Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
I was lying on my back on our white Berber living room carpet,
admiring the self portraits in a luxuriously detailed book called
Rembrandt: The Human Form and Spirit. The Rembrandt book
was one of several wonderful art books Rikki and I had given to
my dad. After he died, at the age of fifty-nine, ownership of the
books had reverted to us, and I was glad about that, even though
I would have been gladder had I not gotten them back so soon.
Every time I look at Rembrandt's self-portraits I get a feeling
inside that's hushed and private and kind of sad, like a solitary
stretch of river at night, and I know I'm looking directly into the
man's soul. And for some reason, when I look at those paintings
I feel a little closer to my dad, even though Rembrandt probably
knows him better than I ever did.
It was early evening in the middle of October. The days were
getting shorter, and outside you could see your breath. The
leaves on the trees surrounding our small fieldstone house on
our four-acre hill were turning, and soon they'd fall off and we'd
have to surrender the cocoon-like feeling that had originally attracted
us to the old place. Before long, through the bony trees,
we'd be able to see our nearest neighbor's home down the hill
and across the street, maybe six hundred feet away. Autumn in
New England.
Rikki was standing at the white Formica counter in our small,
bright kitchen that opened to the living room. The counter was
a happy sight, covered with all the fixings for a homemade pizza,
one of my two favorite meals along with homemade ravioli with
pesto sauce. The dough had risen and was stretched out on a
perforated pizza pan, a tasty sauce simmered on the stove, and
a big chunk of mozzarella sat next to a yellow-handled stainless
steel grater. Black olives, Crimini mushrooms, and a shiny red
bell pepper were already cut up, and Rikki was expertly slicing
a Vidalia onion with an eight-inch Henckels knife on a worn,
round, teak chopping board we'd gotten as a wedding gift twelve
years earlier.
The new L.L. Bean suede moccasins Rikki had just given
me for my thirty-seventh birthday--actually our birthday, since
we were born on the same day--were on the floor next to me,
and five-year-old Kyle was beside me on his belly, wearing his
blue and red Spiderman pajamas with the matching cape. He'd
made a fort out of my moccasins for some of his GI Joe figures
and the battle was raging, with Kyle providing excellent dialogue
and sound effects, which at one point got overly juicy and he
spit in my ear.
"Kylie, jeez!" I said, making a "yucchhh" face and wiping the
saliva off my ear with my shoulder.
"Sorry, Dad," he apologized in his little voice. We looked at
each other for half a second and both cracked up. I put Rembrandt
down, rolled over to my left, and propped myself up on
my elbow.
"Aw that's nothing," I said. "Once when you were a real
midget, maybe three months old--I was lying on my back on
the floor holding you up doing a `Superman'--"
Rikki pointed the knife at me and nodded without looking
up from the cutting board. "Yup, I remember this," she said,
grinning.
"Anyway," I continued, "I'm on my back flying you around
singing `Su-per-maaan,' swoopin' you back and forth and going
`nyowww,' and all of a sudden ... are you ready for this? You
puked, `bluhhhhh,' right in my ear!" Kyle burst out laughing
and a load of snot blobbed out of his nose and hung on his lip.
"Quick!" I shouted. "Go to Mom!" He jumped up and tooled
into the kitchen, still laughing and trying to snort the mucus
back up his little nose. Rikki put the knife down, grabbed a paper
towel, and held it to Kyle's face while he blew.
"Right in my ear," I said, chuckling. "Hot baby puke right in
my ear."
Rikki tossed the paper towel in the garbage can under the
sink, rinsed her hands off, and picked up the knife and another
onion. "You think that's funny, Kyle," she said, leaning forward
against the counter. "Tell him, Dad."
I nodded, knowing right away what she was referring to. Parenthood
and twelve years of marriage provided us with the comfortable,
unspoken understanding and knowledge that comes
from thousands of shared experiences. I shook my head, laughing.
"You're really gonna like this, Little Man."
"What, Daddy?" Kyle asked, as he padded back, plopped
down, and resumed the moccasin wars. "What am I gonna like?"
"Okay," I said. "You were even littler than you were when
you ralphed in my ear--"
"Ralphed," he giggled. "Daddy, you're funny."
"Hey," I said, giving him the Groucho eyebrows and air cigar.
"Nobody calls me funny and gets away with it."
Now Rikki was giggling. I paused and watched her snickering
and chopping vegetables. I loved seeing her laugh. Loved the
sound of her laugh. Such an easy laugh. Such a good person--a
good friend. And sexy as hell, too. I never got tired of looking
at her. Thirty-seven years old. Five feet six and slender. Long
shapely legs that went all the way up to the buns of Navarone.
Straight honey-brown hair cut just below her shoulders and
large, deep blue eyes. Everyone who met her loved those eyes.
Kyle poked me with his finger and whined, "C'mon, Dad."
I snapped out of my reverie. "Okay, where was I ... oh, yeah.
You were tiny, maybe four weeks old ..." I looked up at Rikki,
raising my eyebrows quizzically.
"Mm hmm," she said. "Four weeks to the day."
"Right," I said. "Anyway, we were shooting some videotape
on this old, beat-up video camera ..." I looked up at Rikki again.
"Remember that camera?" She nodded.
"Old camera," I said. "Made everything look green. So,
Mom had the camera, we were sitting in the living room in our
house in Nashville. You're on my lap--nude--or maybe you
had a shirt on. I forget."
"He was wearing a T-shirt," Rikki piped up.
"Why wasn't he wearing a diaper?"
"I don't know," she shrugged. "Airing him out?"
"Anyway," I continued. "You were sitting on my lap and
Mom was shooting some video of us. And all of a sudden,
`pftthhdd,' you took a crap--on my leg!" That cracked Rikki up,
and Kyle fell over laughing hysterically, holding his little belly.
"Right there on the video," I said, shaking my head. "Recorded
for all time. The first time my kid ever crapped on me."
"Won't be the last, either," Rikki said, still laughing. Her eyes
were tearing and she was sniffling--not from the stow, but from
the onion. "Now that was classic," she said, wiping her eyes with
the sleeve of her teal cotton jersey.
Kyle put Joe's butt on top of my head, stuck his tongue out
and went "pftthhdd," and cracked up some more. Then he said,
"Hey, Dad. Let's do Buns in Space!"
Buns in Space was a game we played where I'd lie on my
back on the floor with my knees up and my feet flat. Kyle would
straddle me and sit down on my stomach. With my palms facing
up, I'd grab hold of him by the upper thighs and butt, one cheek
in each hand, and support his weight. Then in his pipsqueak
voice he'd announce--and this was my favorite part--"Ladies
and gentlemen, boys and girls, once again it's time for ... BUUNS ...
I-IN ... SPA-AAA-CE!!" And as soon as he said the
words, I'd start to shake him and lift him and make a sound like
a rocket launching. When my arms were extended, I'd shout,
"Hit the button for hyperspace!" and with his finger he'd press
an imaginary button on his left knee, and I'd make an even
bigger launch noise and shake him some more, lifting him
higher. After a few seconds I'd make him pitch and yaw, while
I coughed and sputtered like Elmer Fudd's car. "Oh no, we're
going dowwwn!" I'd yell, bucking him all over the place. "Look
out belowww!" He'd laugh like hell and hang on to my wrists,
totally exhilarated, and then I'd gently topple him over and we'd
both crack up. A second later he'd jump up and say, "Again for
it, Daddy," and we'd start all over.
Kyle and I hadn't done Buns in Space in a long time--at
least it seemed like a long time to me. I couldn't bench-press
his forty pounds anymore, and it broke my heart.
I told Kyle I was sorry, but I didn't feel up to it. He shrugged
it off and went back to playing. I went back to Rembrandt. Before
long, Rikki told us to get ready to eat.
Immediately after dinner I had to lie down again. As usual, I
didn't feel well. I had a roaring sinus infection that always
seemed to get worse right after I ate. Without even clearing the
table, I ambled over to the living room couch and collapsed
onto it.
Rikki ushered Kyle up the stairs for his bath, and I lay there
looking up at the ceiling, exhausted and pissed off. I noticed a
cobweb in the corner of one of the built-in oak bookshelves.
Entangled in it was the crunchy carcass of a captured fly that
had already had all the juice sucked out of it. I'm dying. I shook
it off. Damn, I'm not missing this bath!
"Wait guys," I called, "I'm coming." I groaned, struggling to
get up from the couch.
Rikki looked back down the stairs at me. "You sure?"
"Yup." I grunted and stood up. Trying not to waste energy by
bending over too far, I made a stab for the moccasins and missed.
I took a deep breath and grabbed for them again, and this time
I got them. I shook the soldiers out, dropped the slippers to the
floor, and snaked my feet into them. Then I shuffled over to the
L-shaped staircase, took hold of the wrought-iron railing, and
pulled myself up the oak stairs.
Rikki and Kyle were in the bathroom with the tub water running.
Rikki gave my arm a gentle squeeze and looked at me
worriedly. I kissed her cheek and looked over at Kyle. "Guess
what, Little Man," I said excitedly.
"What?" he asked.
"How would you like to take a bath with shaving cream?" I
picked up a can and gave it a few shakes.
He balled his little fists and threw his arms up. "Yeahhh! You
mean I can shoot it?"
"Sure!" I said, glancing sideways at Rikki.
She raised her eyebrows at me and said to Kyle, "Just try to
keep it in the tub, honey, okay?"
"Don't worry, I will," he said gleefully.
Rikki tested the water with her fingers and turned off the
faucet. "Peel and hop in, Spiderman," she said. "I'll go get your
guys."
I lowered the toilet lid and sat down, ready to watch Kyle go
at it. Using both hands, he sprayed the first shot of shaving cream
into the built-in tiled soap dish. "Coool!" he said. I smiled,
agreeing that it was indeed cool for a kid to be let loose with a
full can of shaving cream. I leaned back against the water tank
and watched him.
In a minute Rikki came back with a clear plastic tub of action
figures, and Kyle carefully chose a few with his left hand, holding
the shaving cream can in his right, reluctant to put down
his new favorite weapon. He held up Shredder, who looked like
a gladiator with serrated knives on his helmet, and blasted him
with enough lather for twenty shaves. He giggled devilishly.
Rikki stood next to me, gently massaging my back with her
right hand, and the room filled with that synthetic lime shaving
cream smell that's supposed to make women think men are
manly.
Evening had succumbed to night, and the critters in our
woods were making themselves busy under the cover of darkness.
I guessed that somewhere nearby somebody was throwing another
log on a fire. I shifted my gaze from Kyle to the large
mirror on the far wall and took in Rikki's profile beside me. She
looked soft and radiant.
Then I caught a glimpse of my own reflection. The harsh
yellow light was not nearly as kind to me. In two days, he'll cut
me open again. It won't work. I'm a dead man.
An hour later Spiderman was fast asleep in his bed. The shaving
cream had been rinsed off the bathroom walls and floor.
Rikki had cleared the table and washed the dishes, buttoned up
the house, turned down the thermostat, and climbed in bed next
to me.
She was wearing nothing but an oversized white T-shirt with
a silk screen of the Beatles' Let It Be album cover on the front.
Paul's picture covered her right breast and John's covered her
left. George and Ringo were underneath. John and Paul were
the lucky ones. Rikki and I lay facing each other, holding hands.
Her skin felt warm and feminine, and she smelled like a bowl
of fresh fruit from the Caswell-Massey soaps I'd bought her for
our birthday.
I inhaled deeply through my nose. "Mmm," I sighed. "Strawberry?"
"Mm mm. Pomegranate."
We lay in silence for a couple of minutes, looking into each
other's eyes. Rikki spoke first. "I know you're scared about the
operation," she said, squeezing my hand. "It's gonna be all right,
Cam. We're going to get through this and you're going to get
better."
She was talking about the dual maxillary and ethmoid sinusotomy--my
fourth sinus operation, the third in four years--I
was going to undergo in two days. I looked deeply into her eyes
but didn't say anything.
"You've been sick for so long. You deserve to get better." She
ran a hand through my hair and kissed me. "You're going to
make it. I won't let you go down, you know. I won't."
"These operations never seem to work for too long, Kid," I
said softly. "I don't know why. It feels like it's in my bones. Like
I'm sick all the way to my bones and I can't stop it. Mercer can't
help me. He's just a guy with a knife." I shook my head. "It's
deeper. Something's not right.... It's never been right."
We looked at each other some more. "You've been a good
friend and you're a great mom," I said. Rikki squeezed my hand
harder, and a tear ran down her cheek and fell onto the light
blue pillowcase. "I feel like you married a lemon," I said, and
then my composure crumbled and I began to cry, too. "I'm so
sorry, Rik."
Rikki pulled me close to her and put my head on her shoulder.
She stroked my hair and we cried together. "We'll make it,"
she whispered. "You'll see. Everything'll be all right."
But in my heart, I didn't really think it was true.
