there was assurance of it in the
wind that rustled through the tall oaks on the lawn and in the bright
blue, cloudless sky. I parked the Pinto in the shade of an oak and
walked back up to the pavilion that jutted out from the front door.
A gaunt man with a haggard, near-fleshless face
answered my knock. In spite of the heat, he had wrapped himself in a
cardigan sweater and held his arms close to his body, as if the chill
he felt was enduring and inescapable. There was a distance in his
gaze that I had seen before. The thousand-mile stare of dying men.
"Yes," he said in a high-pitched voice.
"Can I help you?"\
"I’d like to talk to Del Cavanaugh."
"I am he," the man said, drawing himself
straight with an effort that was painful to watch.
I knew just by looking at him that he wasn’t the
man who had been drinking with Mason Greenleaf at Stacie’s bar. He
didn’t have the strength to leave that house.
A white-haired woman in her midsixties with a smart,
fine-boned face, so sharply angular it cast shadows on her own flesh,
came up behind the man. She was dressed elegantly in an iridescent
silk dress. "Who is it, Del?" she said, eyeing me
suspiciously. "If you are selling something, we aren’t
interested."
"I’m not selling anything," I said,
feeling the awkwardness of the situation. "I’m a detective
working for a woman named Cindy Dorn."
Del Cavanaugh literally staggered at the mention of
Cindy’s name. The mother stared at him with concern.
"You’re here about Mason, aren’t you?"
he said.
"Yes."
"My son is not a well man," the mother
said, pushing roughly past him. "I think you should leave before
you upset him."
"I am still here, Mother," the man said,
controlling his voice with effort. "I am still capable of making
decisions for myself. I’m not yet so far gone as to cede my rights
as a human being to you. When I become demented, then you may make
these decisions. It is something you can look forward to."
"Del," the mother said with horror.
"Oh, give it a rest, for God’s sake."
Staring at me with his thousand-mile eyes, he said, "Let’s go
out into the light, Mr.—"
"Stoner."
He smiled hideously, showing a mouth full of
blackened teeth. "Stoner. A good, hard Anglo-Saxon name.
Something to bust a knuckle on. I won’t ask you to shake hands.
There is a fear of contagion with my illness that affects even the
most enlightened people. I myself would not shake hands with me."
Defeated, the mother shrank back in the doorway. The
look of hatred on her face as she closed the door on me was something
to behold.
"There is a patio around the side of the house,"
Del Cavanaugh said. "We can talk there."
I followed him down a cut stone path that ran around
the side of the house. He was so wobbly on his feet that I stayed
directly behind him, to catch him if he fell. But he had developed
his own delicate balance, and he didn’t fall. The stone path cut
through a small sculpted garden. The air was rife with honeysuckle
and lilac and heavily shaded by the overarching oaks. In the heart of
the garden a tented table and two wrought-iron chairs were set up on
a stone tablet. Cavanaugh reached for the nearest chair and virtually
collapsed onto it with a long painful sigh.
"Small steps," he said, fighting to catch
his breath. "I’ve been reduced to small steps. This is not an
easy adjustment for a man like me to make."
He tried to laugh, but he didn’t have the breath
for it.
"Everything proceeds in small steps with me now.
The loss of weight. Loss of hair. Sight. I’m anticipating the loss
of my mind. It is a peculiar feeling, like waiting for water to boil.
In the nonce I pass time by recording my descent into the abyss. I’ve
actually videotaped many of my days. And of course I take scrupulous
measurements. Energy lost, measured in the time it takes to traverse
a given distance. Muscle mass. This can be measured with a scale or
ruler. The growth of tumors. This can also be done with a ruler. I am
become
wind that rustled through the tall oaks on the lawn and in the bright
blue, cloudless sky. I parked the Pinto in the shade of an oak and
walked back up to the pavilion that jutted out from the front door.
A gaunt man with a haggard, near-fleshless face
answered my knock. In spite of the heat, he had wrapped himself in a
cardigan sweater and held his arms close to his body, as if the chill
he felt was enduring and inescapable. There was a distance in his
gaze that I had seen before. The thousand-mile stare of dying men.
"Yes," he said in a high-pitched voice.
"Can I help you?"\
"I’d like to talk to Del Cavanaugh."
"I am he," the man said, drawing himself
straight with an effort that was painful to watch.
I knew just by looking at him that he wasn’t the
man who had been drinking with Mason Greenleaf at Stacie’s bar. He
didn’t have the strength to leave that house.
A white-haired woman in her midsixties with a smart,
fine-boned face, so sharply angular it cast shadows on her own flesh,
came up behind the man. She was dressed elegantly in an iridescent
silk dress. "Who is it, Del?" she said, eyeing me
suspiciously. "If you are selling something, we aren’t
interested."
"I’m not selling anything," I said,
feeling the awkwardness of the situation. "I’m a detective
working for a woman named Cindy Dorn."
Del Cavanaugh literally staggered at the mention of
Cindy’s name. The mother stared at him with concern.
"You’re here about Mason, aren’t you?"
he said.
"Yes."
"My son is not a well man," the mother
said, pushing roughly past him. "I think you should leave before
you upset him."
"I am still here, Mother," the man said,
controlling his voice with effort. "I am still capable of making
decisions for myself. I’m not yet so far gone as to cede my rights
as a human being to you. When I become demented, then you may make
these decisions. It is something you can look forward to."
"Del," the mother said with horror.
"Oh, give it a rest, for God’s sake."
Staring at me with his thousand-mile eyes, he said, "Let’s go
out into the light, Mr.—"
"Stoner."
He smiled hideously, showing a mouth full of
blackened teeth. "Stoner. A good, hard Anglo-Saxon name.
Something to bust a knuckle on. I won’t ask you to shake hands.
There is a fear of contagion with my illness that affects even the
most enlightened people. I myself would not shake hands with me."
Defeated, the mother shrank back in the doorway. The
look of hatred on her face as she closed the door on me was something
to behold.
"There is a patio around the side of the house,"
Del Cavanaugh said. "We can talk there."
I followed him down a cut stone path that ran around
the side of the house. He was so wobbly on his feet that I stayed
directly behind him, to catch him if he fell. But he had developed
his own delicate balance, and he didn’t fall. The stone path cut
through a small sculpted garden. The air was rife with honeysuckle
and lilac and heavily shaded by the overarching oaks. In the heart of
the garden a tented table and two wrought-iron chairs were set up on
a stone tablet. Cavanaugh reached for the nearest chair and virtually
collapsed onto it with a long painful sigh.
"Small steps," he said, fighting to catch
his breath. "I’ve been reduced to small steps. This is not an
easy adjustment for a man like me to make."
He tried to laugh, but he didn’t have the breath
for it.
"Everything proceeds in small steps with me now.
The loss of weight. Loss of hair. Sight. I’m anticipating the loss
of my mind. It is a peculiar feeling, like waiting for water to boil.
In the nonce I pass time by recording my descent into the abyss. I’ve
actually videotaped many of my days. And of course I take scrupulous
measurements. Energy lost, measured in the time it takes to traverse
a given distance. Muscle mass. This can be measured with a scale or
ruler. The growth of tumors. This can also be done with a ruler. I am
become
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