• • • • •
I will admit that my next visit with Michelle was timed with an ulterior motive. I was hoping we could share one more event, make one last basketball memory. It was June 21, the night of the annual NBA draft, long a staple of both our calendars. She wouldn’t miss it if she knew it was on. But I had driven to Stamford forewarned by her children that Michelle’s deterioration had been swift. She was past the point of wanting to be seen, insisting on phone farewells with friends instead. I was relieved to be told by her children that her door remained open to me.
It was dinnertime when I arrived. Michelle’s daughter Devon was trying to entice her with small pieces of meat and roasted potatoes. Less than two weeks after her small feast, Michelle would submit to only an occasional half-hearted bite, preferring to sip water through a straw in a cup I held to her mouth.
About an hour passed. I checked my phone. It was nearly seven, the draft’s start time. I wasn’t sure if I should suggest that we turn on the television, or if I should even stay much longer, never quite knowing if I was intruding on time with her children. But Devon was fatigued and emotionally spent after a long afternoon. What the hell, I decided—why not ask?
“Oh, is that tonight?” Michelle said.
“In a few minutes,” I told her.
“Oh, yes,” she said, pointing to the screen on the wall. Suddenly perked up, she asked for the back of her bed to be raised and for pillows to be propped. Knowing her mother would be preoccupied with the draft until it was time to sleep, Devon left for the short drive to Michelle’s condo.
Michelle was actually never much of a college basketball fan, but she, like many followers of the NBA, loved the draft because of its reality-TV pageantry—the family group hugs that signified the realization of a dream and imminent wealth. On draft night, she could also harbor the never-ending and never-fulfilled hope that the Knicks would finally land their Michael Jordan, their LeBron James. But that wasn’t likely in 2018, with the team holding the ninth pick in the first round. We watched mostly in silence as the first players were chosen and made their triumphant strolls to the stage for the ceremonial donning of the team cap and the photo-op shaking of Commissioner Adam Silver’s hand. The names rattled off—Deandre Ayton, Marvin Bagley, Luka Doncic. Michelle watched quietly as the video highlights for each player were shown and the analysts dissected their games.
Finally, the Knicks were on a five-minute clock between picks. She watched intently as the announcers reviewed the Knicks’ season and their most glaring needs. She nodded when I said, “They need everything.” And she added, for good measure, “New ownership.”
Out came Silver to announce, “With the ninth pick in the 2018 NBA draft, the New York Knicks select . . . Kevin Knox of the University of Kentucky.” There were jeers in the crowd at Brooklyn’s Barclays Center. One announcer pointed out that the fans had also booed Kristaps Porzingis on draft night in 2015. Another was dismayed that people would treat an eighteen-year-old so rudely in the biggest moment of his life.
“Idiots,” Michelle said.
“You got that right,” I said.
“And the players from Kentucky,” she said, “don’t they usually turn out to be pretty good?”
“They do, but he’s a baby, like most of these guys,” I said. “Probably take him a few years.”
“Good,” she said. “Then I won’t miss anything when I’m not around next season.”
I let her gallows humor pass without comment, knowing Michelle would never abide a half-hearted reassurance. We watched the next few selections in silence—which made me reflect on how rare an occurrence it was in nearly four decades of a friendship that had in effect been one continuous conversation. Her eyelids were getting heavy, the adrenaline rush provided by the wait for the Knicks’ pick fading fast. With the assistance of morphine, Michelle wasn’t in pain—at least her doctors had assured her children of that much. But I didn’t want her to stave off sleep on my account. I knew I couldn’t stay much longer. But there was one question that I needed to ask. One last thing I had to know.
“Michelle, are you OK?”
I assumed she knew by the pained sound of my voice that I was not asking if she was merely comfortable, free of pain. Perhaps selfishly, I wanted to know what this remarkable woman who had taught me so much about living was thinking about dying.
She nodded. “I’m OK,” she said softly. “I’m really OK.”
That was all she would volunteer, and it would have to be enough to convince me that Michelle indeed was ready, that she was at peace because she believed her world was in order.
“How are you feeling?” she said.
“I’m sad, but I’m OK, too.”
“You should be OK,” she said. “You have a great life.”
“You know that you helped a lot with that, Michelle,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Thank you for letting me,” she said.
I wanted to say so much more but her eyes were losing the struggle to stay open, while mine filled with tears. It was time for her to sleep, and for me to leave. I stood up, leaned over to kiss her cheek. With night falling outside, the room was darkened, the only light flickering from the television screen. I moved toward the door and took a look back. Michelle’s eyes were closed.
“Love you, Michelle.”
“Love you, Harvey.”
I stepped out of the room and closed the door on a precious friendship, the likes of which I knew I would never have again.
Twelve The Postseason
Michelle Musler died on the afternoon of June 28, almost two months before her eighty-second birthday. An email from her daughter Darcy dropped with the news at 6:28 that evening, the subject line reading, simply: “Mom.”
HI HARVEY, YOU
