Last Call (5 page)

chapter six

I
told you to get out!” a woman hollers and a ceramic vase full of flowers comes flying toward Hayden. He ducks and it crashes and splatters directly above his head.

“Jayzus, Mary, and Joseph!” says Hayden. “With an arm like that you should be pitching for the Mets.”

“Who are you?” The woman in the bed shouts and picks up a blue plastic lunch tray, apparently ready to hurl it at him. “A priest? Another specialist?”

“I’m Hayden MacBride. Nice to make your acquaintance. And no, I’m just a visitor. My friend Cyrus is tryin’ to die in the next room and you’re keepin’ him from it.” His brogue bubbles to the top in indignation and he rolls his
r
’s more severely.

Hayden edges closer. Her pale blond hair is shorn, not very stylishly, making him wonder if perhaps she’s just come out of brain surgery. That could also explain the fits. Otherwise, without any makeup she appears no older than forty, though a distraught forty. Her face is flushed with anger, bright blue eyes resembling a pair of shattered prisms about to spill over with tears. But he finds them enchanting, like those on an old-fashioned china doll.

“You don’t look very ill to me,” says Hayden.

“Well I
am
. Inoperable lung cancer.” The anguished patient slowly lowers the tray but stares at him with enough loathing to indicate that she might yet fling it. “And it’s . . . it’s just not fair. I’ve prayed my entire life and now
this
.”

“Terminal liver cancer,” says Hayden matter-of-factly, pointing to his midsection. He then lifts the chart that is chained to the end of the bed. “It’s never fair.”

“You sound vaguely familiar,” says the woman. “I mean, your voice. That’s a Scottish accent, isn’t it?”

“Well done.” He flashes a good-natured grin that could illuminate dark places and the rows of permanent furrows that cross his square forehead deepen when he smiles, which is most of the time. “Most Americans think it’s Irish or English. Though I have a feelin’ it only sounds familiar because yer thinking of a famous Scottish actor, who shall remain nameless, and is known for copyin’ my accent in films.”

“Sean Connery!”

“I didn’t say it.” Hayden self-consciously smoothes his perpetually disorganized hair.

The patient calms slightly. “I haven’t seen a movie in ages.” She loosens her grip on the lunch tray and offers Hayden a small hand. “I’m . . .” she pauses as if she’s become so addled that she can’t remember her own name. “My name is Rosamond. Rosamond Rogers.”

“The accent was always a good opener when I used to sell casualty insurance. And speaking o’ casualties, what’s with all the hollerin’ and hurlin’ of furnishings over here?”

“I’m sorry for disturbing your friend.” As she apologizes a solitary tear drifts down her cheek. “I haven’t been taking the diagnosis very well. It all happened so suddenly. And now they want to do all these treatments and tests when I’ll probably just die anyway.”

“So then why stay here?”

“Because it’s a
hospital
, that’s why!” Her anger quickly returns.

“I
know
that. What I mean is, why sit around and let them poke and prod you if they’re just torturin’ you? Besides, doctors do’an’ know what they’re doin’ most of the time anyway. More or less killed my poor wife. And then they said I was supposed to kick the bucket three months ago. But look!” Hayden throws up his arms in Olympic medalist fashion. “Here I am!”

Rosamond Rogers scrunches her brow and finally loosens her fingers on the plastic tray. While she’s framed against the white hospital sheets, he can’t help but notice she’s the antithesis of his wife, slender and fair, whereas Mary was raven-haired and shapely, exactly like their daughter Diana.

Rosamond’s countenance slowly shifts from trapped to pensive, as if it hadn’t occurred to her to just get up and leave.

“Aggressive inoperable malignant tumor,” Hayden says and drops her chart. “Looks pretty hopeless to me.”

“Are you a doctor?” she asks.

“No, but death by The Cancer just happens to be my favorite hobby these days. Aside from baseball, o’ course. Speaking of sports, my grandson and I are on our way to a baseball game. Why don’t you come along?” That would get her out of Cyrus’s hair for good. By the time she checked back in again he’d most likely be gone, and if not, it was doubtful the same room would be available. Besides, some baseball would get her mind off her troubles. Baseball cheered everyone up.

“We’re Mets fans.” Hayden throws on the charm as if he’s selling a million-dollar insurance policy. “They’re playin’ the Cardinals. Are you a Mets fan?”

“I’ve never been to a baseball game.” She ponders the invitation, as if this is a forbidden outing, or something even more outrageous, like Hayden has suggested firebombing the United Nations. Pushing aside the movable table holding the lunch tray, up until then a prospective weapon in her hands, she finally says, “That sounds splendid. Would you mind waiting in the hall while I change?”

Hayden exits and vaguely wonders if he’s just started a new career as a social worker or, alternatively, asked a woman out on a date for the first time in over thirty-five years. Before he became ill his sweet twenty-six-year-old neighbor Bobbie Anne had been bothering him to ask a woman out. Well, now he’d done it. And a feisty one, at that.

Hayden locates Joey counting tiles on the floor of the patients’ lounge at the end of the corridor. The boy was forever counting things. Hayden is beginning to think he’ll grow up to be a math teacher. Or else a bookie. Wouldn’t that give his mother a fit!

Joey is relieved to see his grandfather return. He believes that if The Cancer Monster has a secret hideaway, it’s probably here in the hospital, maybe in the basement or up on the roof.

“So? Did you give that lady your Suicide for Dummies lecture?”

“I prefer the term
self-euthanasia
if you do’an’ mind. And yes, I have convinced her to check out,” he announces, ever the proud salesman.

“She already took the pills!” Joey exclaims, not even trying to hide his astonishment for the benefit of the other patients in the room. “Wow, Grandpa, you could sell ice to Eskimos.” He parrots ones of Hayden’s favorite sayings.

“No, no. I mean check out of the hospital in the traditional sense of the word. I’ve invited her to the game with us. And here she—”

Hayden is struck dumb as Rosamond appears in full nun regalia, like a vision out of a stained-glass window—long black habit, white wimple, black cloth veil, large cross on a long silver chain dangling above her waist. Her face is smooth and pleasant now, dairy-fresh skin and a small upturned nose. “I’m ready!” she announces.

Unable to hide their shock, Hayden and Joey simply stare at Rosamond and then at each other, mouths agape.

“You didn’t tell me she was a nun,” Joey whispers to his grandfather.

“I had no idea,” replies Hayden. “It wasn’t on her chart.”

chapter seven

I
t’s an exuberant summer afternoon that fills the landscape with motion—flocks of birds crisscrossing the sky, trees swaying and trembling in the breeze—and the confused noisy jumble of wildlife and traffic that combine to make a sort of disjunctive parade.

Outside Shea Stadium Hayden listens carefully to the coded shouts of scalpers in an effort to determine which way the ticket market is going. Almost as much as the game itself Hayden loves the haggling—lowballing, arguing, and then pretending to walk away.

Sometimes by waiting around he can get a bargain as the sellers worry they might end up stuck with their wares. Alternatively, holding out until the last minute on a day like today can result in overpaying for seats in the stratosphere. Bad weather or a potentially boring game can send prices tumbling. But today is gorgeous, the teams are closely matched, and Hayden is possessed by a sudden urge to abandon his usual thriftiness. He pays a little more than he normally would for three tickets behind third base, where Joey can study the catcher.

Once inside the cavernous arena Hayden sends Rosamond and Joey on ahead while he waits in line at the snack bar. Rosamond is overwhelmed by the noise, vibrant color, activity everywhere one looks, and the overall energy of a fast-filling stadium. The hospital had seemed loud and crowded compared to the solitude of the convent, but this is like nothing she’s ever seen—music blaring from large overhead speakers, people in animal costumes dancing on the field, shouts for refreshments from a man with a large box strapped over his shoulders, fans yelling to friends, waving mitts in the air and shouting “charge” on cue to a loud horn overhead.

It’s easy for Hayden to locate Joey and Rosamond in the stands without checking his seat number. Lots of people are wearing black and peering out from underneath baseball hats, but she’s definitely the only one with a wimple and veil. More than a few spectators nod and point at the nun in the stands, but their attention is fleeting. This is New York, after all.

Rosamond sits between Hayden and Joey, who take turns attempting to explain the lineup to her. But when Rosamond asks about scoring a “runhome” they simultaneously stifle laughter and realize they’re going to have to start with the basics of the game. She doesn’t know a bunt from a base.

Whether or not she ever figures out exactly what’s happening on the field, one thing is certain, Sister Rosamond loves doing The Wave. It appeals to her ingrained fondness for group ritual, like standing in chapel and outstretching your arms to connect with the Holy Spirit. Whenever they rise she moves with the soft delicacy of a reed in the breeze, as if possessed by a natural sensuality, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Hayden.

Rosamond also enjoys the Crackerjacks, hot dogs, and pretzels, all of which she enthusiastically chomps away at, making Hayden think that her medical condition certainly hasn’t affected her appetite. Or else hospital food is a lot worse than it looks.

When passing the box of Crackerjacks during a particularly exciting play, she accidentally spills some on the man in front of her. Only when he turns around with his Brooklyn sneer that says, “Hey, you throwin’ the Crackerjacks, you wanna fight?” and finds himself face to face with a beaming fan in a long black habit and three-inch cross topped with a crucified Jesus, he just laughs and gives a shrug that says,
Now I seen everything.

Whenever Rosamond starts to cough, which is often, Hayden passes her his large soda and politely holds her Crackerjacks and places his hand on her back while she waits to catch her breath and take a sip. And it doesn’t escape his notice that she doesn’t flinch or pull away from the contact. On the other hand, Rosamond’s so caught up in the action down on the field he’s not sure she even notices.

It’s an exciting game and in the bottom of the ninth inning when the score is tied the Mets’ weakest batter strides toward the plate. After he takes two strikes looking, Hayden whispers to Joey, “Five dollars says he knocks out a homer.”

“Grandpa, he’s the worst hitter in the entire league! And the Cardinals’ pitcher is on fire.”

The batter kicks the dirt off his cleats, taps the plate, and warily eyeballs the pitcher. “Then is it a bet?” asks Hayden.

“Of course!” says Joey and they shake on it.

With two strikes and three balls the batter for the Mets hits one solidly over the fence behind second base, and Joey is momentarily torn between happiness for his team and disappointment at losing the bet. But he’s rewarded shortly afterward when the board flashes
GAME OVER
, with a final score of six to five, Mets on top. The fans exit the stadium cheering and shouting, slapping backs and playfully punching one another. Maybe this season will be different after all.

chapter eight

A
fter the game Rosamond asks to be dropped in the Brownsville section of Brooklyn, in front of a cloistered convent tucked away behind a dark gray stone wall. It’s the only one of its kind left in the borough, she tells them. From a distance the old building appears abandoned and foreboding, standing alone on a small hill, severely Gothic with its massive arches and soot-blackened stone exterior. With the roof sagging in places it looks more like a dilapidated fortress than a house of worship. And no matter how many fire escapes are attached it could never be enough. The enormous weeping willow trees on the front lawn and rows of dark green hedges alongside the building are thick with solitude.

“Listen,” says Hayden, quickly wondering what might make the best case for seeing her again, “I’ve been doing some research into all this death and dying folderol, and I’d be happy to share my files if you’re interested.”

A dark shadow crosses Rosamond’s face, as if she’s forgotten how she became acquainted with Hayden in the first place.

“I mean,” Hayden continues, “if you want to give me your number—”

“There’s no telephone here.”

“Oh, well, then I’ll give you my address—”

But Sister Rosamond is already shaking her head from side to side indicating that this is also forbidden. She carefully rearranges her habit before exiting the car. Beyond the tall iron gates the warm summer sun can be seen dipping behind a tomb of dark gray clouds.

“Then I guess it was nice meetin’ you,” Hayden calls through the window on the driver’s side. He’s surprised to feel so disappointed at being turned down, the sting of the no-sale compounded by the personal rebuff. But really, what’s the point? He’s dying, she’s dying. And to top it off she’s a nun. They’re as different as chalk and cheese.

“Thank you so much,” she says through the open window. “For a few hours I forgot about all my woes and felt like a schoolgirl during recess.” The simple daily routine of the convent is supposed to free one’s mind to concentrate on God. Yet Rosamond can’t remember feeling so exultant as when the batter hit a surprise home run during the final inning and hundreds of spectators collectively gasped before bursting into wild applause. And Hayden reached around and squeezed her shoulder as if they’d known each other forever.

However, this unexpected surge of emotion only increases Rosamond’s sense of being a complete failure as a nun. On the twentieth anniversary of taking her vows she’s not coming at all close to fulfilling her calling, to achieving a state of exhilaration in her love for Him and progressing toward grace through the power of contemplative prayer and devotion. Instead, she feels spiritually bereft, with a heart like a dried-up riverbed. And now this terrible disease, certainly meant as a test, is muddling her faith worse than ever rather than providing the focus and clarity she so desperately craves.