Page 26 of Ghost

“I’m pretty full.” I pushed myself away from the table and looked at the pie with disgust. “That sushi is swelling in my belly.”

Acting disinterested in the comment I’d made, Porter cut the tip from his pie. He lifted it to his mouth and paused.

“You said you wanted to get to know me.” He nodded toward the pecan pie. “While we’re eating we can get started on getting to know one another. What do you detest? What aggravates you?”

“Surprises,” I responded without much thought. “I hate surprises.”

He seemed surprised. “Really?”

“Yep. Can’t stand them,” I said through gritted teeth. “They make me itch. I’m itching right now just talking about it. What about you? What do you detest?”

“Liars,” he responded. “Just tell me the truth, no matter what you think I want to hear. If someone out and out lies to me, it’s over.”

“I can’t stand them, either,” I admitted. “Liars suck.”

He studied me for a moment, cut off a piece of pie, and then paused. “I want to know three things. One, what’s your all-time favorite song, and why. Two, I want to know if you were required to put one saying on your headstone what it would be. And, three, what’s the item on your little list that likely going to be the last one you achieve.”

I loved question-answer games. By asking those three simple questions, Ghost Porter-Porter inched a little closer to my heart. Two of the questions were going to be easy to answer. The third, not so much.

“My favorite song is from a movie,” I said. “At least that’s where I heard it first. Solsbury Hill, by Peter Gabriel. I like it because it’s perfect. It’s written in imperfect time – a seven-four beat – which makes it feel like it’s missing a beat in every measure. It sounds like the song is struggling to continue. It was his first song as a solo artist, and I wonder if he was struggling to continue at that time as well. I find it to be a spiritual song, but it doesn’t feel like he’s shoving spirituality down your throat when you listen to it. I love it. It’s uplifting.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that song.” He sliced the tine of his fork through the ice cream-pie mixture. “I’m not a spiritual person, maybe that’s why.”

“The song has spiritual meaning, but it’s not a spiritual song. I’ll play it for you sometime,” I said. “It’s awesome.”

“Keep going.” He rolled his hand in a circle as if he were bored. “There’s two more.”

His admittance of not being spiritual troubled me. I wondered how he’d ever make it through cancer treatment without having a good relationship with God. I couldn’t comprehend what it would be like, and the more I thought about it, the more bothered about it I became. I decided I’d ask about it later.

At least for the time being, I felt I needed to stick with the questions he’d asked of me. The next one was easy to answer. I’d given it considerable thought, long before meeting Porter. As far as I was concerned, it was the perfect epitaph. “If I had to put a saying on my headstone, it’d say, it’s not that bad.”

“It’s not that bad?” He laughed. “What’s not that bad?”

“Everything,” I said. “Life. Cancer. Whatever troubles you. Death. It’s not that bad. I thought the saying would make people wonder as they looked at my headstone, especially about death. When I was diagnosed, I came to peace with death quickly. I wasn’t afraid to die, and I don’t think other people should be, either. It’s not that bad.”

“I like it. It covers a lot of ground,” he said. “I might paint that shit on the fender of my bike.”

I smiled. “Do it.”

He set his fork down on the side of his plate. After studying me, he drew a slow breath and then looked away. A moment of awkward silence followed. Then, he met my gaze.

“What’s your status?” he asked. “Now? With cancer?”

“It’s gone,” I replied. “I had an odd blood cancer. They cured it with treatment.”

He gave me a look of disbelief. “Why do you go to the meetings?”

“It’s important for survivors to go,” I explained. “It’s the equivalent of a sober man going to an AA meeting. It gives those just stepping in a ray of hope. My experiences help others.”

He nodded. “I see.”

“Can I ask what your diagnosis is?” I asked.

“I’ve got a brain tumor,” he said as if it were no big deal. “Still don’t know much.”

“Treatment is a wonderful thing,” I said.

The look on his face changed from acknowledgement to indifference. His cheeks lost their color.