money.
Her hand knocks the Scotch bottle over.
Whisky spills between the wooden boards of the table top.
Her fingers touch the stack of cash.
Miriam grabs her arm, quick twists the sleeve to expose the skin.
Fingers encircle, skin on skin–
Katey Wiznewski looks the same as she does now, with her broad shoulders and motherly moon face, but she's in a blue raspberry bathrobe so fuzzy it looks like she killed some imaginary beast and now wears its pelt for warmth. She sits on the edge of a loveseat and the cancer is all through her. It's like the roots of a tree piercing dark earth and those roots drink and drink and drink, and they come from a gnarled tumor nestled tight against her pancreas. In her hand is a tall thin glass of iced tea with a crooked lemon wedge sticking up over the rim, and she goes to hand the glass to a large jowly man with a warm smile and she says to him, "It's not sweet enough, Steve. Nothing's really sweet enough anymore. Please take – " But then the electrical current that goes through her, that keeps her moving, that keeps us all moving, is gone – bzzt, power down, plug pulled, darkness waits – and the glass drops and shatters against a coffee table and–
–and Miss Wiz gives her a quick shove and Miriam topples backward, her head thudding dully against the earth.
The grass catches most of the lost twenties. Some of the bills ride a quick breeze and tumble end-over-end toward the river. Then they're gone.
Miriam sits up with a groan. Begins collecting the money.
Katey just stands there. Hands kneading hands. Eyes wet.
"I'm… sorry," the teacher says.
"Without standing, Miriam reaches over and grunts as she grabs the fallen bottle of Scotch. "Alcohol abuse," she muses, then turns the bottle over and lets the last few drops plop onto her tongue.
"What did you see?" the woman asks.
"Do you really want to know?"
"I do. I want to know. I need this."
And then Miriam tells her, but what she tells her is a lie. She doesn't say that Katey has pancreatic cancer. She doesn't say that the cancer is present now, right now , and that the woman has nine months almost to the day to live. That's the truth.
Instead she says, "Heart attack in twenty years. You're eating an egg-white omelet at your breakfast nook and your heart seizes and that's that." She preserves one detail. "You drop a glass of iced tea. With lemon. The glass breaks."
Katey's face falls. Shoulders sag as she expels a long breath and as disappointment settles across her back like the yoke of a plow.
"Well. Thank you for that." Her voice quiet, nasal, the words clipped short as though cut at the ends by a razor. "I'm… sorry again about pushing you. That's not like me. Not like me at all."
And then the teacher walks away. Toward the school. Head low.
THIRTEEN
Lies, Damned Lies, and Cancer Diagnoses
The lie. There it waits. Like a sword over her head. Like a pubic hair in rum punch. A mystery. A sharpened question mark like a sickle ready to slit her throat.
She doesn't get it. It makes no sense. Why the lie?
She stands there, looking out over the river. Pitching pretzels into its mud-churned milk-waters. Picking at the lie. Teasing apart the motivation behind it.
Part of her thinks she's doing this woman a favor. Katey's got less than a year left. Pancreatic cancer – Miriam, that crow on death's shoulder, has seen it before. It's like an oil-fire. Once it starts, it won't go out. Spreads fast, too. Tell the woman about her diagnosis and it's – what? Just a series of debilitating therapies, each worse than the last. All futile. The door to despair thrown wide, the impossible and impending dark beyond.
Maybe, though, it's punishment. Maybe she wanted to punish this woman. Say, fuck you, you don't want my help? You spill my Scotch, cause a hundred dollars of my money to get swallowed by the river? Like a
Her hand knocks the Scotch bottle over.
Whisky spills between the wooden boards of the table top.
Her fingers touch the stack of cash.
Miriam grabs her arm, quick twists the sleeve to expose the skin.
Fingers encircle, skin on skin–
Katey Wiznewski looks the same as she does now, with her broad shoulders and motherly moon face, but she's in a blue raspberry bathrobe so fuzzy it looks like she killed some imaginary beast and now wears its pelt for warmth. She sits on the edge of a loveseat and the cancer is all through her. It's like the roots of a tree piercing dark earth and those roots drink and drink and drink, and they come from a gnarled tumor nestled tight against her pancreas. In her hand is a tall thin glass of iced tea with a crooked lemon wedge sticking up over the rim, and she goes to hand the glass to a large jowly man with a warm smile and she says to him, "It's not sweet enough, Steve. Nothing's really sweet enough anymore. Please take – " But then the electrical current that goes through her, that keeps her moving, that keeps us all moving, is gone – bzzt, power down, plug pulled, darkness waits – and the glass drops and shatters against a coffee table and–
–and Miss Wiz gives her a quick shove and Miriam topples backward, her head thudding dully against the earth.
The grass catches most of the lost twenties. Some of the bills ride a quick breeze and tumble end-over-end toward the river. Then they're gone.
Miriam sits up with a groan. Begins collecting the money.
Katey just stands there. Hands kneading hands. Eyes wet.
"I'm… sorry," the teacher says.
"Without standing, Miriam reaches over and grunts as she grabs the fallen bottle of Scotch. "Alcohol abuse," she muses, then turns the bottle over and lets the last few drops plop onto her tongue.
"What did you see?" the woman asks.
"Do you really want to know?"
"I do. I want to know. I need this."
And then Miriam tells her, but what she tells her is a lie. She doesn't say that Katey has pancreatic cancer. She doesn't say that the cancer is present now, right now , and that the woman has nine months almost to the day to live. That's the truth.
Instead she says, "Heart attack in twenty years. You're eating an egg-white omelet at your breakfast nook and your heart seizes and that's that." She preserves one detail. "You drop a glass of iced tea. With lemon. The glass breaks."
Katey's face falls. Shoulders sag as she expels a long breath and as disappointment settles across her back like the yoke of a plow.
"Well. Thank you for that." Her voice quiet, nasal, the words clipped short as though cut at the ends by a razor. "I'm… sorry again about pushing you. That's not like me. Not like me at all."
And then the teacher walks away. Toward the school. Head low.
THIRTEEN
Lies, Damned Lies, and Cancer Diagnoses
The lie. There it waits. Like a sword over her head. Like a pubic hair in rum punch. A mystery. A sharpened question mark like a sickle ready to slit her throat.
She doesn't get it. It makes no sense. Why the lie?
She stands there, looking out over the river. Pitching pretzels into its mud-churned milk-waters. Picking at the lie. Teasing apart the motivation behind it.
Part of her thinks she's doing this woman a favor. Katey's got less than a year left. Pancreatic cancer – Miriam, that crow on death's shoulder, has seen it before. It's like an oil-fire. Once it starts, it won't go out. Spreads fast, too. Tell the woman about her diagnosis and it's – what? Just a series of debilitating therapies, each worse than the last. All futile. The door to despair thrown wide, the impossible and impending dark beyond.
Maybe, though, it's punishment. Maybe she wanted to punish this woman. Say, fuck you, you don't want my help? You spill my Scotch, cause a hundred dollars of my money to get swallowed by the river? Like a
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