The Listener (9 page)

“Yes,” he said, “of course you did. That is the flock you had, and that is the flock I have. We have them together; we have them together. Until the end of time, we have them together. You and I.

“But you never had to say to yourself, ‘I am the guilty,’ as I say to myself now. I am the guilty. God, be merciful to me, a sinner.

“Give me strength to tell my people the truth. If they reject me, as they rejected you, what does it matter? There is only the truth. Forgive me. Above all things, forgive me. For betraying you in trivialities.

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality
.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labour, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

Emily Dickinson: “The Chariot”

Eugene Emory walked stiffly into the sitting room, saw those waiting in silence, and hesitated. How placid they were, like cattle, some reading a magazine, some only staring at nothing. Like people in an anteroom of the Salvation Army! Why had he come here? That specialist who had given him the irrevocable news, finally! What had he said? “I think you’ll find some peace there. We’re very proud of old John Godfrey’s place. I’ve seen some remarkable things. No, I was never there myself. But you must have read about it.”

He had. In one of the big national magazines. A beautiful square building, set in flower gardens, with trees and arbors — the finest architects had built it. It was open twenty-four hours a day to everybody and anybody. “The Man who Listens.” The reporter in that magazine had been a very amusing boy, full of mocking wide-eyes and arched brows and rounded, contemptuous mouth. “Ooh,” he seemed to be saying in every clever paragraph. “Ooh. Ooh! The lame, the halt, the blind — come one, come all. Find your particular nostrum here, your own face, your own voice. That’s what they say. Your reporter did enter the inner sanctum of sanctums and asked a lot of questions aloud. That big, bright, melodramatic curtain just wouldn’t open! It couldn’t be pried open. I know; I tried. Velvet over steel mesh, apparently, which could only be parted by electrical impulse, and the boys had shut the juice off. Everybody welcome, except a reporter whose job it is to expose sham, cheapness, brash popularity, vulgarity, and pretense. Why the clergy haven’t denounced it is one of the continuing wonders of the years.”

The colored photographs, however, had been exceedingly handsome, the pictured gardens exquisite, the paths carefully tended, the trees luxurious. No walls or fences guarded the four acres of land, and though the grounds were in the very center of a very populous part of the city, it had never been reported that any vandalism had been committed here, except an attempted robbery a few times, scattered over the years.

The reporter had been particularly annoyed and skeptical, because no donations were solicited and none accepted. He scattered a few dark rumors for public speculation. The governor of the state, after reading that article, had ordered an ‘investigation’, though he knew all about old John’s structure, for he had been there himself one quiet night. But the public ‘clamored’ for the investigation, the governor said apologetically, though he failed to notice that the clamor did not come from the city itself, or even the state, but from towns and villages and cities in far parts of the country. The governor found ‘nothing wrong’. It was a quiet, restful place where you could think, he announced.

A quiet, restful place, thought Eugene Emory as he sat down. Just what I need now! A quiet, restful place, closely resembling a grave. And these are my companions, these dolt-faced women and men, waiting. He saw that one by one, in perfect silence and composure, they rose at the chiming of a bell, opened the oaken door, and disappeared from sight. That was all. My God, what am I doing here? thought Eugene Emory, thinking of what he must tell his wife tomorrow, and his children.

He was forty-nine years old. He had worked all his life, worked while going to high school, worked while going to the university in his home city. He had known nothing but work all his life. He had not resented that until a month ago, or was it two months? Then his resentment had reached fury. He had been so enraged that he had lost two of his easiest cases in court, and the judge, his friend, had looked at him with concern. Three days later he had looked at him sternly and had called him to account with a threat of punishment for contempt of court. Emory, Dean and Hartford had lost face through him, he who had established the firm. Jack Dean, his best friend, had told him that he looked sick and that he was perhaps too tired. “I’ve been feeling like a sick pup,” he had finally admitted. “I suppose I need a vacation. Haven’t had one in eight years; no time. You ought to know that. I’ll talk to Emily tonight, and maybe we can plan something, a cruise or a trip to Europe.”

His wife had been joyful over the idea, but first she had insisted that he see the family physician for a thorough examination. “I hardly know the man,” he had protested. “I only know his bills, and that’s enough! What are you doing here, running a hospital?” But Emily could not be turned aside and, fuming, he had gone to the physician. “I have only an hour to spare,” he told the doctor immediately on entering the examination room. “I’m very busy, you know. How are you?” he added as a belated thought. Had he ever seen this competent youngish man before? He seemed vaguely familiar. At the club? In his house?

“I’m all right. But I don’t think you are,” said the doctor, looking at the ghostly face of his patient, the gray lines under his strenuous blue eyes, the clefts about his mouth, the ashen color of his thin lips. “Well, we’ll soon see.”

Tests, tappings, soundings, breathings, bendings, listening. The hour was up, but the doctor had not finished. “I must go,” said Eugene impatiently.

“Yes,” said the doctor with grave thoughtfulness. “But just to be sure, I want you to see Dr. Hampshire in this same building. He’s the blood specialist, you know. I want to be absolutely sure.”

“Of what?”

“Of something I suspect. Of course I may be wrong. I hope I am. How long, by the way, has it been since you had that attack of tonsillitis?”

“Two months ago. How did you know I had that attack?” Eugene became alert.

The doctor said evasively, “And you had swellings under your jaw line, too?”

“Yes! What was it? Strep? I took some of the penicillin tablets you left for one of the kids. Look, do I have to go to this Dr. Hampshire?”

“Yes. Right now. You may call your office from here, if you wish, and tell them you’ve been delayed. And I’ll call Dr. Hampshire.”

“Can’t I make it next week, or after we come back from our cruise?”

The doctor did not say, “You’ll probably never come back from that cruise.” Instead he said, as if after giving the matter thought, “No, I’d feel better about it if you had the examination now. For Emily’s sake. She’s been worried about you for weeks.”

This was another surprise. So they were on a first-name basis, were they? And why had Emily been worried? Of course he had lost some weight, suddenly and very recently, and he had been feeling sudden exhaustions and palpitations, and there had been that day when he had vomited after breakfast and had thrown up some blood. Ulcers. Well, that was the badge of success, as they said.

“Ulcers?” he said to the doctor.

“Why do you ask that?”

“Never mind.” If he told about that blood there’d be more delays, and barium meals and X-rays; he knew all about it. Young Hartford had ulcers, and his descriptions had been graphic.

“I’ve never been sick a day in my life,” said Eugene as he dressed.

“Good,” said the doctor. He waited until he was certain that Eugene was on his way to see Dr. Hampshire, and then the young doctor called his older colleague. “Eugene Emory,” he said. “I’ve known him for years, but he hardly notices anybody. He’s tough. He can take it. Leukemia. But I’d like to make sure. Acute, I’m afraid.” He attempted to laugh, feebly. “Try to make it chronic, will you, Ed? Then perhaps we can prolong his life.”

The doctor thought about all the advances made in the treatment of leukemia. Sometimes life could be prolonged, even in such devastating acute cases. But it was a life under absolute sentence of death. Of course, thought the doctor, we all live under sentence of death, but so long as we aren’t aware of it all the time we can forget it. People with leukemia, though, can never forget it. Not even in fantasy.

Less than an hour later Eugene Emory returned. He sat at the young doctor’s desk, and there was death in his face. He said, “I don’t believe it.”

“You must, Eugene. If you have any affairs that need putting in order — you can’t evade the fact that you are going to die. And too soon, I’m afraid.”

Eugene said nothing. He lit a cigarette with pale thin fingers. He stared over the doctor’s head.

“We begin to die the moment we are conceived,” said the doctor. “Sooner or later, we die. I may die tonight, under the wheels of an automobile, or next year, of a coronary thrombosis, or tomorrow, falling down those damned steep steps at our club. Death is something we can’t escape. The only thing that’s wrong with it is that we don’t begin to tell our children about it in the very earliest childhood, so that they will live with the fact and think of it regularly, so that it becomes familiar to them and not something terrible, or something which, through mysterious luck, they can avoid. Not to tell a little child all about death — and the hell with the ‘psychic trauma’ of it! — is about the most cruel thing you can do to the child. To tell him soothingly that only the very old die is to make a liar of yourself, and the child will soon find out and despise you. And children are born tough and resilient; they aren’t fragile flowers who must be protected from life. They can take the fact of death easier and more naturally than we can; it becomes harder for us every year.”

He added, “Death is as much a part of life as birth.”

“I never lived,” said Eugene, as if talking to himself. “I never knew how to live; I only knew how to work.”

He stood up. “How long?”

“A month, perhaps. With luck, perhaps two months. But no longer.”

“There’s nothing you can do?”

“Various things. But they’re not too successful in acute cases; they work best in the chronic. How do you like the idea of going into the hospital today, for blood transfusions, radiations, and so on?”

Eugene gave it thought. His face became more ghastly by the moment. He passed his hand over his fading light hair. “Why should I?” he said.

“Well, it might make you a little more comfortable — ”

“And that’s all? And then I’ll just linger around there until I die?”

“Yes.”

“Then, no. I’ll keep on going until I have to stop. It will make it easier on my family, too. By the way, am I going to run into any — trouble?”

“Probably. I’ll give you some tablets to relieve the pain. You said you’ve been having pain over your bones. It may or may not get worse.”

The doctor hesitated. “Why don’t you talk to the minister of your church?”

“I don’t know him,” said Eugene flatly. “I’ve only seen him in his pulpit at Christmas and Easter. But Emily knows him well, and the children.”

“Why don’t you talk to him about this yourself?”

“Thank you, no. I’m not going crawling to — You know what I mean.”

The really furious, incredulous, and helpless rage had begun then. It was all the more terrible in a man of his laconic and restrained temperament, his logical mind, his factual experiences. Always he had been able to control his life, to direct it, to fight circumstance and overcome it, to turn things aside. He knew that his juniors called him ‘The Univac’, and it had amused him. He had only to appear in a courtroom, quick and light-footed, his face concentrated in an expression of single-mindedness, to make the opposing lawyer’s heart sink. He rarely lost a case, and those only the most desperate. His life, his work were in full control, in absolute order, full of precision. He hated fuzziness. He would often say, “There’s nothing inevitable.”

Now he was faced with the inevitable. The rage increased. It was not a frightened, quivering rage, a pusillanimous one. It was the rage of a man who has never lived, and when he is on the threshold of living his life is taken from him.

He had known for the past two years that he must begin to give Emily more companionship; their children were almost adults now, and they would soon be leaving home. Once a son or daughter left home for school, he or she really never came home again, except as a visitor. Eugene was not a ‘dedicated’ man, as others called him approvingly. He had wanted money only to guarantee him and his family a reasonable amount of security, and he had accomplished that now. And next came pleasure, and travel, and leisure, for himself and Emily. His wife had not been lonely or unhappy or neglected. She had known for what he was working so strongly and admired him for it. When he had suggested the cruise a few days ago she had said, “Really? Wonderful! Now we can begin to enjoy ourselves, can’t we, darling? While we’re still young and healthy.”

They had spent hours that night planning the cruise. All over South America; they would sail in October and so would have two months to prepare. The girl and boy would be at college then. They would not return from the cruise until just before Christmas. “And then, in February, we’re going to Florida,” said Eugene. He had kissed his pretty wife, whose dark brown hair was so glossy and fresh. “It’s time we lived. And now we’ve got all the time in the world. I’ll get busy with arrangements at the office.”

He now had no time at all.

A month. Two months. He did not tell his wife. He could so control himself that when she talked enthusiastically about the cruise and gave him more colorful pamphlets he could bring up a convincing and interested smile. They had their passport pictures taken; they applied for passports. Eugene had never been very ruddy of complexion; his deepening pallor only made his wife believe that the cruise was really very urgent. He had always been thin. She bought extra vitamins for him and gave him eggnog at bedtime. He indulged her lovingly. He could express his affection only with a glance or a touch or a quick half-ashamed embrace, but she knew how he loved her. She never saw the little tablet he occasionally took now when his physical distress was overpowering. She never knew that he went to a private hospital with his doctor for an occasional blood transfusion “to make you a little more comfortable.” She thought he slept at night. He did, sometimes, after a drug.

And then one day he realized that two weeks had passed, or was it three? He had more blood tests. “We’re holding our own a little,” said the doctor.

“A reprieve?”

“Well — you can’t always tell with this damned thing.”

“The governor won’t call three minutes before midnight?”

“No. Have you told Emily yet?”

“No. I don’t want her to know. Until at the very last, perhaps the last hour.”