I Won't Shame You

How far can our manners wander when we are speaking of the small dignities one woman might give to her man. Suppose they are lovers for a thousand years, she had sung him sweet support and waved him off to war? 

They birth and toil over a fine litter together. They share the champion of the arts in sweet little homespun stories. How they met on an ocean liner. How their lips seemed to draw closer to one another. 

All the world sees them as an old staunch mix of gentle politics. The way they both ramble at dawn, he sets down the coffee cups, she boils the water – they percolate together. Their music is of shared essences. Their scars are common meal; sometimes a ginger smile at the curl of the mouth and sometimes a silent sob that needs not be remembered. 

All their children have grown brains of their own and walk with feet which remembers not who clad them first. Their friends are dying in droves and in small paragraphs for the newspaper. Their lilt is too help others: to be part of some future solution. 

Then one day Sylvester doesn’t feel so dally. He’s cabbied over to the hospital with Sally, the missus, asking questions and making sure everyone has the correct doctor diplomas. She is the Advocate General and Sylvester doesn’t want to make a sound

He uses the hand to pat down an invisible fear. Waits for the door to close and says, “Honey, these people have more important matters.” 

How can she say that there is nothing more important than a thousand years? She has to swallow her fear and know that her other half would demand the fortitude of clashing with each problem as a team. In silent dignity to this dark departure. 

The nurse sees the test first but plays like she has an imaginary fit of 'I suddenly can't read.' Sally is just besides herself to know if they have ten minutes? Ten years? How long will they play this song. 

The doctor Stevenson has glasses, which means he has read to the point of hurting. He looks over Sylvester’s chart and bobs his head, pretending that its not graven news and yet still missing a way to give the hope that is in his heart. There is no hope in Sylvester’s chart. 

“Well,” Doctor Stevenson takes off his glasses because then they can look eye to eye. 

He wants to ask Sylvester if he’s had a good life. The contagion can come tonight or tomorrow. It is a place beyond radiation, beyond shaman with magical sticks and quite closer to religion. Next step? 

“Mr. Thattendore… I suppose you know what I might say. You look very wise and have probably seen many things.” 

They all had. Hospital doctors have seen the affects of some wars. 

Sally, Mrs. Thattendore, doesn’t want to buy a clue. She doesn’t want to guess at anything that is not explicitly written down or her husband is going to say that she is being silly again. Sally doesn’t want to be thought of as silly. 

She asks dimly, “Is he going to be alright.” 

The men stare at each other because it is not polite to say what is real, true, correct. It is naive to say that words have no consequence. It is improper to tell a man he might be on his last hour because science doesn’t know for how long that the last pulse will continue in spark. 

Breathe child. 

Doctor Stevenson really wants to stop caring in that way which impacts convention. He reaches for Mrs. Thattendore and hugs her close. Like a hug could make her whole. She is going to lose the half of her life that she holds most dear. She is going to lose her purpose for waking early, her purpose for staying up that last half hour to catch the late show. She is going to lose that man who cuts her flowers, that man who puts down his fork when she had tried to create the wrong meal. 

The fulcrum missing. 

Why does he hold me? This stranger. This doctor. Such a young sweet smelling man. He doesn’t even smell like the sweat of the fields. Like his skin is half lady, the oils. The impugning heal of sinus relief on the release of a spirit. 

No. He smells like death. That’s right. This doctor holds the hand of death. Sally Thattendore revolts him away but the man holds tight while her real pacifier of anchorage to this world squirms his bed. Needles deep in arm hurt to move. The tubes are just junk food. The sheets are too plenty starched. Sylvester loves the fluff of a pillow. The way that the white noise makes him sleep, or yawn, or grin like a great dream will happen that night. 

He can’t die in this bed. 

The doctor leaves them then. 

The standpipe between them. The twelve inch tiles. The florescent light, lights flickering, small motors humming and the neighbor has such a loud respirator that Sally wants to scream: Leave us alone!

No, please. The neighbor doesn’t have to leave us alone. He can gasp and quake all night and it is a peaceful serenade, a reminder that there is more than our lonely rut. That everyone is grand and gay in this foxhole; friends. 

Sylvester doesn’t want to hear it. His teeth grit. His cheeks are taunt and the eyes are slightly watered because he doesn’t feel like a dead man. He wants that victory of youth. Not the crap surrender. Not the call to family for one last hoorah with the stories. All those stupid stories he put in their heads and their hearts. “Sally, come here.” 

He doesn't even care how it sounds. Might as well have been his own father from that mouth. Not a gentle request and not totally a command: “Sally, Come here.” 

She can’t resist his draw of breath. Can’t resist the way he lays there fighting; no, staving off death. She won’t be sad. She won’t embarrass him with her womanly tears because Sally always fears more than this man can put into words. He tugs her hand in such a way that a thousand million Hallmark cards explode in faith. 

“Sally, Come here.” 

She’s at his side. Standing. 

Sylvester’s made his peace. He takes out a right hand and puts his girl in a direction that means one thing: It’s warm down there. 

She feels the rise. The unconquerable attribute of a soldier, the task maker, the Sherman Tank of splendor in her hand. This is how Sylvester wants to be remembered? His eyes are fixed for risk and he don’t give a damn who enters that room next without knocking. There is just one last tug of this war. Damn the bed sores. Damn the finger cramps and the imagination because human touch is the last thing this flesh grabs from this world. 

Is this enough? My love. 

Hold in the vinegar. Keep thinking sweet thoughts. Tomorrow is going to be a hundred hours of phone calls and bills. For now we are in motion. 

Till the spirit parts without a body.