The Trouble With Eden - Lawrence Block [181]
“I can never remember. I think it means an early winter, doesn’t it?”
“That sounds right.”
“Never did like winter. Didn’t mind the cold. Always the damned inconvenience of it. Slopping around through snow and slush, shoveling cars loose, skidding around on the roads. Cold never bothered me because I always had enough antifreeze in my radiator. A man would sure feel the cold without it.”
“Can I get you anything, Clem?”
“Well, that depends. Do we put on an act for each other or don’t we?”
“It’s a little late in life for that.”
“Yes, it’s late in life, and I never did like winter. You know what I want, Olive.”
She went downstairs. There were blank spots on some of the walls. She looked at each spot and remembered immediately the picture that had hung there.
She came upstairs with a bottle and a glass. He filled the glass to the brim and held it to the light, admiring its color. “All due success to temperance,” he pronounced.
“I wonder how long you’ve been saying that.”
“Seems as good a toast as any.” He drained the glass in two long swallows. “Well, I needed that,” he said. “They can poke all the needles in the world into you and it’s not the same thing. By God I needed that. I was cold sober for over a week and I can’t remember the last time I could have made that statement. You rarely saw me drunk but did you ever see me sober? Well, once or twice, I suppose.”
“Nobody’s perfect.”
He poured another drink but sipped this one. “You know, I’ve got to be the luckiest son of a bitch who ever drew breath. Never been much good at or for anything—”
“I could dispute that.”
“Oh, maybe I was all right at that, but not much else. But what did I ever do to deserve you? All the hours I’ve spent sitting around and wondering about that.”
“If I have to listen to much more of this I’ll have to start drinking myself.”
“It’s nothing but true.”
“Try to make me out a saint and I’ll take your bottle away,” she said. “Understand?”
He grinned. “But God knows you’re an ornery bitch under it all.”
“That’s better,” she said.
On good days they would go out in the garden together. He would sit in a canvas chair with a glass in his hand while she readied the flower beds for winter, pulling the late weeds, cutting back roses and perennials, spreading a mulch of peat moss. Often they would go for hours without either of them speaking a word.
On other days, when the weather was bad or when he was not feeling well enough to go downstairs, she spent long hours in the bedroom with him. Sometimes she read poetry to him. He liked to sit with his eyes closed and hear her read poems he had read long ago. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they merely sat together.
Just before dawn on November’s first Thursday she awoke to hear him coughing beside her. She switched on the light. He was lying on his side and his pillow was dark with blood.
He said, “This is it, kid. No, don’t call anyone. They can’t do anything now and if they could I wouldn’t go through all of that again. Just give me your hand.”
“Oh, my darling.”
“What a good month this was. Best one of my life. I wanted to last until Halloween. Always liked Halloween. Never cared much about Christmas but I always liked Halloween. Wonder why that is… . ‘It’s coming along nicely.’ First words you ever said to me.”
“I remember.”
“ ‘It’s coming along nicely. Is it for sale?’ I thought, by God, that’s a woman, and I never met one before … It hurts but not so bad now … . I never gave you enough.”
“You gave me everything.”
“Took and took and gave you nothing. Always loved you, though. Hope you get a better one next time round … . I want to hold your hand. I can’t feel your hand, I want to hold it … .”
But she was holding his hand.
The funeral was far better attended than she had thought it would be. She hadn’t realized how many friends Clem had had. She remained dry-eyed throughout the service and the burial, accepting sympathy