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Grampa said nothing.
“Will there be a white light, do you think?”
Grampa massaged his upper lip as he considered the question. “Probably. It’s a chemical reaction as the brain shuts down. People who think it’s a door opening on some glorious afterlife are just fooling themselves.”
“But there is an afterlife. Isn’t there, Grampa?”
James Jonas Fiedler ran that long yellow finger along the scant skin beneath his nose again, then showed his few remaining teeth in a smile. “You’d be surprised.”
“Tell me about how you saw Cleopatra’s tits.”
“No. I’m too tired.”
One night a week later, Sharon served pork chops and told her family to enjoy them—savor every bite was how she put it. “There won’t be any more chops for awhile. Bacon, either. The pork processing plants are closing down because almost all of the workers have the virus. The price is going to go through the roof.”
“A Day No Pigs Would Die!” Roxie exclaimed, cutting into her chop.
“What?” Father asked.
“It’s a book. I did a book report on it. Got a B-plus.” She popped a bite into her mouth and turned to Willie with a smile. “Read any good first-grade primers lately?”
“What’s a primer?” Willie asked.
“Leave him alone,” Mother said.
Father was on a birdhouse kick. A local gift shop took them on consignment and actually sold a few. After dinner he went out to his little garage workshop to build another one. Mother and Roxie went into the kitchen to do the dishes and jabber. Willie’s job was clearing the table. When it was done, he went into Grampa’s room. James Fiedler was now only a skeleton with a skin-covered skull face. Willie thought that if the bugs got into his coffin they wouldn’t find much to eat. The sickroom smell was still there, but the smell of decaying Grampa seemed to be almost gone.
Grampa raised a hand and motioned Willie over. When Willie sat down beside the bed, Grampa beckoned him closer. “This is it,” he whispered. “My big day.”
Willie pulled his chair closer. He looked into Grampa’s eyes. “What’s it like?”
“Good,” Grampa breathed. Willie wondered if he looked to Grampa like he was retreating and getting dim. He saw that in a movie once.
“Come closer.”
Willie couldn’t pull his chair any closer, so he bent down almost near enough to kiss Grampa’s withered lips. “I want to watch you go. I want to be the last thing you see.”
“I want to watch you go,” Grampa repeated. “I want to be the last thing you see.”
His hand came up and grasped the nape of Willie’s neck with surprising strength. His nails dug in. He pulled. “You want death? Get a mouthful.”
A few minutes later Willie paused outside the kitchen door to listen. “We’re taking him to the hospital tomorrow,” Sharon said. She sounded on the verge of tears. “I don’t care what it costs, I can’t do this anymore.”
Roxie murmured something sympathetic.
Willie went into the kitchen. “You won’t have to take him to the hospital,” he said. “He just died.”
They turned to him, staring at him with identical expressions of shock and dawning hope.
Mother said, “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Willie said, and stroked the skin between his lip and nose with one finger.
DANNY COUGHLIN’S BAD DREAM
1
It’s a bad dream. Danny’s had a few before, everyone has a nightmare from time to time, but this is the worst one ever. Nothing bad is happening at first, but that doesn’t help; the sense of impending doom is so strong it’s an actual taste in his mouth, like sucking on a clump of pennies.
