54

 

       DOUG

 

    She looks up as we come through the door.  She is hunkered over a box, a crystal relish tray in her hand.  A long strand of grey hair hangs across her face.  He hair is turning grey.  Funny I never noticed that before.  Placing the tray carefully back in the tissue paper, she starts to get up.  What happened?

    Nothing.  I carry him past her into his room.  But it's not his room now.  It is full of moving boxes.  The wallpaper is gone, and the walls are bright yellow.  There are shelves on every wall.  When I turn around she is right there, at my shoulder.

    What's the matter?

    He starts to cough again, a harsh, dry sound in his chest. I try to get past her.

    Here, put him in the chair.  Sit him down.

    But it's not his kitchen chair.  Everything is hers.

    It doesn't have any arms.  He can't sit up in it right.

    She just looks at it like she hadn't noticed it before.

    Where's his new room?  Where's his bed?

    She still has that look on her face.  I just push by her and head for the stairs.  I never saw her without an answer before.  A silver lining in every cloud.  Halfway up the stairs, I hear her voice, I'll get his medicine!

    The room is sunny, a window at each end.  The walls are some kind of paneling, looks like pecan.  The old bed and dresser are out of place.  She has put light, see-through curtains up.

    I sit on the edge of the bed and let him slide off my hip.  He settles, like a leaf in a wind, into the bed with no more force or weight.  The springs don't give at all.  I pull the comforter up over him to the chest.

    There.  There, how's that?  The last cough is just now passing, a slight catch and gurgle in his throat.  His face is red and wet.  I wipe it with the edge of the sheet.  I can hear Aunt Lorraine downstairs, looking for the medicine.  They ought to have it up here beside his bed.  What if he needed it in the night?  He always had it beside his bed before.  He's quiet now, his breath coming in long hard pulls, each one sounding as it might not make it, but it is almost silent.  This ain't bad, I tell him.  I make a point of looking around the room and nodding.  No; this ain't bad at all.  You got a window in the front and one in the back.  You'll know what's going on everywhere.  Now you won't have to wait till John comes over to the backyard to see what he's up to.  Look right down in his front yard.  Yeah, this is real nice.

    His eyes are open now, but he doesn't look at me.

    Aunt Lorraine's getting the cough stuff.  She'll be up in a minute.  Nice paneling.  What is that?  Pecan?  That's what I thought at first, but now

    He lifts his arm under the comforter and tries to push it down.  Scowling, I ain't cold.

    Oh, okay.  I stand up and pull the comforter down.  I think twice about sitting down next to him again and walk to the front window.  Yeah, he'll know what's going on everywhere.  Except downstairs, in his own house.

            Another cough hatches in his chest and starts up his throat.  I step quickly around the bed, but this one is a doozy; he lifts off the mattress before I can get there.  I press him down, forcing the springs to give a little.  It takes all of me to hold him.  His heart pounds beneath my hand, pulsing into my palm.  Too hard, too fast.  It is a long cough, and we are both wet and tired when it is over.  I wipe my forehead with my sleeve and dry the tears from his face with the sheet, but new ones come.  Our faces are close and he looks right into my eyes, but I know he doesn't see me.  He is listening.  From the dying echoes of the cough comes a new sound, more even, less impatient and angry.  From the other window it comes, deliberate and steady.