the sum total of a series of minute daily measurements. Like a
growing child marking his height on the wall. Only, I suppose, I’m
shrinking. And the darkness is growing." The man let his head
loll against the back of the chair. He stared up into the oak trees,
his gray desiccated face dappled with the shape and shade of the
leaves in the sun. "I don’t mean to be, but I’m sure I’m
disgusting to you. I have no business being with people any longer. A
man must defend himself at all times, and I no longer have the
strength to defend myself."
It was like the manual of arms, and it said a good
deal about the way he’d lived and the way he was dying.
"Why did you come here?" he said, looking
back at me.
"To ask whether you had seen Mason Greenleaf
before he died."
"And if I had, what possible difference would it
make to Mrs. Dorn?"
"She’s is trying very hard to understand why
Mason took his life. Everyone who knew him is."
The man started to laugh. "And so I am to be
blamed for this, too? What a magically wonderful train of thought
that is. Mason visits Del. Mason kills himself. Therefore Del is . .
. what? An accessory to murder. You should remind Mrs. Dorn that I
did not live with Mason for the past three years. She did. It would,
I think, behoove her to ask herself why Mason took his life."
"Did Mason tell you he was unhappy with Cindy?"
"He didn’t have to tell me," the man
said, looking back at the sky. "I knew him for better than seven
years. I knew what he thought and how he felt."
"Then he did come here?"
"Yes."
"When was this?"
A shadow of doubt crossed the man’s face. "Forgive
me, Mr. Stoner, but I’m not as quick with dates as I once was. It
was two weeks ago, I believe. On a Thursday afternoon. We sat out
here in the garden and talked, just as you and I are doing."
"Did he seem unusually depressed to you?"
The man didn’t answer me. "We talked about the
old times, when we first met. The days we spent here and at my
family’s home in Michigan. The fun we’d had. Some of the people
we had known who are going or gone."
"Did he know about your illness before he came
to see you?"
"Do you mean did he come to see me because I am
dying of AIDS?"
"Yes," I said, feeling slightly ashamed of
myself. "I guess that’s what I meant."
"I suppose that was why he came. He’d known I
was ill, of course. That was general knowledge. But I think a mutual
friend had told him that I was . . . in decline. It was not an
arranged meeting. I hadn’t talked to Mason or seen him since our
falling out, since he started his vita nuova with Mrs. Dorn. I suppose it was quite a shock to him to see me as I
am now. When we had our parting, I was a different man." Del
Cavanaugh brushed his eyes with bony fingers, then rubbed his thumbs
across his fingertips, as if the feel of tears was an unexpected
sensation. "I’m not really crying for Mason. He chose to live
a lie and was unable to persevere in it. Perhaps seeing me, in my
current state, was a blow. As I did not invite him here, I cannot be
held responsible for that. But you should tell Mrs. Dorn that what
was bothering Mason had little to do with her—or me or anyone else.
He had come to the end of his particular road and saw nothing ahead
of him but fear and darkness. Tell her no one else is to blame for
what happened to him. He made a choice, and choices have
consequences?
"He told you he was contemplating suicide?"
Cavanaugh thought about this for a moment, with a
finger to his cheek. It came to me that he didn’t know why
Greenleaf had killed himself save that he was satisfied that the man
had betrayed him and then gone to hell as a result. The vanity of it
made me disgusted.
"The man’s dead, you know," I said,
voicing my disgust.
Cavanaugh looked insulted, as if no one else but him
had the right to die. "No, he did not talk about killing
himself," he said coldly. "That does not mean that I am
mistaken about the reason for his despair."
He crossed his
growing child marking his height on the wall. Only, I suppose, I’m
shrinking. And the darkness is growing." The man let his head
loll against the back of the chair. He stared up into the oak trees,
his gray desiccated face dappled with the shape and shade of the
leaves in the sun. "I don’t mean to be, but I’m sure I’m
disgusting to you. I have no business being with people any longer. A
man must defend himself at all times, and I no longer have the
strength to defend myself."
It was like the manual of arms, and it said a good
deal about the way he’d lived and the way he was dying.
"Why did you come here?" he said, looking
back at me.
"To ask whether you had seen Mason Greenleaf
before he died."
"And if I had, what possible difference would it
make to Mrs. Dorn?"
"She’s is trying very hard to understand why
Mason took his life. Everyone who knew him is."
The man started to laugh. "And so I am to be
blamed for this, too? What a magically wonderful train of thought
that is. Mason visits Del. Mason kills himself. Therefore Del is . .
. what? An accessory to murder. You should remind Mrs. Dorn that I
did not live with Mason for the past three years. She did. It would,
I think, behoove her to ask herself why Mason took his life."
"Did Mason tell you he was unhappy with Cindy?"
"He didn’t have to tell me," the man
said, looking back at the sky. "I knew him for better than seven
years. I knew what he thought and how he felt."
"Then he did come here?"
"Yes."
"When was this?"
A shadow of doubt crossed the man’s face. "Forgive
me, Mr. Stoner, but I’m not as quick with dates as I once was. It
was two weeks ago, I believe. On a Thursday afternoon. We sat out
here in the garden and talked, just as you and I are doing."
"Did he seem unusually depressed to you?"
The man didn’t answer me. "We talked about the
old times, when we first met. The days we spent here and at my
family’s home in Michigan. The fun we’d had. Some of the people
we had known who are going or gone."
"Did he know about your illness before he came
to see you?"
"Do you mean did he come to see me because I am
dying of AIDS?"
"Yes," I said, feeling slightly ashamed of
myself. "I guess that’s what I meant."
"I suppose that was why he came. He’d known I
was ill, of course. That was general knowledge. But I think a mutual
friend had told him that I was . . . in decline. It was not an
arranged meeting. I hadn’t talked to Mason or seen him since our
falling out, since he started his vita nuova with Mrs. Dorn. I suppose it was quite a shock to him to see me as I
am now. When we had our parting, I was a different man." Del
Cavanaugh brushed his eyes with bony fingers, then rubbed his thumbs
across his fingertips, as if the feel of tears was an unexpected
sensation. "I’m not really crying for Mason. He chose to live
a lie and was unable to persevere in it. Perhaps seeing me, in my
current state, was a blow. As I did not invite him here, I cannot be
held responsible for that. But you should tell Mrs. Dorn that what
was bothering Mason had little to do with her—or me or anyone else.
He had come to the end of his particular road and saw nothing ahead
of him but fear and darkness. Tell her no one else is to blame for
what happened to him. He made a choice, and choices have
consequences?
"He told you he was contemplating suicide?"
Cavanaugh thought about this for a moment, with a
finger to his cheek. It came to me that he didn’t know why
Greenleaf had killed himself save that he was satisfied that the man
had betrayed him and then gone to hell as a result. The vanity of it
made me disgusted.
"The man’s dead, you know," I said,
voicing my disgust.
Cavanaugh looked insulted, as if no one else but him
had the right to die. "No, he did not talk about killing
himself," he said coldly. "That does not mean that I am
mistaken about the reason for his despair."
He crossed his
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