Numbers Don't Lie by Terry Bisson Page B

Candy has to work at it, and that makes her (for me) even more special, especially after having a wife who pretended, but only pretended, to despise her own beauty. But that’s a whole other story. “Don’t worry,” Candy answered, cutting me off with that smile that had enticed me to Alabama in the first place, and a touch on the back of my hand that reminded me of our almost-intimacies of the night before. “I just had to sign something, that’s all. A document. A formality. A DNR, in fact.”
    I knew what a DNR was. A Do-Not-Resuscitate order.
    â€œIt’s part of the process and everything, but still, it’s weird, you know?” Candy said. “It hurts. You’re telling them—ordering them—not to keep your Daddy alive. To let him die.”
    â€œCandy—” It was my turn to take her hand. “Your father is ninety years old. He’s got Alzheimer’s. He’s got cancer. His hair is white as snow. He’s got no teeth left. He’s had a nice life, but now . . .”
    â€œEighty-nine,” Candy said. “Daddy wasn’t quite sixty when I was born, and he hasn’t had a nice life. He’s had a terrible life. He’s been a terrible man. He’s made life miserable for people in four counties. But still, he’s . . .”
    â€œHe’s not terrible anymore,” I said. Which was true. I had never met the Whipper Will everybody hated. The man I knew was gentle and befuddled. He spent his days watching TNN and CMTV, perpetually smoothing a paper napkin across his knee as if he were petting a little white dog. “He’s a sweet old man now, and his worries are pretty much over. It’s your turn to have a nice life. Mine too. Which reminds me—I got a phone call from Wu! Something about that astronomy project he’s working on.”
    â€œWonderful,” Candy said. She loved Wu; everybody loves Wu. “Where is he? Still in Hawaii?”
    â€œGuess so,” I said. “He didn’t leave a number. Not that it matters, since I don’t have outgoing.”
    â€œI’m sure he’ll call back,” said Candy.
    At the Bonny Baguette, you don’t order when you want to; you are called on, just like in grade school. Bonnie, the owner, comes over herself, with a little blackboard on which there are five kinds of sandwich, the same every day. Actually, grade school was never that bad; they called on you but they never brought the blackboard to your desk.
    â€œHow’s your Daddy?” Bonnie asked.
    â€œThe same,” said Candy. “I was out to Squirrel Ridge today—the nursing home—and they all agree he’s just become the sweetest thing.” She didn’t say anything about the DNR.
    â€œAmazed, I’m sure,” said Bonnie. “Did I ever tell you about the time he took a shot at my Daddy? Out at Squirrel Ridge Trailer Park.”
    â€œYes, Bonnie, you’ve told me, several times, but he’s gotten sweeter with Alzheimer’s,” said Candy. “It makes some old people mean, but it made my Daddy sweet, so what can I say?”
    â€œHe also took a shot at my half-brother, Earl, out at Willow Bend Trailer Park,” said Bonnie. “Called him a ______.”
    â€œWe should probably go ahead and order,” said Candy, “since I only get fifty-five minutes for lunch, and almost eleven are gone.”
    â€œWell, of course.” Bonnie sucked her cheeks and tapped her little blackboard, ready to make chalk marks. “What’ll you two lovebirds have?”
    I ordered the roast beef, as usual; Candy ordered the chicken salad, as usual. Each comes with a bag of chips and I got to eat both bags, as usual. “Did you hear how she called us lovebirds?” I whispered. “What say we make it official tonight? I propose I propose.”
    â€œBonnie calls everybody lovebirds.”
    Candy’s a sweet,