“And the souls of the damned go to Hell if you die in mortal sin? You believe in that too?”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I’m afraid that I believe that there is no pardon for the damned.”
“And last rites can make a difference?”
“It is always good to die in a state of grace,” he said. “It’s what we all hope for.”
At least I had done that for Daniel. I sat staring at him, listening to his rasping breath.
“Is there anyone you’d like notified?” Father Patrick asked. “Friends or family? I would be happy to have telegrams sent for you.”
“You’re very kind,” I said. “Yes, I suppose I’d better let his mother know.”
“Then write down for me what you want to say and where it has to go.”
I went downstairs to find a piece of paper and noticed the letter to Sid and Gus lying on the hall table. I couldn’t send that to them now. Suddenly I decided that I wanted them to know. I had to send them a telegram too. I wrote: Daniel pneumonia outlook not good. Then I copied down the addresses of his mother and of my neighbors onto a sheet of paper. I wondered if I should send a telegram to police headquarters but I decided there would be time for that later, after—I stopped that thought before it was allowed to take shape.
Father Patrick had come down the stairs behind me. I handed him the piece of paper. He took it without saying a word, then nodded. “His mother lives out in Westchester County, I see. Not too far from my present assignment.”
“You’re in the Hudson Valley? I assumed you were a priest in New York City,” I said.
“I had to leave the city years ago, for my health,” he said. “Since then I’ve been in smaller parishes in rural settings. More to my liking, away from the dirt and noise of the city. I’m currently at St. Brendan’s in Granville. Do you know it?”
I shook my head, wishing he’d stop talking and go away when all I wanted to do was be at Daniel’s bedside.
I held out my hand. “Thank you again,” I said. “You’re most kind. Especially when you’re grieving the death of your brother.”
“It’s my priestly duty,” he said. “At least I try to do that.”
I watched him walk back toward the house. As he went I looked up and thought I saw a light winking in a turret window. I blinked, stared again, but the light had gone and the turret loomed as part of that great shape in the darkness.
I went back to Daniel. He did seem to be sleeping a little more peacefully now and I hoped that somehow he had felt the presence of the sacrament. I perched on the edge of the bed beside him and took his hand. It felt hot and dry, and a memory flashed back to me unbidden of being handed a baked potato fresh from the oven by my mother. His lips looked cracked and I tried again to tip some water through them. He coughed and spluttered as the liquid ran down his throat.
I looked across at the packets of aspirin lying on the dresser. That old doctor had dismissed it as newfangled, but my friend Emily had brought it for me from her pharmacy when I had come down with a bad case of influenza and it had definitely helped. I was going to try, regardless of whatever that doctor had said. I went downstairs and mixed a dose with water. Then I hesitated for a moment before adding a second packet.
I carried it to the bedside. I glanced out of the window. The first rays of dawn were streaked across the Eastern sky. It was almost day. Outside my window a bird began to chirp—tentatively at first and then more confidently. It all seemed so calm and serene and normal, almost as if that bird was mocking me. Was this to be the last day of my present life? That thought flashed through my mind. I looked at the tumbler in my hand.
“I’m not going to let you die, Daniel Sullivan!” I shouted at him. “Do you hear that? I will not let you die.”
I lifted his head, forced his mouth open, and tipped the liquid down his throat. He coughed and retched and fought, then fell back like a dead thing. Immediately afterward I was scared at what I had done. But it was too late. He had swallowed most of it.
“On fire,” he whispered. “I’m on fire.”