To collect you, said R.
Slavering, fast-breathing, said G.
Discussing with relish the good old days, said R.
And the good days yet to come, said G. With you at our side, K.J.
As we roam the earth, encouraging former compatriots in their final moments, said R.
As we hope we have encouraged you tonight, said G.
Each letting out a small yelp of torment, they savagely hurled themselves through a closet door nearby as if to avenge themselves upon it.
Rushing over, throwing open the door, I found only a set of dusty dumbbells and, on a wooden hanger, a green bathrobe, swinging slightly in the backwash of their departure.
—
My charge’s heart was beating in a tumbling, erratic fashion and a sheen of sweat shone on his face.
Sweet Jesus, he said.
Friends of yours? I said.
Barely knew them, he said.
Well, they seemed to know you, I said. My goodness. What did youdo? Whatever did youdoto merit a visit like that?
From the wedding came a squeal of shock, as if something unthinkable but delightful had just been revealed to a previously demure matron.
I made them with my mind, yes? he said. Like before. In Belgium.
No, I said.
It’s the meds, he said.
It’s not, I said.
The matron let out a second, even more shocked squeal, as if to revise her previous, apparently insufficient cry of delight.
Jesus, what was happening? He’d had enough. Of being harassed. Also, the pain was back. Ugh. At a 6, maybe 7. Per the scale Hospice Joan/Jane had taught them. He was all pain now, just about. And nowhere to go. Jesus God. He had to fight back, the way he’d always fought back when assailed by idiots, by letting his anger flow unimpededly outward toward whichever idiot happened to be nearby, thereby unlocking a special pointed creativity that he, when livid, possessed.
He seemed now to be taking my measure.
Why was I pressing him on all this crap, anyway? Did it give me some kind of sick thrill?
Me? I said.
Why not get off him? Couldn’t I see he didn’t feel great? Anyway, it was dull. A dull topic. Maybe not to me, though. Maybe to me it was interesting. Maybe I was the type of gal who couldn’t tell dull from interesting. Maybe I was the type of galwho had a bit of the dullard about her. Was I? A ditz? A moron? A dope?
My eyes (as they had done in that previous realm, when I found myself insulted) filled with tears.
Causing a delicious feeling of sudden power to arise in him.
Airhead, he whispered fiercely.
Space case, dumb bunny.
Then, as if to drive in the knife:
