playing rummy; they would remember to bring cards from now on.
Between Oliver’s cleansing jaunts and parlor tricks, while he was getting his ass handed to him at hangman, he and Alice delighted in the sight of their little wonder charming everyone on the fourth floor’s eastern wing, and they further procrastinated about the diaper now sagging with a green slush that Oliver liked to call chana saag, and they reminisced about their shenanigans back in their room in New Hampshire, and they proclaimed themselves incredulous at having nostalgia for that insane time, and they proclaimed themselves thankful for even having the chance to look back, and they proclaimed themselves fortunate for this astounding relationship of theirs, having as much fun in that stupid room as they had, under such ridiculous conditions; and proclaimed they would get through this mess as well, they would survive and look back at all this. Alice also held up a spare issue of New York magazine she’d been leafing through in the waiting room. She told Oliver that the magazine’s spies had indeed learned about a special underground, speakeasy-era, trapdoor entrance to the Black Tide. Instead of printing the origins of those crabs, however, Alice reported, the journalists refused to reveal the answer.
“Hype for hype’s sake?” Oliver made a yanking motion. “The real issue’s whether the Black Tide purchased ad space from the magazine as a trade-off.”
“You honestly think anybody gives a rat’s rear if they flew those things in from Timbuktu?” Alice answered. “People want the mystery. It’s better that way.”
A man was limping—Alice had noticed him earlier, gnarled, with a small mountain rising from his right shoulder. He stopped in front of them. The gray skin covering his skull was stretched, all exterior layers of flesh having been burned away, so that it looked like the angles of his cheekbones threatened to break through. His eyes were freakish, hazel marbles sunken deep into their sockets. He focused on Doe. “What a beautiful, wondrous child you are,” he said. To Alice now: “She’s what—five months?”
“Six, yes.”
“You look at one at this age, it rushes up all the good memories from your own.”
The man said Alice looked superb, her attitude would make the difference. He thanked Oliver for his offer to scoot over on the couch but declined, explaining that couches were murder on his spine, he had a special ergonomic desk chair that he couldn’t sit in without discomfort. Volunteering his name as Cael, he asked which doctor Alice was seeing. “The staff here is excellent. They do everything they possibly can.”
Alice did her best to smile, but Cael picked up on her discomfort.
“Yeah. I know. I’m sorry. It’s a shitty thing being here. Six years now, on and off, I’m in twice a week from Syosset. They’ve done chemo. Radiation. Experimental drugs. Seed implants. Special magical beans.” He chuckled, grimaced. “Every time I was sure they’d got it. They tell you the treatment’s going well. You go into remission, start to get stronger, brick by brick, start to rebuild your life. Then something isn’t right. They do them tests. You get that call. Oh, the spot is back. The spot has spread. Stage four.” He caught himself. “You’re new, Jesus, the last thing you need is to be hearing my shit. I know better, I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be absurd.” Alice tried to smile, her stomach knotting on itself.
“It’ll be different for you, I can tell. You’ve got that beautiful child.”
His smile was trying to be generous, failing. This was a man who knew better than to keep talking, and could not stop himself. “Tumor’s wrapped itself around my kidneys. Who knew cancer could even do that? It’s ridiculous. You wish you could reason with it, explain that the more it grows the quicker that both of us are done. It can’t live and be a happy tumor without me. My only option left is this
Between Oliver’s cleansing jaunts and parlor tricks, while he was getting his ass handed to him at hangman, he and Alice delighted in the sight of their little wonder charming everyone on the fourth floor’s eastern wing, and they further procrastinated about the diaper now sagging with a green slush that Oliver liked to call chana saag, and they reminisced about their shenanigans back in their room in New Hampshire, and they proclaimed themselves incredulous at having nostalgia for that insane time, and they proclaimed themselves thankful for even having the chance to look back, and they proclaimed themselves fortunate for this astounding relationship of theirs, having as much fun in that stupid room as they had, under such ridiculous conditions; and proclaimed they would get through this mess as well, they would survive and look back at all this. Alice also held up a spare issue of New York magazine she’d been leafing through in the waiting room. She told Oliver that the magazine’s spies had indeed learned about a special underground, speakeasy-era, trapdoor entrance to the Black Tide. Instead of printing the origins of those crabs, however, Alice reported, the journalists refused to reveal the answer.
“Hype for hype’s sake?” Oliver made a yanking motion. “The real issue’s whether the Black Tide purchased ad space from the magazine as a trade-off.”
“You honestly think anybody gives a rat’s rear if they flew those things in from Timbuktu?” Alice answered. “People want the mystery. It’s better that way.”
A man was limping—Alice had noticed him earlier, gnarled, with a small mountain rising from his right shoulder. He stopped in front of them. The gray skin covering his skull was stretched, all exterior layers of flesh having been burned away, so that it looked like the angles of his cheekbones threatened to break through. His eyes were freakish, hazel marbles sunken deep into their sockets. He focused on Doe. “What a beautiful, wondrous child you are,” he said. To Alice now: “She’s what—five months?”
“Six, yes.”
“You look at one at this age, it rushes up all the good memories from your own.”
The man said Alice looked superb, her attitude would make the difference. He thanked Oliver for his offer to scoot over on the couch but declined, explaining that couches were murder on his spine, he had a special ergonomic desk chair that he couldn’t sit in without discomfort. Volunteering his name as Cael, he asked which doctor Alice was seeing. “The staff here is excellent. They do everything they possibly can.”
Alice did her best to smile, but Cael picked up on her discomfort.
“Yeah. I know. I’m sorry. It’s a shitty thing being here. Six years now, on and off, I’m in twice a week from Syosset. They’ve done chemo. Radiation. Experimental drugs. Seed implants. Special magical beans.” He chuckled, grimaced. “Every time I was sure they’d got it. They tell you the treatment’s going well. You go into remission, start to get stronger, brick by brick, start to rebuild your life. Then something isn’t right. They do them tests. You get that call. Oh, the spot is back. The spot has spread. Stage four.” He caught himself. “You’re new, Jesus, the last thing you need is to be hearing my shit. I know better, I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be absurd.” Alice tried to smile, her stomach knotting on itself.
“It’ll be different for you, I can tell. You’ve got that beautiful child.”
His smile was trying to be generous, failing. This was a man who knew better than to keep talking, and could not stop himself. “Tumor’s wrapped itself around my kidneys. Who knew cancer could even do that? It’s ridiculous. You wish you could reason with it, explain that the more it grows the quicker that both of us are done. It can’t live and be a happy tumor without me. My only option left is this
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