam.

When Fern got him to the front door, he stopped again, hunched over, waiting for a second wind. William's clothes were completely soaked through now, his hair wet and slimy. He was cold too, a dull chill seeping slowly, slowly through his body like a nasty enema. He was forced to stare straight up at the stars, at the Dipper and the Great Bear and the Hunter, and down here us hunted, us terrified, all of the stars out tonight, as if he was being given one good look to remember them by. And they were beautiful. They did glitter like diamond studs, just like poets said they did. And they made him feel insignificant and awfully teeny, that too. Which might have made what was coming to him easier to take, if he wasn't so scared of what was coming to him, scared not just of going, but of going now, when-at the ripe old age of seventy-five-he was just getting started. Maybe if he'd spent just a few more nights stargazing, it wouldn't be so hard saying so long to them.

Goodbye stars.

Dr. Fern leaned over him like a shadow, like the Grim Reaper himself.

"Soon," he said. "Very soon."

He'd regained his wind. His grip was stronger now; he pulled William up over the welcome mat. Welcome William. Onto the doorstep and into the vestibule of the house. A pair of muddy rubbers lay flopped against the wall like dead fish. An umbrella hung from the doorknob of a closet. Fern opened it to hang up his coat, opened it for just an instant, long enough for William to see inside, and then to wish he hadn't. Don't look. It was filled with umbrellas-black, blue, red, pink, and yellow ones, retractable ones and miniature ones, men's and women's, like the Lost and Found at a train station. Don't look. But the trains at this station went but one way; there wasn't a return ticket to be had. They weren't his umbrellas, but they were his now.

Dr. Fern began to pull him down the stairs.

Down and down and down the stairs.

To the rec room maybe, for a little Ping-Pong when his muscle relaxant wore off. Or maybe they would sit around a Naugahyde bar and swap dirty stories. Did I ever tell you the one about…

About the doctor and the farmer's daughter. And the milkman's son. And the plumber's sister. And the janitor's friend. And the detective's partner. About them.

The muscle relaxant was wearing off.

Not enough to do anything, to get up and run, to karate-chop Dr. Fern-Petoit-to the ground, but enough to feel a distinct and jolting pain each time the back of his head met a stair. Enough to flinch when the distinct and jolting pain told him to.

The muscle relaxant was wearing off.

They went slowly, down and down and down, where the air began to stink and turn clammy. It felt like the inside of the funeral home in Flushing, it felt downright funereal. And why not? He'd just arrived at death's door; Fern was the gatekeeper. He slid off the last step and landed on the floor with a thud. And a groan. An audible groan. His groan-barely audible, but audible, yes.

Dr. Fern turned on the lights. It looked a little like a laundry-that's what it looked like. Or maybe like wash day at Fort Dix. Or maybe like a newsreel from a certain time and place. Which one? Pick one-he'd seen plenty. The kind they showed at Nuremberg, the ones that made all the gauleiters turn away and shrug with that who knew look they'd honed to perfection. You remember. Not the ones of bodies, but the ones of things that used to belong to the bodies. Before they were bodies. When they were still someone's daughter, or son, or husband, or mother. Those piles of glasses. Those mounds of hair. Those endless rows of shoes. That's what Fern's basement looked like.

There were piles of clothes nearly everywhere. Somber gray suits huddled in the corner. A menagerie of dresses so bright they hurt the eye. A veritable tower of underwear. Ties entangled one around the other like a nest of snakes. Socks, shirts, hats, and sweaters. Some piled neat as a linen closet, some haphazard as a rag bin. They were good clothes too: Sunday best suits were in there, the kind a person might wear on moving day to make a good impression on the new neighbors. And they were made for warm places, for summer, or places like summer. William remembered Collins Drive-the old people clip- clopping down the street in mules and Panama hats, the heat sending ripples across the pavement.

He was lying in a slaughterhouse, a graveyard; he was about to be interred there.

And now what?

Dr. Fern was pulling off his shoes, first the left one, then the right one. Of course. They were destined for a pile-the shoe pile, and that's where Fern promptly brought them, throwing them smack upon a pair of purple Hush Puppies. Then his socks, left, then right, Fern in a rhythm of sorts, William feeling a damp chill envelop each naked sole in turn. Really feeling it.

The muscle relaxant was wearing off.

But too slowly.

He was being prepared, being made ready for death. He spotted a white porcelain tub out of the corner of his eye, and that's where he tried to keep it, in the corner, where he couldn't really see it, and think about it, and mull its specific uses. It was a deep tub, squat and deep, so that a person couldn't really bathe in it, but everything that made a person could fit in it. It was that kind of porcelain tub. By its side was a table laden with gleaming metal instruments and he could smell alcohol wafting over from its general direction.

Fern was undoing the buttons of his pajama top now. They said no one really wore pajamas now. They wore sweatpants, or T-shirts, or just underwear. But even if old men die easy-old habits die hard. William was about to make a donation to the pajama pile.

One button, two buttons, three buttons, four.

Five buttons, six buttons, seven buttons, more.

Dr. Fern pulled off his top. The air made him shiver. Even with the huge burner going full blast in the corner of the basement, the one Dr. Fern had just upped the thermostat on so that it now glowed white hot. Even with that he'd shivered. Visibly shivered.

The muscle relaxant was wearing off.

It was.

His pajama bottoms came off with a sharp tug.

Then he was naked.

Dr. Fern, Dr. Petoit, stood and stared at him-as if admiring his work, or maybe just sizing up the task ahead.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. William tried to remember, to remember back.

Though I walk through the valley of death…

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death… the words coming slowly to him, the way they do on instructional cassettes-one at a time, so there can be no mistaking them.

I shall fear no evil…

I shall not fear…

I shall not…

Dr. Fern took him by the legs and began to drag him toward the tub, the deep white porcelain tub, the one that he'd kept at the corner of his eye for as long as he could, but no longer.

He was dragged past suede and lace and cotton and burlap, past Mrs. Winters's favorite blouse and Mr. Shankin's lucky hat, and Mrs. Joseph's new shoes and Mr. Waldron's loud tie. Past a thousand reminders of people no one remembered. Past William's striped pajamas and threadbare socks-William, who'd no one much remember either.

Dr. Fern lifted him up, grunting, sweat glistening in little beads on his forehead-up and then into the porcelain tub. Not exactly into, but across, so that his legs flopped over the sides.

For thou art with me…

Dr. Fern was pulling on brown latex gloves, the kind dishwashers use, dishwashers and morgue attendants.

He picked a small saw off the instrument table, then wiped the sweat off his forehead with his left sleeve.

Oh God… Oh…

William understood now. Completely understood. There was to be no injection for him. There was, after all, no need for it, no reason to try and fool him, to tell him tales of vaccinations and South American immigration laws. Fern was about to dispose of the body before disposing of him.

And now he was dressing for it, with the solemnity all good surgeons must have before the big operation. He pulled a smock off the back door of a closet-a smock that even bleach had failed to keep white. It seemed more blood than cloth now, as if the red itself had faded and not the other way around. It was a butcher's smock; it had a butcher's smell.

The furnace was starting to pop and crackle, like the sound of snapping twigs in a dark and lonely forest. The beast was coming for him, the bogeyman and the troll. No one could save him.

And now Fern-Petoit was hovering over him like the very Angel of Death.

I shall fear no evil… no evil… I shall not… I shall not…

Fern placed the handsaw just above his left knee. He gave one small glance toward William, then turned and dug in.

At first, it was as if he was looking at someone else's leg, not his, but someone else's, pale white and threaded with veins, hanging limply over the side of the tub. A leg that twitched with each motion of the saw, a leg that bled, slowly at first, then in hard, powerful spurts that splashed up against Fern's smock and collar. What a curious-looking thing-a leg being sawed in half, right in half before his eyes.

Then he remembered.

The muscle relaxant was wearing off.

Remembered it because his nerve endings began prodding him about it, kicking up a fuss even though he was trying his best not to listen to them. But they would have none of it.

So suddenly it was his leg again, not someone else's, but all his. It felt like an itch, okay a bad itch-at first that's what it felt like, an itch he couldn't scratch. But then it became worse than an itch, more like a burn, as if Petoit had lit a match against his leg and was holding it there, as William waited only for a breeze to come and blow it out. But there was no breeze. It was the valley of death and it was dead calm.

Oh God… oh my God… it hurts… oh how it hurts… stop it… oh please stop it…

His leg was half sawed through. Half sawed in half. Half and half.

I shall walk through the valley of the shadow of death… the valley…

Petoit paused to catch his breath; it was hard work sawing through bone, especially at his age, why if he didn't watch out he could hurt himself…

The burn was like a fire now, like a bonfire, like a raging forest fire. There was blood everywhere, it was raining blood. Hot blood too. Hot and salty blood. Like tears.

I shall fear no evil… I shall…

Petoit bent down again.

Put out the fire!

He screamed. And screamed. And screamed again. Petoit wouldn't stop.

Why won't he stop? Why please won't he stop? I'm asking him to stop. He won't stop. He keeps doing it. He keeps sawing. Sawing my leg off. My father can beat you up… he can… he can… my father can beat you…

Thou art with me… stay with me… with me…

He was going, he had his bags packed and he was going, he was going home, to Rachel. I'm home, Rachel, I'm home. He was going down, he was sinking, he was choking in blood. He was dying.

Then his bone snapped. Snapped with a loud crack. Snapped right in two.

And there was Petoit looking at him, looking at him with his black eyes dreamy almost, sort of dreamy and falling shut. Going to sleep, going to sleep right on top of him there in the tub. Petoit going to sleep.

And so was he, to sleep, soft sleep, with his leg still half there-even the bone-for he could see it now, though surely he had heard it crack in two, half his leg still there and hanging, and all that blood, and the raging furnace, but he was going to sleep, here, right here in the valley of death.

And as he went, he saw the Sandman, saw the Sandman on the stairs and smiled at him. Yes. He understood now. That's how it is in God's valley. Sooner or later, you find every mutt in the world there. Every one of them.

Even Weeks.