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boy: you know nothing about real life. i could show you the world.
anne: calm down there, aladdin.
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Once I asked my dad if he ever thought about death, years and years ago. We were in the car, running an errand. He was quiet for so long that I thought he wasn't going to answer, but then he said-
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I used to know this guy Max. I forget where from.
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This guy Max, he'd been a fishing guide. One day he was out on the river with two other people, and he had a partial stroke, right there on the boat. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was just his time...dropped out right into the water, tangled a little with the motor, the works. Anyway.
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These people are screaming bloody murder, you understand. The woman is trying to pull him back in the boat, the man is trying to cut the motor, and all the while this guy is bleeding in the river like a...well, you get the picture. Now this couple isn't too young themselves. It takes both of them a few good minutes to haul Max back into the boat, and by that time, neither of them thinks he's alive.
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But the woman leans down, presses her ear to his chest. Still as death. And then she hears a small voice, right in her ear, cracked and old and low-
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Put me back.
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She jerks back, tells her husband to take the boat to the bank, to call an ambulance, the man is alive! It's a miracle! She puts her arm under his head, presses a wadded-up shirt to his streaming leg. You're okay, Sir. Just hang in there. His eyes loll, his jaw hangs slack, but he sees her and whispers small, like a child.
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Put me back in the water.
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He's delusional, she shouts to her husband. Wants back in the river. Go faster.
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By now Max's voice is gone, he's just mouthing words, but when she lays an ear next to his chapped and busted lips she hears him. Don't take me back. Put me back. By the time they see him off in an ambulance, strapped to a stretcher, his eyes are glassy and unfocused but his lips twist and jerk in a macabre dance, his mouth forms and reforms into shapes like smoke, and she knows that he knows what's coming. All night long, her husband flush with victory and asleep beside her, she hears his voice in her ear.
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Eight years later I walked into the nursing home to visit Max. They told me the stroke had rendered him almost completely immobile; he mumbled most of the time. Though he could barely move, he had to be strapped into his chair because he attempted to escape about seventeen times a day. At least, the nurse on duty added briskly, with a snap of her clipboard. Don't know how the poor guy does it. This way, please.
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I stepped into the room. Noticed that nursing home smell. Uneaten applesauce, unwashed bodies, ancient breath. Everywhere you hear the creak of wheelchairs, the shuffle of feet that have forgotten where they are going.
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Max is in the corner, facing the wall. I see the frail outline of his back first, see his spiderlike fingers playing nervously with the arm of his wheelchair. Sunlight pours in from a window with its curtains thrown aside, framing the well-groomed lawn and distant highway. The nurse tells him I'm here, and when he looks at me I know he doesn't recognize me. But Max, he watches the nurse leave, and when the door sailed closed with a snap, he raises a finger and beckons.
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I come to him. He waves a hand, impatiently. I lean in closer.
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His ancient lips move. I hear the catch in his throat. My ear is almost touching his frail mouth. And I hear-
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Give me your knife.
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I feign confusion. What Max? Do you want some water or something, buddy? But his fingers wrap around my wrist. I feel his breath hit my cheek. Give me your knife. He exhales. Rick.
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My hand goes to my pocket, automatically, but I know what's in there. Keys, a cell phone, a ticket stub from the matinee I took you and Anne to. Useless things. I tell him, No, Max. Sorry. My voice catches with the enormity of the thing I am saying to this guy.
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He shuts his eyes, turns aside without another word. His fingers release my wrist and it flops by my side. He never spoke to me again.
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I turned to leave. Again I noticed his room, the way it faced the world outside. With one quick motion I tugged the curtains back across the window. It seemed like the kindest thing I could do, so.
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Dad jerks the wheel and the car whips into the parking spot at Lowe's. People mostly just waste their time, he said. Death isn't really something to worry about.
