19 January 1990
Stories
“I need another sponge bath,” Nathan said.
“No problem.”
“If you have a hard time with things like this, we could get a nurse to come in for a few hours a week.”
“Stop it, Nathan. I said I’d take care of you. And I’m taking care of you.”
“I’m just thinking it might get harder. In certain ways. When things like this come up.”
“I’m taking care of you, Nathan.”
“Let me know if you change your mind.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
Nat ran the water in Nathan’s bathroom until it was good and hot. Not burning hot, but hot enough to stay comfortable for the whole bath. He gathered up three big bath sheets. A clean washcloth. A bar of soap.
He helped Nathan turn on to his side, and laid out a towel for him to roll back on to, careful not to leave any creases that would make him uncomfortable. Then he helped him roll to the other side and did the same again.
“I’ll have to wash your back,” Nat said.
“All right.”
He unbuttoned Nathan’s pajama top and helped him sit up so he could take it off. He dipped the washcloth into the hot water and squeezed it out. Then he sat down at the very head of the bed, behind Nathan. It always shocked Nat to see the surgery scar. He’d had no idea such a huge piece of Nathan’s back had been sliced open. Just so some surgeon could give up trying.
“Is it OK to wash over this now?” he asked, touching the raised scar lightly.
“Yes. It’s healed enough.”
Nat began to gently work with the cloth, seeing and feeling every knob of Nathan’s curved spine.
“Does that hurt?”
“No, it’s fine.”
“Is the water too hot?”
“No, it feels good.”
He rinsed the back carefully, and gently blotted it with the clean towel. Then he helped Nathan lie back down again.
“I’m going to pull this part of the sheet over the middle of you,” Nat said. “And then we’ll pull the pajamas off from underneath. That way you’ll have your privacy.”
Nat put a hand under Nathan’s waist and helped him raise up. It was hard, because Nat’s left arm was his weakest limb. But together they managed. He pulled at the thin flannel pajamas with his right, and Nathan held the sheet to keep it from being pulled away at the same time. Then he eased Nathan down again, and pulled the pajamas off by the bottom of their legs. Nathan lay naked on his bed with a sheet over his privates, and Nat tried to keep his glance averted. But even in his peripheral vision, Nat was surprised by the increased swelling of Nathan’s stomach. Does cancer do that to a person? he wondered.
It shocked him enough that he looked directly. For just a split second, he took Nathan in. Just as he was now. Then he quickly looked away again.
A long silence while Nat moved the cloth and the basin to a safe spot where Nathan could reach them. He set the soap on a towel on Nathan’s nightstand, moving aside the dozen bottles of prescription pain medication.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Nathan said. “Even though I know I won’t like them.”
“I was just thinking …” Nat realized he really was about to say what he was thinking. Which surprised him. “I was thinking … how the way we come into the world, and the way we go out of it are sort of the same. How helpless we are. You know. At both ends of things. And how … sort of … fragile.”
“Yes,” Nathan said. “I still remember your coming in very clearly. Fragile is the word.”
“I’ll be over here by the window,” Nat said. “If you need me for anything.”
He walked to Nathan’s bedroom window. The blinds had been left up, because it only looked out on to the private back yard, anyway. It was snowing. Hard. He worried briefly about Carol, driving home from work. Hoped the roads would be plowed by then.
“I’ll have to shovel the driveway,” Nat said. “So Carol can get back in.”
“I have a snowblower now.”
“Ah. Good to know.” He watched the big, wet flakes swirl for a bit. Heard the sound of water pouring back into the basin each time Nathan wrung out the cloth. Then he said, “Nathan? Will you tell me the story of the day you found me in the woods?”
“Of course I will. I’d be happy to. I wish I’d had more chances to tell it in my life. Everybody wanted to talk about it, but nobody really wanted to hear my experience with it. They just jumped right off into how a thing like that could happen, and why, and then immediately they would begin to relate it to their own children, trying to imagine someone they loved in such a position. And it became about their own shock and horror, then. So, yes. I’ll tell you.
“It was the same hour of morning as the two times we went hunting. So not even quite light yet. I was walking to the lake by flashlight, with my shotgun up over my shoulder—”
“The one your grandfather gave you?”
“Yes. All of a sudden, I realized Sadie wasn’t with me. And that had never happened before. Sadie was a bred and trained hunting dog, and there was no distracting her on the way to a hunt. So I knew already that something was very wrong. I called her name. Three times. But she didn’t respond. I think at the time I was cross with her, which seems strange in retrospect, because I should have known she had a monumental reason. I held still and listened, and I could hear her scratching in the leaves. So I shone the flashlight on her. There was something in her face. In her eyes. She was begging me to come see what she saw. Asking in the only way a dog is able to ask. So I went to her. And I shone the light on the pile of leaves. And what do you think I saw? Which part of you do you think I saw first?”
Swirling snow. Coming faster. Piling up more deeply in Nathan’s yard. Nat stood with his hands clasped behind his back. “The little knit cap?”
“No. It was your foot.”
“Which one?”
“Your left. I picked you up. And I just held you like that for a long time. I was wondering how a thing like that could happen. Who would do it. I didn’t jump up and rush you to the hospital because I had no idea you were alive. It never occurred to me that you could be. Your eyes were closed. You weren’t moving. Your skin felt cold.”
“How did you finally figure it out?”
“I set you back down and shone the flashlight on you. And you moved. Just your mouth. Just a little. A very sluggish little bit of movement. This is the moment I remember the most clearly, but it’s probably the hardest one to describe. I was so certain I had found a tiny corpse of a baby. I was so sure that was what you were. And then you moved. And it changed everything, so suddenly and so drastically. I was truly shocked. I don’t know how to describe it any better than that.”
“So then you rushed me to the hospital.”
“Yes. I left the shotgun right where it was—”
“Your good shotgun?”
“I couldn’t hold both. I had to support your head. And the gun was less important. I ran all the way back to the car. And it was still just barely dawn. Hardly light. I was so afraid I’d trip and go flying. I had no idea how I would protect you if I fell. But I didn’t fall. Thank God I knew that trail so well.”
“Where was I while you were driving? On the seat?”
“Oh, no. I didn’t dare leave you on the seat. What if I’d had to stop suddenly? No, you rode on my lap. But even on my lap, I was afraid you’d fly forward if I had to slam on the brakes. I was driving awfully fast. So I held you with your bottom half resting on my lap, but with your head and shoulders in the crook of my left arm. And I drove with my right. Fortunately the transmission was an automatic. I never had a child but I know it’s important to support a baby’s head. You know what’s odd? I never thought about it until just now, as I’m telling the story. But even at first, when I thought you were dead … when I thought I was holding only the remains of a newborn … I still supported your head. And I’m not even sure why.
“But one thing I definitely remember. It was the clearest feeling I can ever remember having. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the saying ‘you can’t unring the bell.’ But it was a feeling similar to that. I knew that our paths had crossed in that moment, and that they would never uncross again. I wasn’t used to knowing things like that. But I was sure.”
“And you were right.”
Silence. Flakes of wet snow ticking against the window and melting there.
Then Nathan said, “I’m about done here. If you’ll help me get dressed again.”
Nat returned to the bed and helped Nathan dry off his feet, put on his pajama top. Helped him keep himself covered with the sheet while Nat struggled to get the pajama bottoms back on underneath it. Then he gathered up all the wet towels. Left them on top of the hamper to dry. Emptied the basin in the bathroom sink. He felt genuinely tired when he was done, so he laid down on the cot beside Nathan’s bed.
“It feels good to be clean,” Nathan said. “Thank you.”
“The first day I met you … I mean, not the first day. Not the one you just told me about.”
“I know what day you mean. The day your grandmother left you here.”
“I said you hadn’t done me any big favor. But that wasn’t true.”
“I know,” Nathan said. “I knew it then, too.”
They lay in silence for a time. Three minutes, maybe four. Nat expected Nathan to drop straight into a nap. Nathan had been sleeping a lot lately, often without notice.
So it startled him when Nathan said, “Now I’d like you to tell me a story. I’d like you to tell me about the night of March seventh, 1980. The night you stayed on in New York and came home with a devastating brain injury.”
Nat squeezed his eyes more tightly shut. Gathered his strength before speaking. Noticed his left hand trembled slightly. “I really screwed up, Nathan.”
“I sensed that much.”
“I took a pro fight. An unregulated fight. There was a lot of money in it. Little Manny tried to talk me out of it. Well, he did more than talk. He refused to tell me where it was, or how to do it without him. But the guy was still there. The fight promoter. And I was just about to find him on my own. That’s the only reason Little Manny went along. Just to protect me. Because I was gonna do it on my own, anyway. With him or without him.”
“So when you said you were staying to do some sparring, you already knew you were going to take this fight.”
“Yes.”
“So that was a lie.”
“Yes. The minute it came out of my mouth, I remembered how you said never to lie to you again. But it was out by then. I felt terrible. But I did it, anyway.”
“Did you lie to me about anything else after I asked you not to?”
“No. Just that fight. I’m sorry, Nathan. It was so stupid.”
“Why, Nat? Can you just give me something to help me see why?”
“I wanted to buy Carol a real wedding ring. I hated that cheap silver one. She deserved better. I didn’t even think I’d win that damn fight. I thought I’d just hold my own for two or three rounds and then I could come home with a real ring for Carol.”
No reply. No sound. Nat looked up to see Nathan nodding slowly to himself.
“Love,” Nathan said. “Love explains a lot.”
“Can you forgive me for lying about it, Nathan? I mean, I don’t know why you should. I’m not even saying I expect it. I’m just wondering. If it’s the kind of thing you could forgive.”
Half a minute or more, during which Nat listened carefully to the sound of Nathan’s audible breathing.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” Nathan said. “I’ll forgive you for lying about the fight, if you’ll forgive me for not telling you I had cancer.”
Nat rose, walked to Nathan’s bed. Sat down next to him. He held out his right hand and Nathan shook it. Then he rose and headed for the door.
“Nat. Before you go …”
“Yes?”
“Did you ever try to find your father?”
“No.” He waited to see if Nathan would ask why not. He didn’t. But Nat felt compelled to say anyway. “Because you said I should be ready for a disappointment. For him to let me down. I knew you were right about that. And I wasn’t. Ready. I never got ready. I just knew I couldn’t take that. So I decided to stick with you.”