The Egg Code (43 page)

LIFE IS FAIR

XXV

Throat

The Rightness
of Dying

Approaching the end of my little indulgence, I feel it might be useful to give an account of my parents’ demise, just as a kind of after-dinner liqueur, something dark and weighty to contemplate before driving off into the night. You don’t know much about my mother. Rarely have I written of her, for she is not the point here, and neither am I. The point is
you,
wonderful you, you with your various grievances, some great and some small, grievances which I have sought to address in my own shallow way over the past twenty-five years.

My mother, who died in 1972, never had the chance to attend one of my Cheer the Heck Up weekend seminars. The cause of her premature death was a massive knife wound to the stomach. It was a kind of double suicide inflicted upon the same person; having swallowed thirty-seven aspirin tablets, she then attempted to cut them out with a grapefruit knife. I can only assume—for my mother was a peaceful woman who would rather cut her steak with the side of her fork than use a knife—the pain was so unimaginable that it overcame her ability to reason. The instant she felt that horrible burn, all intellectual reservations about suicide were soon forgotten, and she could only think of relief at any cost. In retrospect, the forced-extraction method was probably not a good idea. Well, live and learn. In fact, the method of her suicide has always puzzled me. I can’t imagine her swallowing thirty-seven of
anything
. My mother was never a glutton. Always left a little on the plate. Good God, she even swallowed the
cotton
.

When I was a kid, my mother presided over an assembly of other neighborhood women, serving as their local guidance counselor—an unofficial responsibility, but one which tends to seek out those cursed with the gift. At my age, I was able to eavesdrop without drawing attention to myself, and thus heard many sad tales of neglectful husbands, surly teenagers, chemical addictions: subjects which, in my own chosen profession, would become all too familiar. One summer evening, the ladies decided to buy her a cake, a half-assed token of their appreciation. I remember opening the front door, looking up, then standing aside as they presented her with a plain white box, the name of the local bakery stamped in black. It was a nice gesture—probably set ’em back a buck or two—but when we opened the box, we were horrified to discover a big gash tearing through the various layers of cake and frosting. Someone had
stepped
on the cake. A few of the women fainted, collapsing splay-legged onto the couch. My mother said something along the lines of
Oh, it’s all right
, but the head of the committee would have none of it, and in a mad march of indignant rage, the procession stomped out of the house, swearing vengeance on the bakery up the road. My mother and I waited for them to return until well past ten, when she woke me up with a slice of cold apple pie, and we sat there in my room, sharing the slice, sharing the same fork, my mother lying next to me, her legs wadding the sheets, big swirls bunched near the bottom. The incident was quickly forgotten, and unless I’m forgetting a few stray words scattered in the breeze, that was the last kind thing anyone ever tried to do for the woman until the day she died.

For what ultimately happened was this. I grew up and went off to school, and the month I received my master’s degree from Midwestern University, my father died of a heart attack. Mother spent the first few weeks sitting in the basement, talking to herself, sleeping in a chair. My parents were always affectionate around each other, and shared a passion for board games. There was one game—I don’t think they make it anymore—where if you landed on a certain spot, your opponent got to say “You’re in the dungeon!” Consigned to my bedroom, I would hear this nasty phrase repeated over and over, sometimes well past midnight, the words followed by an interval of soft and sloppy kisses. I quickly decided that the dungeon was a pretty good place to be.

After the funeral, I moved back to live at home and eventually started taking night classes at U of M, all the while wondering why none of the neighborhood women bothered to stop by anymore, now that the man of the house was gone for good. I sometimes ran into them at the grocery store; in those days I did all the shopping, since my mother was too fragile to leave the house. These women—whose husbands still beat them, but lovingly now, tinged with a hazy awareness of their own mortality— would smile at me in the aisle, and without even mentioning my mother’s name, they would launch into a neurotic screed about their own irrelevant dramas as I stood there with the image of my mother superimposed over the canned goods, my mother politely enduring day-long tales of marital woe in her long, solid-colored dress, offering her best advice, bearing their burdens on her weak, all-too-human shoulders, and I thought,
Oh, you miserable cunts, you bitches, you cunts.

Over time, I’ve learned to suppress my feelings. Even without the grapefruit knife, without the thirty-seven aspirin tablets, surely my mother would be dead by now. Nothing matters in the end. There are some of us who are meant to die violently. Better to do it with a knife than with a pension. My father, when he died—good God, almost thirty years ago—I’m sure he was afraid of death, much as you are. He felt his heart closing in on itself, felt the dizzy weight pressing against his chest every time he got out of a chair. After he died, his body continued to digest the linguine primavera inside his belly for another few hours until finally not even that worked anymore. Knowing my mother, I’m sure she put a little sprig of parsley on the plate—just for decoration’s sake— but I imagine he might’ve swallowed it anyway, a sweet little gesture, something to please the ol’ gal, his last token of love spread out across the walls of his stomach.

Anyway, he died, and I wonder if there might be a lesson in all of this, some bit of wisdom we can apply to our own deaths-in-the-making. It is my job to find the lesson in everything.

Um. Okay.

Here’s a shot. Death is . . . I want to get it perfect. Death is the goal. Death is the right thing at the end of everything. Imagine your life as a fast trajectory moving toward a large, unavoidable target. You’re not going to miss it. There’s no skill involved. Picture it as a literal target, if that helps you to get the idea. A real bull’s-eye, except that the eye is as big as the target itself, and there’s no penalty for drifting off course because there are other bull’s-eyes to the right and left and up and down and even
behind
you to catch you when you fall. You have nothing to worry about. You want to worry, worry about the dishwasher, and the fact that it hasn’t worked since last month. But don’t worry about death. Because it’s gonna happen. The only thing you’ve got to do is keep looking. Keep looking at death. And to my younger readers, you keep looking too. You especially—you’ve got more time to do it right, to hit death confidently and with class. Keep it in your sights at all times. Learn to like it. No, learn to love it. Never cower. Never fear. Look toward your death, poor people of America—therein lies your emancipation! The target will take care of everything. This is the great one-point plan, the secret I’ve been hiding from you for all these years. Money, sex, frustration—no longer will these things have the power to hurt, to corrupt. Emptiness will become a thing of the past. In this nearby place, the fruitcakes will rule. And I will have succeeded at last.

Broke

Unable to read anymore, Donna Skye put down her magazine and stared out the window. It was spring, almost summer, and someone across the lake was working on his boat, listening to bright, melodic guitar-rock on the radio. She drained the rest of her chardonnay, set the empty glass down and padded up the stairs. Back in bed, she reached for another magazine, then sighed and left it on the nightstand. The light coming through the window moved across her body, and when she closed her eyes, she could sense the sun going in and out of the clouds, orange and then black, a malarial back-and-forth.

Half past one in the afternoon. Why sleep now? Why
now
, for God’s sake?

Sitting up, she scurried off the bed and across the room. The bed was an evil thing. It wanted her soul, the empty remains. Donna Skye was a forty-eight-year-old woman who drank and slept all day. No! That wasn’t her at all. She was a published author, a big seller by some accounts, and while the press had ridiculed her first attempt, she could still take pride in accomplishing what she’d set out to do. Even as a little girl, Donna was never supposed to exert her own will. Derek’s story was similar to hers; both of their courses were predetermined a long time ago— hers by her father, his by suicide.

And now? They shared something else: bad reviews. She hadn’t read the book yet, a bit put off by the write-up in
The New York Times
. The critics all suggested a failure so profound only a genius could pull it off. They’d always hated his work—hated’s not the word, they
ignored
it, because his followers were not apparently well educated and therefore worthy of academic study but not respect. They ignored him, and now . . . to chastise him this late in the day?
That
was the real crime. Leaning against the closet door, she hoped her husband (
still
her husband!) hadn’t read the papers. Derek was having a hard year. This wasn’t what he needed. He needed
her,
the perfect unit they made together. Removing her purse from the door handle, she slung the strap over her shoulder and fled down the stairs. She had to see him.

When she reached Derek’s apartment, it was not yet two in the afternoon. She parked and sat in the car for a few minutes. What to say? The first thing, plan it out. Derek, honey, I know you don’t want to see me but—no, just “Derek,” no “honey.” Crossing the front path, she noticed that the door was open—little door, little hallway, a bachelor’s pad, no place for a man over fifty (God! she’d missed his birthday). Derek, I’m sorry I missed your birthday. Let’s go away from this place. The steep stairs leading up to the top flat,
clam! clam! clam!
, drives the neighbors crazy every time he comes in at night, stumble-bumble at two in the morning. Where are you, my little bleached bimbo? Some sixteen-year-old sassyslut—probably got the crabs, not that he cares, so long as it’s nice ’n’ tight.
Pound
-mmmm!
Pound
-mmmm! Bedsprings snapping. What the minions don’t see. The legions, the clamoring fans. The phone ringing at six a.m. Sure a long way from Crane City. His hand on my back. Long limos outside. You folks ready to dee-part? Barking orders. The push of bodies. This is my wife, Donna Skye. You must feel so honored. Yes, ladies, I
am
honored. No question is too personal. Coffee chats in motel reception rooms. 2:30–2:45. Tea with Mrs. Skye. White letters on a black signboard. THE DEREK SKYE SIX-DAY SEMINAR—yes, that’s fine, but this is my
husband
we’re talking about! Reaching the top step, she pushed her way into the apartment, expecting some reaction, a turn, a shocked stare, a stammer, b-but Donna, don’t Donna me, the words filling her mouth, too much to say and not enough time, not for this, not the blood, smears on the floor, on the walls, red stains on white Formica, fingerprints (swirls and grooves), falling, falling, elongated fingers, sloppy marks, darker pools on the carpet, soaked fibers, still spreading, Derek’s hand clutching the blade, a straight-edge, a little notch halfway down, sharp steel fringed in blood, tiny red tongues, and his own tongue pushing, trying to speak, whisperwhisper, wouldn’t the pain . . . ?, how can a person do this to himself?

“Dahn-nah.” Derek coughed and a black geyser of blood shot into the air, covering his face with an ugly warm splatter. One pale tube twisted from an anchor deep inside his throat. With his neck hacked open, he looked thirty years older; his whole face seemed to sink toward the hole.

Donna rushed into the kitchen and, trying not to panic, called the police, her hands trembling, arms wrapped up in the cord. Hanging up the phone, she hurried back into the living room and fell down next to him. “No. Ohno ohno. Oh please. Oh please God.”

“Muhh-nuhhh.”

“Unnh? You want . . . ?”

“Mmmmuu.” Derek’s movements were slow and aimless. His spread arms reached for things and fell back, a weak grab.

Frantic, she dug her fingers into the wound, pulling out a terrible wad of veiny, salmon-colored gore—sloppy, with loose strands connecting it to the body like a rooty section of turf. Looking into her husband’s eyes, she saw a new intensity there, something focused and immediate. She leaned in, brushing his cheek with her long hair. “Whuwhuwhubaby, tell me.”

Derek’s eyelids fluttered. A strange weight seemed to be tugging on one side of his mouth. “Muhn-nyeh.”

“Oh Derek I love you.”

“Myaaairr!”

His expression hardened. A final word escaped, speaking directly from whatever part of his dying presence still remained. “Unfair,” it said.

His fingers curled as one hand dropped and turned over. Donna looked up at the ceiling (the fan stirring slowly, stuck in a low gear). She wept, her eyes closed, head tilted back. Derek’s absence changed everything; her voice seemed higher, thinner than before.

For ten minutes, she stayed at his side. He’d turned into an object, one of many inside the room: a cloth sofa, two pillows, a table, an extension cord . . . Derek’s body. The smell of cooking in the downstairs apartment rose through the floor. The carpet was sloppy with blood.

Two policemen appeared in the doorway, not moving as a team of medics stormed up the steps and raced into the room. They stopped, looked down, then away from the body. An officer approached her, cupping his hands around her shoulders as the medics rolled Derek’s corpse onto a stretcher. A bit of the dead man’s neck hung over the edge of the cart; the lead attendant discreetly scooped it up and stuffed it back into place.

“Ma’am, would you like a sedative?” The officer searched Donna’s eyes for a response; finding none, he signaled to his partner, who produced an Altoids tin filled with tiny round pills. Donna placed one of the pills under her tongue and allowed the men to lead her out of the room. They carried her to the bed, then stood sentry as the drug took hold. A narcotic sensation, rather like a hand pressing down on her face, came over her, and she soon fell asleep.

Waking, she noticed no loss of time. Both officers were staring at her, and she could smell the chemical odor of industrial-strength carpet cleanser, thick and noxious in the air.

“Mrs. Skye? How are you feeling?”

“Oh . . . I . . .”

“Do you know where you are?”

Donna nodded as one of the two men turned and left the room. Through the wall, she could hear voices, some nearby, others crackling over a walkie-talkie. The one remaining officer brought a notepad out of his coat pocket. “Your husband has been taken to a nearby hospital,” he said.

She laughed, wiping her face on her sleeve. “What for?”

He nodded, head bobbing from side to side. He was a middle-aged man with gray hair and a sick complexion the color of uncooked ground beef. “Well, we need to . . . examine the situation to determine just what happened.”

“I don’t have to—”

“Oh, no. You can stay right here. We won’t ask you to do that.”

“I can’t stay here.” Running her hand across the mattress, she noticed the little dips and lifts, the places where the springs pressed against the surface. “I don’t live here, you know. This isn’t my house.”

“I see.” He rifled through his notepad, finding a clean page. “This is where your husband lived.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Alone?”

She looked down at the bed. Narrow. Enough room for a lover. “As far as I—”

“As far as you know. I understand, Mrs. Skye. I understand entirely. So you would visit him . . . ?”

“N-no.” She closed her eyes, confused. “We rarely saw each other. This past year we . . . no. I just happened to . . .” Frowning, she looked back at him. “Don’t you have to write this down?”

The officer straightened. Thoughtlessly, he closed his notepad. “Oh, I . . . I have a very good memory. I just . . . I get very nervous, you see.”

“You do.”

“I find it terribly upsetting.” His lips began to tremble. “Particularly when . . . ch-children are involved.”

Donna swallowed hard. She felt a sudden desire to touch the man’s arm. “Oh, well . . . Derek and I never—”

“No, I mean, children, when children get into unpleasant situations, I find it terribly upset—” His voice broke. The other officer ran into the room; looking around, he smiled at the woman on the bed.

“Come on, Cliff,” he said, drawing the cop out of his chair. Cliff followed in a blind daze, head down, shaking. The notepad fell from his hands. Pushing him into the next room, the second officer apologized. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We’re just going for a little walk.”

Donna sat for a moment and listened to the sound of weeping as it faded down the stairway; then she picked up the notepad, set it on the bed and left the room, closing the door behind her.

When she got outside, the ambulance had already pulled away, blowing the stoplight at the top of the hill. The sedative she’d taken now reasserted itself, but instead of making her sleepy, it overwhelmed her with a swirling abundance of information. A dizzy feeling made the ground seem uneven, and she could almost sense the curve of the earth.

Unable to drive, she left her car and started back on foot, but every time she focused on something specific—a signpost, a newspaper dispenser—it betrayed her by melting into vagueness. An expression formed upon her face, pleasant and withdrawn. For the first time she began to resemble—not her father, but her mother, whose life had also been smothered by circumstances. Her mother had worn this expression for more than sixty years. This was the expression Donna would wear for the rest of her life.