A Small Matter (8 page)

“Where’s Kilkenney?” she said.

“Getting a bath,” he said.

She took his hand.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

“What’s wrong is, I’ve lost all my strength,”
she said. “I’m squeezing your hand as hard as I can. As you can
see, I have no grip left. And I can’t feel my legs. I think it’s
the tumor. It’s gotten loose somehow--it’s going on a full-scale
rampage. I tried to get up, but there was nothing there. Mulroney,
I’m starting to get really scared. I thought I’d have more time. I
want more time. I need it.”

He reached his hand to her lower back and
began pressing in sharply with his fingertips.

“Ouch,” she said.

“That’s good,” he said. “At least you’ve got
some feeling there. Let’s get you up.” He hoisted her from the
chair and set her on her feet.

“Oh man,” she said, “people will think we’re
a couple of dancing drunks.”

“We are,” he said. He gripped her tightly and
shifted her torso this way and that until she felt a sudden pop.
Feeling flooded her legs and her muscles steeled themselves.

“I’m standing,” she said. “That’s amazing.
How did you know what to do?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “I go on instinct a lot.
It served me well on the streets. On the way over here, I thought
maybe the reason you were suddenly paralyzed was because the tumor
was pressing on your spinal cord. Perhaps I was right.”

She folded into his arms. “Dammit, Mulroney,”
she said, “it’s too soon for you to be fighting for me like
this.”

“We’re not kids anymore,” he said. “We’re
past all that--way past. Our priority now is just to try and stay
alive.”

“I feel so small,” she said. “This whole
thing about dying seems so monumental, and yet I know that I’m just
another cancer victim. History will never record my name or my
pain. My story is like that play by Sartre--No Exit.”

“There’s a way out,” he said. “You’re still
young. You could still fight for your freedom.”

“You mean chemo,” she said, “along with
enough radiation to re-fuel Chernobyl.”

“I mean freedom,” he said. “It’s natural for
you to shy away from the fight in the aftermath of receiving the
bad news, but you’ve still got time to put a few moves on the
tumor--this is no time for quiet diplomacy--this is the time to
wrestle the thing to the ground and stomp its shins flat.”

“Let’s sit down,” she said. The waiter
appeared. “Two Blackjacks, neat,” she said. They sat in silence
while the drinks arrived--an inch of liquid at the bottom of a
couple of short, square tumblers. “Keep ‘em coming,” Mulroney said.
They each raised their tumblers to directly below eye level, nodded
to each other and sipped simultaneously, the silent liquid raking
their throats.

“All right,” she said, “you think I should
abandon my resistance to the doctors and go for the cure?”

“Well why not?” he said. “you said you wanted
more time--that’s what they sell over there--time.”

“Mulroney,” she said. “This morning you
proposed to me and I accepted. This afternoon, you rescued me from
paralysis. Now you’re selling me time, as though it’s something
simple--like boarding an airplane, or buying a new outfit. All I
have to do is walk into my friendly doctor’s office, select from a
menu of treatment options, and add a day, a week, or a few months
to my earthly existence.”

“Or live for many years thereafter. It is
simple,” he said. “We can drive over and see your doctor right
now.”

“You’ve forgot one thing,” she said.

“What?” he said.

“My tumor,” she said. “It’s way ahead of my
doctor--it’s like a fire that’s already spread through my house and
is getting ready to knock out the power box any minute!”

The waiter set out the second round and lost
a napkin to the reviving Santa Ana breezes. Mulroney and Vickie sat
and sipped, united in their intent to grab a special moment, facing
their common enemy, one far more hateful than either felt it had a
right to be.

“You’re a blasted hypocrite, Mulroney,” she
said.

He took a careful sip. “I’ve been called
worse,” he said.

“I mean it,” she said. “You need open heart
surgery, but you’ve refused it. So how do you justify telling me to
go through the agony of chemo?”

“I have to go,” he said. “Kilkenney will be
dry by now.”

“Very funny,” she said.

“Sorry,” he said. “I resort to humor when I
don’t like where something is going.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she said. “But my condition
has exacted its toll on my normal compassion and forbearance, so
I’ll say it again--Mulroney, you’re the world’s biggest hypocrite!”
She tried to read his expression, but his face was swept clean of
any guile.

“It’s always been something of a point of
honor for me,” he said, “to challenge the bad things that come my
way. But right now I’m at a loss--the truth is, the thought of
going under the knife and having my chest pried open with those big
pincers scares me to death. I’d rather walk down 103rd Street at
night armed only with a baseball bat than face that. And there’s
one other thing.”

“Which is?” she said.

“I’ve never argued with my fiancée
before--I’ve never had a fiancée to argue with--and I don’t like
it.”

“We’re having our first fight,” Vickie
said.

His face split into a goofy grin. “Gee,
that’s beautiful,” he said. “Oh! I love you so!”

“You’re relationship impaired, you big ape,”
she said. “So I’ll educate you. Rule number one--never challenge
me--you don’t have the mental resources.”

“True,” he said. “My understanding of women
has never advanced much beyond the dream stage.”

“I can’t believe it,” she said. “You changed
the subject. And you did it so sneakily, you almost got away with
it. We were talking about you being a huge hypocrite.”

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “What you’re
saying to me is that I have no right to ask you to take the chemo
if I myself won’t go for the quadruple bypass.”

“That’s right,” she said.

“So what if I agree to take the cure?” he
said.

“But you won’t,” she said. “And we both know
you won’t.”

He slammed down his glass. “I will,” he
said.

“You will?”

“I will,” he said, “if you will.”

Vickie was taken aback at this turn of
developments--her intention had only been to goad Mulroney, perhaps
due to her own anguish over her failing body. She’d been taking it
all out on him, who’s chances for surviving his medical procedure,
she reckoned, were measurably better than her chances of surviving
hers. Somehow, he’d turned the tables, putting his fate into her
hands. She felt the heavy burden descend instantly upon her soul.
She now had Mulroney’s life on her conscience, had it in her
ability to save the big, stubborn giant from his worst fears. She
could, at a word, markedly prolong Mulroney’s life.

“That was a neat trick you performed,” she
said. “Shifting the burden of your life to me at a time when I’m
the one who needs caring-for more than you. But I made a decision.
I’m going to call you on it. I’m going to ascend the scaffold.”

“What?” he said. He’d heard her clearly, but
the implications of what she’d said short-circuited out when it hit
the wellspring of his fears regarding a possible rending open of
his giant chest.

“I’m taking the chemo,” she said. “I’m going
to fight for more time, even for the cure, if it isn’t too late.
I’ll even go under the knife and let them cut out my insides if
they want to--but only on one condition.”

“Oh no,” he said. “This can’t be happening.”
At this point, he was happy, but he realized that the happiness was
soon to be extinguished as he found himself being propelled forward
towards a date with a knife. “What condition?” he said.

“You go under the knife first,” she said.
“Get your arteries repaired. The day you come out of surgery, I’ll
start the chemo.”

“I’m lost,” he said. “I’ve spent a lifetime
in command of other men’s destinies, but in the grip of your
psyche, I feel wholly inadequate.”

“I told you never to challenge me,” she said.
“You built the trap to force me to seek the cure, but now you’ve
fallen into that trap. You said you’d have the surgery if I’d have
the chemo, but you didn’t think you’d really have to go through
with it. But all that’s changed. If you’re going to remain in a
happy union with me, you’ll have to assent to the open heart
surgery. To realize my healing, you’ll have to take a knife in the
chest for me.”

“I have no choice,” he said. “I’ll go under
the knife for you.”

They avoided each other’s eyes, the better to
appraise this unexpected and more profound connection between
them.

"I am scared to have you go first," she said.
"Because right now your support means everything to me. But I also
think it will help me to have somebody to nurse back to
health."

"Okay," he said.

“You give up your heart for me,” she said,
“and I’ll give up my guts for you.”

“I’ll make the arrangements right after we’re
married,” he said.

“No,” she said. “You have to have the surgery
right away.”

The big man blanched. “Right away?”

“Tomorrow,” she said. “I’m sorry to rush you,
my love, but I’m almost out of time.”

Chapter 12

Mulroney and Vickie, ensconced in comfortable
leather chairs in a spacious office somewhere deep inside the
Division of Cardiothoracic Surgery at UCLA Medical Center, were in
deep conference with Mulroney’s cardiologist, a woman who wielded
the blade with international renown. The world class hospital--set
into the West Los Angeles foothills like a mighty temple of
healing--presided over the southern end of the sprawling UCLA
campus bordering the semi-posh--albeit bohemian--Westwood shopping
district.

“The trouble is,” Dr. Lerner said, “everybody
wants to be Winston Churchill--he ate and drank and smoked cigars,
he never exercised, he had a high stress occupation--and he still
lived to be ninety. They say the only exercise he did get was
walking from the car to the funerals of his friends.”

“It’s okay,” Mulroney said. “I know it’s time
to pay for my sins. All those tacos and hot-dogs have finally added
up.”

“Of course, we could go in and replace
everything,” Lerner said. “Our specialty is transplants, after all.
Or you could let us freeze you for now and bring you back in a
couple of years once we get the stem cell thing together.”

Mulroney’s face drooped.

“That’s a joke,” Lerner said. “Sorry. I guess
I'm trying to lighten the mood. You’re in for a rough journey. Even
with efficient heart-lung machines and modern anesthesia, the plain
truth is that hearts don’t like to be handled--in fact, they can
get downright irritable.”

“I get the picture,” Mulroney said. “You can
go ahead and sharpen your knife now. Do you want me to remove my
shirt first?”

“You’ll have to spend the rest of the day
here,” Lerner said. “We’ve got a lot of poking and prodding to do
before we put you on the table in the morning. Do you have any more
questions of me before I start you through the process?”

“I guess not,” Mulroney said. “Although I
must admit, the thought of lying on a gurney somewhere, drugged,
scrubbed, shaved, stripped of all my worldly possessions and
wrapped in gauze does give me pause to consider.”

“Well then,” Lerner said. “Pause to consider
this--you’ve got two total occlusions of two coronary arteries.
Your life is entirely dependent on a critically narrowed third
vessel. We both know your angina hasn’t responded well to the nitro
or other drugs.”

“I’m a walking time bomb,” Mulroney said.

“As you know, Mulroney,” Lerner said, “it’s
been my strong opinion for the past year that you should have
immediate surgery. For the life of me, I can’t believe you made it
this far. It’s time to operate for the simple reason that it’s
safer to have it here and now in the finest hospital in the country
than to wait until you’re forced to undergo the procedure
on-the-fly in an emergency room out there somewhere where they’ll
use the technical equivalent of a flashlight and a razor blade to
do you.”

Vickie had to give Mulroney credit. She could
see a certain amount of fear in his eyes, but he didn’t flinch.

“We were planning on getting married in a
couple of days,” Vickie said. “Will that still be possible?”

“No,” the doctor said. “It’s out of the
question.”

“But I figured I’d be up and about in a few
days,” Mulroney said. “I know a guy who had it done here, he said
your staff of Nazi’s got him out of bed and on his feet that same
day.”

“Unfortunately,” Lerner said, “because of
your age and physical condition, after we go in, you’re going to be
temporarily worse off than when we first started. During your time
in intensive care, you won’t even be lucid. After you regain
consciousness, you’ll barely be able to communicate through the
thicket of tubes and lines--plus all that buzzing and beeping of
the monitoring machines will be driving you crazy--you’re going to
lose all track of time. Day and night will come and go without you
even knowing it.”

“C’mon, Doc,” Mulroney said. “You don’t have
to sugar coat it for me--give it to me straight.”

“We’ll get married tonight,” Vickie said. “At
midnight, right here in the chapel. Mulroney won’t even have to
dress--they can wheel him to the altar in his robe and
slippers.”

“No,” Vickie said. “He’s strong enough. We’ll
get married tonight. Hey, all he has to do is slip on a tux and
walk from his room to the chapel. It can’t be that much of a
strain.”

The doctor stared at her as though she was
some new kind of animal she’d never seen before.

“Can you get us permission to use your
chapel?”

Lerner smiled. “I like the idea,” she said.
“I’ll make the arrangements.”