Cancer Pt. 02: The Aftermath

Cancer

By Henry Jekyll

Part Two: The Aftermath (Chapters 5-8, conclusion)

*****

Ch. 5: Death

In retrospect, it didn't take Michael long to die.

I worried that I'd have to record one sex act after another, night after night, for weeks or months, but Michael left us the week after. There was only one additional video, a few nights later, and it was almost vanilla. Singh came into the room and played with Kate on the bed, then lay back while she used her mouth on him. I don't think she came. He lay contentedly, his head on the pillows, an arm behind his head, while she lay across his belly, his depleted cock in her mouth, and she swallowed the dregs. He stared at the ceiling, and it was almost like he was looking at me through the video recorder, or maybe wondering why there were two smoke detectors. Then he looked away, at something else, and stroked Kate's hair. He seemed to like her hair.

He touched where his dick met her mouth, and he said, "You know Sharon? My PA? She likes women. Oh, she likes menandwomen. She wants to join us next time, and we'll have fun."

Kate looked up to his face and kept sucking.

*****

The next day Michael was wan, and he wouldn't interact much. I couldn't tell how much was from the chemo and how much was the cancer, but though I sat with him for a long time and tried to chat, he lay there or slept. I pulled out my cell phone and read part of a good crime novel by Lawrence Block, but I couldn't concentrate, and after a while I went to the cloud and played a video of Kate and Singh.

I wondered what they had done that first night, during the crisis. And what of the nights before? There could have been several. How long had they been at it? Or rather, how long had Singh been fucking Kate? She was the recipient, the bottom. Nothing was clearer, and she craved it. What had she said in the first video? "I was afraid you might not come."

That's what I was thinking when Kate came back from lunch, or whatever she was doing. She came over to me and put a hand on my shoulder. I glanced up at her, then away, thinking Don't react.

"He doesn't look good."

"Jit... Dr. Singh says it will pass."

"Sure it will."

She lifted her hand off me.

*****

It didn't pass. Michael didn't respond to whatever they did for him. I could tell he was spiraling. Even Kate could tell. He didn't seem to be hurting, but those meds may have been working. He slept more and more, and when he was awake he wasn't all there. He'd stare off at nothing, and we couldn't get him to pay attention to what we said. He wouldn't eat and wouldn't drink, so they were giving him nutrition and fluids through a line in his chemo-port. Kate kept asking the nurses to get the doctors. She asked them to call Dr. Singh, and finally he came in. He and his colleagues told us they were doing all they could, but I could see it happening: Michael declining, dropping, weakening.

Kate saw it and wanted me to hold her, to touch her, to talk, but I couldn't bring myself to both care for Michaelandpretend with her. I'd let her hold my hand for a minute, then would drop it and step away.

"Please Stef."

"Go to your son."

We called our folks to tell them they should fly down if they wanted to see their grandson a last time. When they got there, he was so far gone that he hardly acknowledged them. They helped me by taking over everyday tasks and providing someone to talk to who wasn't Kate. She stayed in his room most of the time, telling him she loved him, and talking about nothing, and stroking his brow. "Please get better, Mikey."

I'd try to ignore her when we didn't have to talk, and it was obvious to everyone that there was some problem between us. There was Michael and there was Kate, and I could tolerate her only because my attention was on my boy. Frankly, though, I don't remember much of those days. Hours were given over to simply waiting for -- something. To be close -- to bethere-- we stayed at the Ritz. We'd sit in Michael's room during the day, leaving only to eat, then go to our room to sleep, then return.

I awoke early one day, and found I was alone.Well, Kate, did you go to Singh's room?But she hadn't. She was sitting beside Michael's bed, sleeping in the chair. After that, the nurses brought in a cot so we could sleep without leaving, and Kate and I spelled each other every night until it was over.

I'd expected Michael to slowly drift off at the end, but it was much more sudden. He crashed. Our folks were going to rent rooms at the Ritz, but Michael got so much worse that we all stayed with him. The hospital provided a hospice worker to help us through it, and other staff came in, in ones and twos. They'd bring us drinks and food. Dr. Singh came in for a while and talked with us about what we should expect. With family, it's remarkable how much of our talk was chitchat, that and telling stories about cute things Michael had done. Every so often, Kate would look down in her hands and whisper something. I leaned forward once, to listen, and all she said was like a prayer: "Don't go, Mikey."

I took some pictures. Long ago, more than a century ago, people would have photographs taken of their dead children or husbands or wives, sometimes dressed up and made up so they almost looked alive, sitting in a chair or lying in bed. It was gothic and creepy, but they wanted to have photos of what their loved ones looked like when they were still alive, before they began to decompose. Their last image. I took photos because I wanted a record of Michaelbeforehe died, but he almost didn't look like himself.

We were all in his room when he fell from the rampart and hit the ground. He'd been mostly unconscious. Kate had been sitting by his head, holding his hand and leaning over him. I was on the other side. Michael's breathing stopped for a moment and she stood up and said it aloud, "Don't go, Mikey. Don't go," but I could tell he was leaving.

"Let him go, Katie." She looked up at me. I couldn't stand him suffering any more. "We have to let him go."

She held her arms out to me and I came around to her and held her. I wanted to hold her and I didn't. It was the first time in days I'd touched her if I didn't have to. We both told Michael it was okay to go if he had to, and I guess he agreed, because he beganthosebreaths, the on-again, off-again ones, and then he stopped, and Kate leaned down and put her head on his chest and sobbed.

Dr. Singh was among those who rushed in. He said, "I'm sorry for your loss. I'm sorry that we couldn't save him. We did everything we could, but he was just too ill." After a bit he left.

"Jit!" Kate called after him. "I don't understand!"

She broke down and tried to hold me again, but I pushed her off to her mother and went over to hold my son's cold, little hand some more. He was dead and I was being a son of a bitch to his mother. I heard Kate's mother, Mollie, say, "He has to deal with it his own way. Give him some time." Mollie was trying to help, but no time would ever be enough.

*****

At the visitation, I had to stand beside Kate while our friends and family came by to offer condolences and hugs and tears. It was a long line. Singh and several others from the cancer group came by and I stepped back while he hugged Kate and kissed her cheek and spoke with her for a moment. She held his hand when he left to view the body, until he pushed her hand off.

Each of us would go over to Michael from time to time, and look down at him, sometimes to touch him or to kiss him. I'd never wanted to touch a dead body, but now I understood. I just wouldn't do it while Kate was with him.

And Kate? She looked frightened, and like nothing was making sense. What was there to understand? They hadn't been able to save him. Life wasn't fair. She kept crying but I wouldn't let myself cry over anything.

*****

The next day we took two cars to the church for the service. Kate and I took the Camry because my Civic was deemed unacceptable. We needed to be presentable for the death ceremony. The hearse was already there, parked by a side door, right behind a stretch limo that the funeral home provided. Both were gleaming black. The drivers were standing beside the hearse in their uniforms, chatting and vaping. We gathered in a little group with the pastor and the funeral director, to go over the different steps and our responsibilities.

Before we went inside, Mollie asked to speak privately with me. "Stefan, I know how hard this is for you, but your wife lost a son too. She needs you. Please try to be there for her."

"Mollie, don't. Just don't. There's more going on than you know. Step back. We'll deal with it."

"What is it?"

"Maybe you should ask your daughter about that."

I don't know if she did.

At the service, Kate and I sat beside each other, the way you're supposed to. She kept looking over at me but I wouldn't look directly at her. Then we all piled into the stretch limo for the ride to the cemetery. It was like we were going to the prom, or to some billionaire's gala. I thought I might tell Michael about that later. Kate sat beside me and wanted to hold my hand and I let her. Don't cry, Stef! I didn't want to show any weakness in front of Kate.

It hurts to remember it. Everyone had come past us at the end of the service, to say hello and give their condolences, and hug, or kiss, almost like a replay of the visitation. Singh was with the group from Children's. He hugged Kate, who didn't seem to know how to handle it, then he turned to me. Should I shake his hand? Should I play out the role one last bit? I put my hand into my pocket and stared at him and stepped back. He looked at me for a moment, then went on.

At the gravesite I stood with the pallbearers. Mollie and Kate's dad held Kate, while I helped carry my son's tiny coffin to the grave. For some reason, I don't remember doing that.

Our parents had wanted to stay, to help us and help us get through it, but it had been over a week, and I'd told them we needed some time alone, so once we were back at the church, they took a rental -- all four of them -- to the airport.

I was finally alone with Kate.

*****

*****

Ch. 6: Dead World

Set the scene. Kate and I were in the Camry, passing by suburban forests and golf courses, roundabouts, restaurants, McMansions, churches, and retention ponds with great blue herons and swallows and geese. Boys were fishing from the ponds. They'd catch some fish, then throw them back into the water. Though I'd see it every day, it was interesting in a distant sort of way, as though I'd never truly seen it before. I still wouldn't look directly at Kate.

Michael was gone and in the ground. The official and social obligations for the dead were complete. Now, I could get on to different tasks, though I didn't know exactly what they'd be. I had all these ideas, but they were somewhere in the realm of the theoretical. We'd made it to the here and now. Whatever happened, our folks wouldn't have to witness it in person; they could learn of it at a distance. I particularly felt for Mollie, who wouldn't be able to defend her daughter.You're a good mother, and you'll have to live with it.I hadn't decided if I'd broadcast the videos or keep them in reserve. On second, or third, or whatever thought, I probably wasn't going to kill anyone. Why waste my time in prison? Unless I killed myself too. That was a possibility. And then there were my fourth and fifth thoughts. With a gun, everything could be done and over with, quickly. Round and round it went.

Could I do worse than kill them? A simple divorce would be far too easy for Kate. And Singh? I knew I could fuck him up. I didn't know exactly what I'd do. Just dropping the evidence on his wife and on the Children's Hospital board might do the trick, but he needed physical retribution. I'd read those stories where the guy's penis and balls were destroyed, but that seemed a little out of my league. The idea, though? Oh, yes.

Over all, death looked better and better, and there was another gun show next week. There was a certain cadence to "murder-suicide" that I liked. The main thing was that I didn't want to leave Michael's grave unattended. You can set up perpetual care contracts for your loved ones, so I'd do that first. Professionals would take better care of Michael's grave than I could. Maybe I could set it up so Kate would be cremated and I could lie next to Michael, just the two of us? Maybe, if I were dead, I could see him again.

Kate was leaning back against the passenger door, looking at me. She seemed devastated. Good! A flock of Canada geese, or a circling of turkey buzzards, would pull my eyes toward her and she would look away.

The turkey buzzards were inspiring.

*****

The confrontation began when I rested my hand on the gear shift knob. Just resting it there. You've done it. It wasn't an invitation, but Kate reached to me and took my hand and I jerked it away.

"Don't touch me!"

"Stef. Please! I don't understand. Please. What have I done?"

"What have you done?" I drove through a roundabout without worrying about the cross traffic, and someone laid on their horn.Can you really not know I know?"What haven't you done? Try this. You fucked him!"

Now I did look at her, barreling down the parkway but looking over at my future ex-wife instead of the road, my future ex who was pushing herself into the corner of the seat and the door, her eyes saying "He can't know!" and "What does he know?" and "What does he mean?"' Somehow, she had no clue. My future ex was in the dark, not knowing anything, wondering what it was all about, wondering what she could do. She couldn't do anything.

"I haven't done that. Please Stef. I haven't done anything. I don't understand."

"You fucked him and fucked him!"

"Who?"

"Who? You can ask? You know who. You fucked him and fucked him, while Mikey was dying."

"No! Stef!"

I turned onto our street, then onto our driveway, where I cut the wheel to the right and slammed the brakes.

"You fucked Singh, you slut!"

I left the driver's door open and went to our front door instead of into the garage, to get away from her, but she followed. I went to the TV and the laptop.

"Please Stef. I don't understand. I didn't do anything!"

"You want to see it? Want to see him play with you?"

"No."

The video came on.

"What about your enemas? Want to see them? Three enemas and a solid fuck."

"No. Please."

I flicked the icon for the enema scene, and Kate put her hands in front of her eyes and gasped and backed against the wall.

"No!" She shook her head.

"There it is. Three of them! Three goddamned enemas, Kate. How good was it? How much did you like it?"

"No!" She looked away and shrieked. "No! Turn it off! Turn it off! Turn it off!" She slid to the floor, her ass to the floor, her hands still covering her face, shaking her head back and forth.

"Live with it." I stopped yelling. "I won't make it go away, because you did it, that and more."

"Please, Stef. Please!"

"While our son was dying."

"Please, Stef. Turn it off!" She would cover her eyes, then glance at the video, then cover her eyes again. "Turn it off!"

"And with that you killed everything." I was shouting again. "Everything!"

I picked up the bottle of Rittenhouse and threw it like a tomahawk at my liquor cabinet. A window shattered and the cabinet door swung open and liquor bottles came rolling out. The Rittenhouse neck broke and my wonderful rye burbled onto the carpet. Another bottle was cracked and leaking, and others were just rolling on the floor. Kate had started screaming when the window shattered, and she kept it up as she pulled herself into a tight little mass. As though to protect herself.As though!I thought I could stone her to death with the bottles she had provided.How thoughtful.

Kate screamed again from behind her hands. "No! Stef!"

I picked up the precious Edradour, her first gift, and heaved it at the cabinet, and another pane shattered. The Edradour exploded, and pieces of the bottle landed near my feet. Other bottles rolled out, clanking against each other, some breaking and spilling.

"You killed everything! Everything!"

Kate kept screaming and crying behind her hands, "Stop! Stop!"

I threw something else, the Appleton Estates rum I'd never get to taste, and it shattered on some other bottles.

"Please! No!"

"Everything! Every fucking thing!"

I threw another. Another. Kate had stopped begging but was making a keening sound I'd never heard before. There were booze and broken glass all over. It crunched underfoot when I moved around. I slipped on a bit of broken liquor neck, then took the Macallen and tomahawked it at the picture window, but the window wouldn't break. There was a dent and a spiderweb of cracks. Damn it!

"You think you didn't kill every fucking thing?" I picked up three unbroken bottles and marched to Kate's China cabinet and threw them through the panes, one at a time, and with each one I yelled a single word: "Every! Fucking! Thing!" Oh, it was great. Porcelain and pottery and glasswork shards flew everywhere. Another. Another. Something stung my cheekbone, and when I touched it there was blood and something sharp was sticking in me. I pulled it out. It was a sliver of white porcelain, or had been white. I flipped it to the floor and more blood rolled down my face.

I grabbed some of our good China plates and threw them like frisbees, only vertically.Death to fine China!I thought. They broke like skeet targets when they hit. I picked broken pieces up off the floor to throw, and something cut my palm. Shit! I yelled with every throw. I kept throwing until there didn't seem to be anything more to throw, yelling "every," or "fucking" or "thing" with every toss.

I didn't hear Kate crying anymore.

Blood was dripping onto the floor. I went into the kitchen and got paper towels and held one to my cheekbone and wadded some into my right palm.

I finally stood in front of Kate. Was she even there anymore? She was making some sounds, more like moans than anything else. Her hands were up at her face and she wasn't looking at anything.

"Every! Fucking! Thing!"

She didn't move.

"That's what you did. You killedeverything!"

I picked up an unbroken bottle of something with my cut hand and threw it as hard as I could at the picture window, but it just left another dent and some more spiderweb cracks. The wadded paper towels flew off my hand, though, and my palm began to bleed freely again. I wiped it on my slacks and got some tissues to staunch it.

"Just fuck you!"

I picked up my messenger bag and went out to the garage. When I backed my Civic out, I hit the Camry's open door, and I drove away.

*****

I wouldn't have stopped at Walgreens if I hadn't kept smearing blood on my steering wheel.

I'd turned off my phone to stop Kate's messages and gotten some blood on it, too. I needed to do something about the bleeding. What would I need? Bandages and maybe antibiotic cream. Plus, basic stuff. A razor. Shaving cream. A goddamned toothbrush! How much stuff do you need? Mikey was dead and I needed toothpaste. Kate was fucking half the nation and I couldn't remember all that I needed.

Inside, there was a clerk whose job seemed to be to greet people. She started to say "Hello," but stopped after the first syllable and stared at me. She began to follow me from a distance as I walked down the aisles looking for bandages, and I was wondering if she would call the police about the strange, bloody guy in her store. The place was all but empty, and I would have called them if I had been her, but she finally edged up to me and said,