'How you live. How you face up to life— and to death, as far as that goes. That's what I'm really afraid of.'
'What?'
'That I'll screw up. That I'll do what I shouldn't, or fail to do what I should. That one way or another I'll turn out to be a day late and a dollar short and not quite good enough.'
* * *
The sun was down when I left her apartment, and the sky was darkening. I set out intending to walk back to my hotel, but I was breathing heavily before I'd covered two blocks. I walked over to the curb and held up a hand for a cab.
I hadn't eaten anything all day aside from a hard roll for breakfast and a slice of pizza for lunch. I walked into a deli to pick up something for dinner but walked out again before it was my turn to order. I didn't have any appetite and the smell of food turned my stomach. I went up to my room and got there just in time to throw up. I wouldn't have thought I'd have had enough in my stomach to manage it, but evidently I did.
The process was painful, involving muscles that were sore from the night before. When I was done heaving a wave of dizziness took me and I had to cling to the doorjamb for support. When it passed I walked to my bed, moving with the deliberate mincing steps of an old man walking the deck of a storm-tossed ship. I threw myself down on the bed, breathing like a beached whale, and I wasn't there for more than a minute or two before I had to get up and stagger back into the bathroom to pee. I stood there swaying and watched the bowl fill up with red.
Afraid he'd kill me? Jesus, he'd be doing me a favor.
The phone rang an hour or so later. It was Jan Keane.
'Hello,' she said. 'If I remember correctly, you don't want to know where I'm calling from.'
'Just so it's out of town.'
'It's that, all right. I almost didn't go.'
'Oh?'
'It all seemed overly dramatic, can you understand that? When I drank I was always addicted to that kind of high drama. Jump up, grab a toothbrush, call a taxi, and grab the next plane to San Diego. That's not where I am, by the way.'
'Good.'
'I was in the cab, heading for the airport, and the whole thing seemed bizarre and out of proportion. I almost told the driver to turn the cab around.'
'But you didn't.'
'No.'
'Good.'
'It's not just drama, is it? It's real.'
'I'm afraid so.'
'Well, I needed a vacation anyway. I can always look at it that way. Are you all right?'
'I'm fine,' I said.
'You sound, I don't know. Exhausted.'
'It's been an exhausting day.'
'Well, don't push yourself too hard, all right? I'll call every few days, if that's all right.'
'That's fine.'
'Is around now a good time to call? I thought I could have a good chance of finding you in before you left to go to a meeting.'
'It's usually a good time,' I said. 'Of course my schedule's a little erratic right now.'
'I can imagine.'
Could she? 'But call every few days,' I said, 'and I'll let you know if things clear up.'
'You mean when they clear up, don't you?'
'That must be what I mean,' I said.
I didn't get to a meeting. I thought about it, but when I stood up I realized I didn't want to go anywhere.
I got back into bed and closed my eyes.
I opened them a little while later to the sound of sirens outside my window. It was the Rescue Squad, and I watched idly as they hauled someone out of the building across the street on a stretcher and loaded him into the ambulance. They sped off, heading for Roosevelt or St.
Clare's, running with the throttle and the siren both wide open.
If they'd been readers of Marcus Aurelius they might have relaxed and taken it easy, knowing that it didn't make any real difference if they got there on time or not. After all, the poor clown on the stretcher was going to die sooner or later, and everything always happened just the way it was supposed to, so why knock yourself out?
I got into bed again and dozed off. I think I may have been running a fever, because this time I slept fitfully and came awake drenched in sweat, clawing my way out of some shapeless nightmare. I got up and drew a tub of
