they hadn't isolated themselves in a way which had been counterproductive to the cancer-fighting process. As it was, he had kept his attention on the recognizable characteristics of her outward health — how much or little she ate, how tired or rested she appeared, how much energy she did or didn't have — that her fluctuating mind-set never really entered into his thoughts; she had, after all, always been better than he at keeping her spirits afloat. No, I'm not very good at this, he realized as the kettle began vibrating on the stove. You need someone else to talk to, another voice besides mine.
And later — it was afternoon, the sun was high above the backyard and the heating blanket she wore had been exchanged for a sweatshirt — when he nervously, haltingly brought up the idea of her seeking support (“It could be useful — I mean, if you felt like it would help — or not, I mean, I don't know — ”), she replied without any pause at the dining table, as if she'd been awaiting the moment: “I suspect you're right. I've imagined it might take the edge off things, I guess.” Then upon her face for the first time in weeks spread a genuine look of ease.
“So you've thought about it already?”
“I have.” Between them was a turquoise-colored teapot, steaming with ginseng oolong, a souvenir they had purchased years ago in Santa Fe. She reached forward, taking hold of the pot's handle, and she repeated, pouring tea into his cup as if sealing a deal: “I have, yes.”
“Fine,” he said, spooning brown sugar from a matching turquoise bowl. “Fine,” he said again, swirling the sugar around in his cup.
Soon enough the dining table would be cleared, the cups and bowl and pot and spoons placed inside the dishwasher by Hollis while Debra cradled the telephone against her neck, speaking to Dr. Langford — her right hand gripping a pen and jotting down information, filling several Post-it notes throughout the conversation. On the following Tuesday — having left Nine Springs near noon, driving under an overcast sky — she removed those same notes from her purse, sticking them to the dashboard as Hollis sped the Suburban toward Tucson. As usual, they said scarcely a word during the trip — Debra applying lipstick and eyeliner in the visor mirror, Hollis fiddling with the radio dial — and eventually they stared beyond the windshield, and watched the desert transform, the bare landscape bleeding into a more populous region of dying strip malls and brown-stucco apartment complexes, where, with the Post-it notes heeded, they arrived at their destination seven minutes early.
“Here you go,” Hollis said, when pulling the Suburban along the curb, the passenger door slowly aligning with the front walkway of the Gilda's Club building.
“Isn't quite what I expected,” Debra said, gazing from the side window, noticing a few small drops of rain which had begun hitting the sidewalk.
“Doesn't seem bad.”
“I suppose.”
Dr. Langford had told her the local Gilda's Club provided a homelike setting — a relaxed support environment for those with any type of cancer, offering group counseling sessions and educational workshops — but she hadn't expected it to be located within a converted one-story redbrick house (situated on a residential street, the front yard consisting of tall ocotillos and sizable agaves). For a while, she sat inside the Suburban, the brim of her Diamondback cap pulled discreetly down to her painted eyebrows, watching as a solitary, hunched figure in a hooded clear-plastic parka — it was impossible to tell if the person was a man or a woman, young or old — moved up the walkway with a portable oxygen tank, going like a snail toward the front door in abbreviated, labored steps. No sooner had the figure managed to enter the house when — appearing from nowhere, swooping behind the Suburban like a band of crows — four black umbrellas fluttered across the rearview mirror, startling Hollis for a split second before coming into full view on Debra's side: each held by a quartet of almost identical-appearing hairless, tight-lipped, middle-aged women (monks, was Hollis's immediate impression, a procession of monks), clenching the umbrella handles with both hands as if holding large crucifixes aloft, marching single file to the sidewalk and up the rain-spattered walkway.
“All right,” she said, half sighing, “those look like my people. I guess I shouldn't tarry any longer.”
“Want me to come?”
“No, no, I'm okay,” she said, digging her surgical mask from her purse. “I'll brave it alone. Go do errands, just make sure you're back in an hour. Don't forget to pick up the HEPA filter that's on sale at Home Depot. I put the coupon in your wallet.”
“You sure? I don't mind coming with you. We can finish the errands on the way home.”
“I'm sure,” she said, sliding the mask over her face, affixing the elastic loops around her ears. Then she leaned forward and kissed him, her gauze-covered lips briefly pressing his cheek. “See you in a bit,” were her muffled parting words, and with that she was out of the Suburban, holding her purse against her stomach, wandering away from him without looking back, the leaden movements of her legs conveying a measure of reluctance. He started the engine, but instead of leaving he remained there a little while longer, his stare trailing her into the house, lingering outside once she had entered the place and the front door was shut behind her: how absent of human activity the house suddenly looked — how desolate the empty walkway seemed to him, touched only by droplets which banished dust to the edges of their imperfect circles.
He returned in fifty-four minutes, parking at the exact spot. Already Debra had emerged from the house, loitering on the front porch in the company of two other bald-headed women (all three wearing surgical masks, all three speaking and gesticulating like old friends as the sky continued spitting rain). Impromptu hugs were given when Hollis was noticed, small slips of paper changed hands, and then Debra waved a quick goodbye while crossing to where he waited. Less than an hour had elapsed, yet now — it seemed to him — Debra's entire mood was elevated; her steps toward the Suburban were somehow light and confident, as opposed to the reserved gait which had taken her through the entrance of Gilda's Club.
“So how'd it go?” he asked, taking her purse for her as she climbed in beside him.
“Good,” was her definitive answer.
He waited for her to elaborate further — the door closed, the seat belt was grabbed — but when nothing else was forthcoming, he, too, said, “Good.”
As they headed home that afternoon, the invigorated spirit Debra had shown on the porch of Gilda's Club had faded by the time the Suburban exited Tucson's city limits. Hollis, feeling somewhat excluded from her newfound support, found himself wanting to know what had been discussed inside the house, but seeing her sitting rigid on the seat — the way in which she gazed ahead with an uncommunicative, absorbed demeanor — he decided it was better to hold off asking. And as their mutual silence took on an evasive air and the rain fell harder, an aura of gloom saturated the Suburban's interior — enhanced by the incessant squeaking of the windshield wipers, the blasts of static cutting into the radio signal — until, at last, she glanced at him, saying, “I think we should laugh more. I think it's important we do that, don't you?”
“They say it's the best medicine, right?” He had spoken immediately, eager to vanquish that indefinite sense of melancholy.
“That's right. And I could use the levity, and I think you could, too. We need to laugh at least once a day, okay? Can we do that?”
He forced a grin, deciphering the true meaning of what she was requesting: You've always been good at making me laugh, he thought. Now you're wanting me to do the same for you. “I'll try,” he said, nodding. “I'll give it a shot.”
Nevertheless, Hollis had no illusions: he knew he wasn't a man with a humorous disposition, someone who could easily produce witty, pointed remarks — like Debra and Lon did — using an illogical, cryptic, sarcastic, or ironic statement to accentuate the underlying heart of a given matter, however grave it might be on the surface. Humor had never lurked in his gene pool; he came from reserved northern stock, stoic people — women who frowned when laughs were warranted, men who looked confused when wry comments were delivered instead of rote punch lines. Yet his desire to amuse wasn't fully muted, although his attempts were often expressed as the inchoate clowning of the unfunny: exterior displays which almost never went deeper than silly faces, farting noises, bad puns, jokes overheard on the golf course but retold without the appropriate context or timing.
“Say, Deb, did you hear what the upset inflatable teacher said to the irresponsible inflatable student in the inflatable school?”
“You've told me that one, dear.”
“I have? Are you sure?”
“Listen, not only have you let me down, you've let yourself down, and you've let the whole school
