Right To Die

21

"MERRY CHRISTMAS, JOHN."

Nancy had put on a fuzzy mauve robe before she'd gone into her kitchen. Now she was at the side of the bed, holding a carrying tray in front of her, steam rising from coffee cake and ceramic mugs.

"What's in the mugs?"

"Your leftover cider concoction. Waste not, want not."

I'd mulled the cider, with cinnamon sticks and orange sections, the night before as Nancy made popcorn and strung the product on threads like a rosary, whole cranberries playing the Our Fathers. After lacing the cider with bourbon, we'd looped the strings of popcorn and cranberries over lights and ornaments on the short, full spruce tree we'd spent a cold hour selecting at a Lions' Club lot in Brighton. Shopping for the tree reminded me that I had to act on Bo's advice regarding a Gore-Tex running suit. Late December was feeling more and more like the tundra time of February.

I hadn't seen Bo for a week or so, but I'd been training religiously without him. Following my talk with Gunther Yary, the case for Maisy Andrus had slowed down, as some cases will. After checking to make sure all the people she'd offended were staying home for the holidays, I'd contracted out to another investigator who needed someone to spell his people on an extended surveillance. I did stay in touch with Inés Roja by telephone, me confirming there were no further notes, she advising that the professor and Tucker Hebert sounded happy and relaxed on Sint Maarten the two times she'd heard from them. Andrus wanted to meet with me when they got back, Inés and I agreeing on a breakfast conference for January 18. Around bites, Nancy said, "You realize this is the best Christmas I can remember?"

She snuggled close enough for me to inhale the herbal shampoo still clinging to the roots of her hair. After decorating the tree, we'd agreed to exchange gifts in the morning and slipped into bed, making slow, drowsy love as the lights twinkled five colors in computer-chip sequence.

"Where are my presents?"

Nancy took another gulp of cider. "Under the tree, junior."

"I want my presents."

"And here I thought you were finally showing the patience maturity is supposed to bring."

"I want my presents now."

"Okay, okay. Smallest to largest?"

"The only way."

We traded gifts, one at a time. Silly ones, thoughtful ones, middling-expensive ones. A Garfield the Cat calendar for her, a T-shirt with the legend BODY BY NAUTILUS, BRAIN BY MATTEL for me; a video of Adam's Rib for her, a video of The Maltese Falcon for me; a leather briefcase with shoulder strap for her, a teak desk set for me. And so on.

Finally, Nancy said, "Time for the big ones?"

"Uh-huh."

The boxes were remarkably similar in size. about right for a man's suit.

Nancy opened her present, a geometric sweater in five colors from an exotic store on Newbury Street. She held it up, arms stretching arms, chin pressing down on crew neck. "It's beautiful, John."

"Genuine yak fur from the Himalayas?

"Your turn."

My box came open. It contained a man's suit, all right. Ebony Gore-Tex, drawstrings on the jacket and Velcro cuffs on wrists and ankles.

I looked up at her.

Nancy said, "One of the guys in the office runs. He helped me pick it out. If the size is wrong – "

"It's perfect, Nance. Does this mean you've decided I'm not so stupid about wanting to run the marathon?"

"No. It means I don't want you getting what my friend calls 'penile frostbite.' Do you know what that is?"

We showed each other there was nothing to worry about.

The week between Christmas and New Year's was miserable weatherwise: temperature in the high thirties with frequent if not constant rain. The Gore-Tex kept me both dry and ventilated, but there was still no sign of Bo, which worried me a little.

Fortunately, December thirty-first turned bright and sunny. Everything dried out toward a crisp, low-forties First Night. First Night has really caught on in Boston. Originally designed as a way to discourage drinking on New Year's Eve by offering performing arts alternatives, the idea has blossomed into an annual festival of ice sculptures, fireworks, and general revelry. Just strict enough to discourage public carousing, just tolerant enough for hip flasks discreetly tupped.

Nancy had bought us each a button, a blue bird on a black background. The button allowed the wearer to attend almost all the holiday entertainment. We cooked an early dinner at my place,

planning over dessert the events we'd visit. Most were repeated on a staggered schedule during the evening.

Out on the streets, the crowds, all ages and sizes, jostled happily. Cloth coats to fur wraps to ski outfits. Mardi Gras costumes, glowworm necklaces, tinsel tiaras. Women with painted faces, guys with long plastic trumpets. Nancy wore her Himalayan yak fur sweater, which pleased me. I didn't wear my rapidly ripening Gore-Tex suit, which pleased her and everyone around us.

We began at the First Baptist Church on Commonwealth. Minimalist decorations hung beneath conservative rosette windows and dark joists and trusses. There were no kneelers in the pews, and only the barest of cushions on the benches. I browsed through a red-bound hymnal on the rack in front of me as we waited in the swish of people seating themselves.

The four performers were the Mystic Consort. Renaissance music from soprano and bass singers, a right-angled lute, and a harpsichord the size of a hippo. Most of the twelve works involved all four, some a single singer with accompanist or an instrumental solo. A perfect, gentle kickoff.

Our second stop was the Old South Church on Boylston Street. We joined a thick line of nine hundred people moving slowly past port-a-potties. At the doorway we were among the last folks ushered politely into the sanctuary to hear the Old South Brass, Timpani & Organ. The sanctuary walls were done in rose and lavender, an opening-flower motif that was repeated in the carpet. Ornate detail work crept over ivory marble facades. Lustrous beams arched upward, like the ribs of a great sailing ship capsized overhead, just below a center cupola and skylight. Curled chandeliers were attached to the ceiling by brass balls and chains. Overall, I had the feeling of being in Constantinople.

The musicians played trumpets, trombones, and tuba in addition to the timpani and organ, the last a 1921 dinosaur of nearly eight thousand pipes. The conductor moved the crowd without manipulating it, starting with a rousing National Anthem and progressing through various pieces I didn't know to one I did. An arrangement for organ of Barber's Adagio for Strings, the signature theme of Oliver Stone's Vietnam movie, Platoon.

The Barber music took me back, back two decades to a New Year's Eve in Saigon, a turn of the calendar a month before the lunar new year, a month before Tet, when most of us still thought we were winning.

"John?"

I looked down into Nancy's eyes, suddenly aware she'd been tugging on my sleeve and whispering to me.

"John, are you all right'?"

"Yes. Why'?"

"I thought you were zoning out on me. You were moving your lips and had this glassy look in your eyes."

I closed my hand around hers. "I'm fine." And I was.

Our third stop was the Arlington Street Church, the one that most reminded me of a Catholic cathedral. All white, elaborate barrel vaults, fluted granite pillars, stained-glass windows with interior shutters. A massive walnut pulpit enclosed in riddled wooden gates dominated the altar. Undecorated pine trees contrasted with garlands and floppy red velvet bows. The pews had café doors and miniature kneelers like shoeshine boxes.

The performing group was the Muir String Quartet. About halfway through the first entry, which sounded a hell of a lot like "Baubles, Bangles, and Beads," I noticed someone familiar on the far side of the church. He was partly in the shadow of a pillar, but I was pretty sure it was Del Wonsley, Alec Bacall's companion, sitting next to a man a little shorter and more stooped than Bacall. Nancy played finger games with my hand through the remainder of the program, a nice mix of the poignant themes a string quartet can evoke. As we were shuffling out, the stream from the other side of the church merged into ours, and I was startled. I recognized Del Wonsley for sure, but that wasn't what startled me.

The stooped, older man next to Wonsley was Alec Bacall. There was a hollowness in the pouches above and below his cheekbones, as though someone had let the air out of his face. It had been only three weeks since I'd driven Bacall to South Boston after the library debate.

Wonsley said, "Oh. John, right?" The brown eyes were soft but a little unsure of what to say next.

I introduced Nancy while Bacall bundled up, a heavy scarf over his throat and mouth like a Berber tribesman.

Bacall said, "Got a bit of a cold, I'm afraid."

I nodded, and Nancy preempted an awkward silence by taking Bacall's arm and leading him into the foyer, leaving me with Wonsley several steps, and intervening people, behind.

I said, "Is Alec all right?"

Wonsley's expression didn't change. "He's having problems with his insulin dosage. It's not working right sometimes. In fact, this is the first time since before Christmas we've been out. Alec wanted to… we met, sort of, on First Night, last year."

"Has he been to see a doctor?"

"Yes. At the… a clinic. He recommended Alec have some tests."

Wons1ey's expression still didn't change, but the eyes got softer. He didn't say what the tests would be for, and I didn't ask.

We said good-bye briskly on the sidewalk. As Wonsley and Bacall moved away, I asked Nancy if she'd mind cutting our celebration a little short.