One Fine Day You’re Gonna Die

CHAPTER THREE

On talk radio, dead air is the enemy. Spotting her chance, Doctor Harris leans in to her microphone. People from the unnamed network are listening, assessing how Dr. Harris can handle situations on air. But people for whom I am a lifeline are also listening. I failed them once before. I’m not going to let it happen again. I dig deep for my cool and commanding voice, and it’s there.

“So you deal with people who are about to die or people who’ve just lost someone they love,” I say. “Heavy stuff.”

Dr. Har ris’s laugh is warm and self-deprecating.

“Heavy stuff indeed, but I teach people how to do the heavy lifting.”

“You make it sound so easy-like doing push-ups.”

“Handling death is like doing push-ups,” she says smoothly. “At first you think you can’t get past your weakness, but if you persist, every day you get stronger. You simply have to show your grief that you’re its master.”

Everything about Robin Harris is without flaw. Her profile is classic; the lines of her neck are graceful; the deep plum polish on the perfect ovals of her fingernails matches the gloss on her lips. As she utters her insights, her voice is certain. I think of my listeners, broken and vulnerable, and of me, broken and vulnerable too.

“Where were you when I needed you?” I say.

Her green eyes meet mine.

“You lost someone?”

“Yup.”

“And…?”

“And…I’ll never touch her body again, or smell the fragrance of her skin or hear her voice. I’m like Eurydice in the underworld when she stretches out her arms to Orpheus, struggling to be grasped and to grasp him…” My voice breaks.

Nova’s voice comes through the talkback.

“Want me to go to music?”

I shake my head.

“And catches fleeting air,” Dr. Harris says. “I’m familiar with the story. Incidentally, Orpheus didn’t have to lose Eurydice. He could have carried her back from the underworld if he’d honored his promise not to look at her.”

“His fault,” I say.

“Most of our suffering is self-induced,” Dr. Harris says coolly. “We have to be strong enough to face that. And move on.”

“That would be a trick,” I say. “I’m sure Orpheus would have benef ited from your counsel, Dr. Harris-I’m sure you would have saved the day.”

Nova runs a finger across her throat, indicating that I should stick a sock in it.

“I’m going to music,” she says through the talkback. “Info’s on your computer screen. Then we’ll take a caller.” She pauses. “Don’t let her draw you in, Charlie. We’ll get through this. Lunch tomorrow is on me.”

I read Nova’s notes announcing “Manhã de Carnaval” from Black Orpheus. The music comes up and I meet Dr. Harris’s eyes. “This is certainly going well,” I say.

“I don’t like your tone,” she says.

“Neither do I,” I say. “Unfortunately, it’s the only tone I have.”

I open the talkback, so I’m certain Nova hears the conversation. “Dr. Harris, why don’t you and I park our egos and get on with this? When you have your own show-and I’m sure you will-the spotlight will be on you. ‘The World According to Charlie D’ focuses on our callers. You and I got off to a bad start tonight. Let’s just chill and listen to the music. When it’s over, we’ll start taking calls. Any questions?”

“None that you could answer,” she says. The melody has gone from her voice.

Until the music ends, Dr. Harris shuffles through her notes, and I watch her shuffle. We’re like two people on the world’s worst blind date. Nova peers at us over her wire-rimmed reading glasses and bites her nails. She’s a committed nail-chewer and, lovely as she is, her hands look like a nervous six-year-old’s. “And we’re back,” she says finally.

I turn on my microphone. “That was ‘Manhã de Carnaval’ from the original sound track for the film Black Orpheus. I’m Charlie Dowhanuik, and you are listening to ‘The World According to Charlie D.’ Our topic on this Halloween night is the big D. Death. So how do you see ‘being defunct’? One of these days all of us will head for the last roundup. Yippee ai oh kay ay. Are you ready to saddle up? Made your will? Filled out your donor card? Made peace with your enemies? Made peace with yourself? Give us a call at 1-800-555-2333. Let us know what you’ve done to prepare for the moment when you shake hands with Mr. Death.

“And for those of you who’ve just joined us, we have a guest tonight. Dr. Robin Harris is a thanatologist, a specialist who knows everything there is to know about death and dying. Dr. Harris is ‘professionally equipped’ to advise the rest of us on how to face our fears when the Grim Reaper taps on our imagination.

“Our first caller is Louise, from Sudbury. Greetings, Louise, what’s on your mind tonight?”

Words can lie but voices never do. Louise has the rasp of a woman who has enjoyed her whiskey, her cigarettes and her men. I like her.

“Hi, Charlie D,” she says. “And hello, Dr. Robin…sorry, I didn’t catch your last name. Anyway, what’s on my mind tonight is my mother.” Louise chortles. “Dead or alive, it’s always about her.”

“So I take it your mother is no longer with us,” I say.

“You take it correctly, and I want to talk about how pissed I am at the way she died.”

Our guest expert adjusts her mike.

“Louise, this is Dr. Robin Harris.” She articulates her name with the care of someone attempting to teach a cow to speak. “So you’re calling because your mother suffered greatly,” she says.

Louise is huffy.

“She didn’t suffer at all, Dr. Robin Harris. My mother was ninety-two years old and she died in her own bed with clean sheets, her own teeth, a silk nightie with the price tag still on it, and a smile on her face a mile wide.”

“There’s something you’re reluctant to share,” Dr. Harris says.

“I’m not reluctant. You just motored in before I had a chance to finish.”

Our guest expert raises a perfectly arched eyebrow.

“Something about your mother’s death distresses you,” she says.

Louise is a plainspoken woman with little patience for pretty words.

“It doesn’t ‘distress’ me, Dr. Robin Harris. It pisses me off. As I was saying, I made sure Mother was clean and sprayed down with Elizabeth Taylor’s White Diamonds; then I gave her permission to die. I used the exact words Oprah said to use. ‘Mother,’ I said. ‘Your work here is done. It’s okay for you to leave. I’ll be fine.’ After that, Mother’s eyes got misty and she raised her old arms and said, ‘I’m coming, Andrew.’”

Robin Harris finds the low, smoldering notes of her magnificent voice.

“And you were hurt that at the end of her life, your mother didn’t reach out to you. She reached out to your father.”

Louise’s exasperation reaches the boiling point and spills over.

“Doctor, I may not have degrees up the wazoo the way you do, but I know how to listen. My father’s name was Walter. Andrew was the name of the angel on that cheesy tv show, Touched By an Angel. You can catch it in reruns. Mother never missed an episode. Anyway, I’m sitting there bawling my eyes out, and there’s Mother on her deathbed, reaching out to this actor who is now doing a commercial for cat food.”

“And you want to know how to deal with your anger toward your mother?” Robin says.

Louise’s laugh is infectious.

“I’m not angry at Mother. I just wanted to get that off my chest, and now I have. Jeez, Touched By an Angel. Thanks for being there, Charlie D. Dr. Robin Harris, I hope you learn a little something tonight about how to listen to people.”

Louise’s imitation of our guest’s precise enunciation of her own name is deadly. As I take the next call, I see the pulse in Dr. Harris’s white throat throbbing with anger. It’s going to be a long night.