This one feels pretty autobiographical. My father's first wife Joyce, mother of my brothers Tom and Mike, died in similar circumstances to the woman in this story. If I were workshopping my father, I'd ask him to look at one stretch of the piece; but instead I'm memorializing him, so I won't tell you what it is.

I will say that, although the protagonist here claims to have no love for anyone, I know that the man who wrote it did. He loved his family, loved his sons. I know it because I felt it. Pretending otherwise is just part of the macho pretense.

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“Go ahead and cry, Jim,” Stephanie said as she held his hands tightly. “You won’t be less of a man for it.” Jim Evans and Stephanie Maxwell were the sole occupants of the hospital solarium. The sun streamed through the window and the open doors of the terrace revealed a brightly colored room with soft chairs and couches lining the walls, but it was not a pleasant scene nor a pleasant place.

Jim sat on the edge of the chair staring at the patterns on the tile floor.

"I can't Stephanie! I wish I could but I just can’t.”

They sat quietly, each in their own thoughts as Jim Evans reviewed the past two and a half months. They were bad, but the six months before were worse with his wife Marie bouncing from doctor to doctor, each one with a different diagnosis, a different bottle of pills that Marie would take one of, then change doctors. He had a problem getting someone to care for the children when Marie began sleeping most of the day; then finally the correct diagnosis––a brain tumor!

Stephanie's mother had a tumor too, and had suffered a massive stroke the day before Marie was admitted. Jim hardly noticed Stephanie at first though she was very attractive with milky white skin, long black hair, and a knockout body. He passed her off as just a kid. She was only twenty and he was already thirty-five, going bald and becoming bent and beaten from years of hard, physical work. Jim automatically checked out all the women he met; it was an old habit as hard to get rid of as some of his others.

Stephanie wasn't overly friendly either. She had her grandmother, sister, aunts, uncles, and fiancé to keep her company, while Jim sat alone except for those miserable nights Marie's mother and brother visited. 

Jim and Stephanie did talk eventually, of the traffic, the parking, and the inane chit-chat of strangers trying to be friendly.

Jim well remembered their first meaningful conversation. It was the night before Marie's operation and her mother-in-law, brother-in-law, and aunt were there. Jim moved to the terrace to avoid screaming at the stupid idiots. It was raining that night, a light spring rain, and Jim leaned against the railing and stared into the tiled courtyard watching the rain strike the puddles and form never-ending circles. Silently, Stephanie was beside him, placing a cigarette to her lips; he lit it for her.

"Nice view," she commented sarcastically. The courtyard was surrounded by other buildings of the immense four block hospital.

Jim forced a smile and stared into the courtyard again. Somehow it reminded him of prison.

“You looked like you almost lost your cool tonight," she said.

"Almost," Jim replied. "How anyone can be so stupid is beyond me. I guess that's why religion is so profitable; people believe anything they want to believe no matter what they're told."

“What do you mean, Jim?"

Jim faced Stephanie, finger pointing toward the inner solarium as he gestured angrily.

"The doctor told us all this afternoon that Marie was going to die. He said it as nice and gently as he could, but those stupid bastards are sitting there thinking he said she'll be all right."

"What’d he say?” Stephanie asked as a matter of courtesy.

Jim thought before he went on, since he had noticed a coldness in her almost as deep as his.

“He said the tumor was deep in the brain behind the pituitary gland, inoperable. They're going to do a shunt to relieve pressure on the ventricles. But he said inoperable tumors don't go away or shrink—they get bigger."

"There's cobalt," Stephanie said.

"Yeah, cobalt, that would destroy her whole brain before it got working on the tumor."

"I think you and I are going to be here together a long time, Jim,” she said while flicking her cigarette into the courtyard. She turned and re-entered the solarium. Jim stayed for a while longer. Stephanie was a medical technician and knew quite a bit. He was afraid she was right.

Several weeks passed. Marie had the operation; it was a success but she became progressively worse. First the right side, then the left became paralyzed. She had been unable to communicate since coming down from the operating room and now lay in a semi-stupor—eyes wide open, unblinking, completely paralyzed, tubes in every orifice, including her nose. The ever-present IV bottle was hanging by the specially refrigerated bed that kept her temperature down. A tracheotomy had been performed and she had begun cobalt treatments. The powerful rays had burned the hair from where it had begun to grow after the operation. Jim would stand at the foot of the bed and wonder if she knew what was going on.

Stephanie had loosened up considerably, probably from the long time they had spent together.

"You must love her a lot," she said early one night while they were still alone.

"I don't love her at all,” Jim replied.

"You come every night, every weekend. Why?"

“Duty, obligations, I don't know," Jim answered.

“You must have loved her once.”

"No, we had some good times though, plenty of them. We got two nice kids, but she was a bitch and I felt like killing her more times than I felt like making love to her."

“Did she love you?"

"I guess so. You know, she had been married to a Catholic, then divorced, then married me in a civil ceremony. The night before the first operation, the priest came in and told her he couldn't give her absolution unless she promised that if she made it, should no longer live as my wife. In other words, she'd have to renounce me. She refused to do it and the priest wouldn't give her absolution. The bastard! So I guess she did love me, but so what?"

"You know," Stephanie said, "I started swinging when I was sixteen. Me and my girlfriend in all the high-class bars. The fun wore off quickly. It turned out to be nothing and I developed a dislike for people, but I like you. I think you're like me.”

"Not really," Jim replied. "You love your family. They may aggravate you, but you still have feelings for them. I don't have feelings for anybody."
Stephanie gazed at Jim quizzically. "Why, how?" She asked.

"Why? I was a sensitive kid, an easy target, and I got hurt a lot."

They both remained silent. Jim felt like talking. He had, he thought, and interested listener, but more than that, someone he would never see again after Marie died. Someone who couldn't tell everyone what he said.

"I was in prison and a couple of reformatories. I used to hurt whenever anybody else got hurt, but I thought I'd end up in the bug house if I stayed that way. I knew I had to change. I always hurt people whenever I could and if I felt any pity, I gave an extra punch or kick, but it was prison that was my graduate school. I saw my friends stabbed to death in front of my eyes, beaten to a pulp by guards; others go insane or commit suicide. By the time my five years was up, the whole world could have ended and I wouldn't have given a damn. They couldn't hurt me."

"Your parents, brothers, sisters?" Stephanie asked.

"Nothing, just people. My brother got killed in a car accident two years ago. To me it was like reading about a train wreck in India where a couple hundred people got killed—nothing."

"Your kids?"

"I feel obligated, protective toward them, but love, I don't know. They'll grow up and go when their wings are strong enough. How about you—got anybody?"

“I do have Fred," Stephanie said. "But other than him, just my family, and I feel so lonely at times. The loneliness must get to you too."

“It does. Do you think I like being this way? I'm not even human. How many people have died since we've been here? Six, seven? The only thing that bothered me was the crying and carrying on the relatives did. The only emotions I couldn't eliminate are hate and anger, but I can control them. When I see somebody crying, I feel like sending them on their way with a kick in the ass. Tears don't bring anybody back any more than prayers will keep them here."

Stephanie leaned back in her chair. "Tough guy. You've got to be a tough guy," she said with a smile.

Jim laughed; a forced laugh. "Yeah, real tough."

"Well, you've got to hang in there anyway, Jim,” Stephanie advised just as Fred walked into the room.

The following weeks were filled with soul-searching conversations between Stephanie and Jim whenever they could be alone, and Jim came to depend on the kid more than he cared to.

He expressed his anger and she agreed when he found out Marie had been given last rites of the Catholic Church. He knew she refused to renounce him, and after the first operation was unable to communicate. Then Stephanie remembered how for a few days after the operation, when Jim held Marie’s hand, she would squeeze it. They had discussed it and decided it was involuntary movement. She suggested that probably the priest asked Marie to renounce Jim and squeeze his hand if the answer was yes. Jim agreed and knew his mother-in-law had a hand in that. Stephanie told him not to get uptight about it, patted his hand, smiled and he calmed down. He felt lost when she couldn't come or her fiancé or relations monopolized her time. During those periods, they communicated with smiles and winks and though unwilling to admit it, leaned on each other.

Of course their talks caused gossip. There was another woman, Harriet, almost thirty, stockily built, who suffered from recurring spells of non-infectious meningitis and whose first screaming, crying nights in the hospital tempted Jim to sneak in her room and smother her with a pillow, but she recovered and soon joined in with the small group waiting for death.

Jim teased and joked with her and one day she put on her complete makeup for Jim and proved to be quite attractive. Harriet accused Jim of carrying on with Stephanie and one night while Fred was driving Harriet's husband Bob home, Bob wondered aloud if Jim and Harriet were not up to something. After two and a half months together, they were becoming like a family.

Then one day Jim had off from work and drove to the hospital. After waiting about five minutes for the elevator, he finally climbed the four flights of stairs and entered Marie's room. The bed was empty. It was over.

He went to the floor nurse. She offered her sympathy and called a doctor. "Sorry, Mr. Evans— Like to perform an autopsy, maybe help someone else–– This is a new field–– blah blah."

Jim heard the doctor's voice as if he were far away. He signed the papers and shook hands with the doctor.

Jim headed for the solarium, his heart pounding, praying Stephanie was there. He sat beside her then and she told him to cry.

"I'm going to miss you, you big goof," Stephanie said with a smile.

Jim stared and nodded.

Stephanie released his hands and covered her face; she choked back the tears.
“I wish I could put my arms around you and you could cry on my shoulder Jim, I really do."

Jim stood, reached down and grasped Stephanie's hands, pulling her to her feet. There were droplets of tears in the corners of her eyes. He wiped them with his thumb. 

"Don't crack now! You held me up for so long, I feel I owe you something and I wouldn't know what to do."

Stephanie gritted her teeth and squeezed Jim’s hands. “I’m okay,” she said.

“Stephanie, you are the only pretty, young girl I've ever met that I didn't want to go to bed with."

Stephanie looked shocked! "Is that a compliment or an insult?"

“A left-handed compliment, I guess. You know," Jim said as he lowered his head, "it's just that I have a special feeling for you; not a sexual feeling, though you're sure as hell pretty enough, and that's usually how my mind runs, but I don't know. Yes, yes, I think I do; it's that you're the first person I've liked as a human being. You've listened to my bullshit, you've lifted my spirits up and kept my temper down, just because you like me, not for what you can get for yourself. If I could meet more people like you, maybe I'd be a different person."

“You're the one who's got to change, Jim,” Stephanie said as she stared into his eyes, and tears began to form. 

"Let me get out of here before you get to me," Jim said. Stephanie nodded. "Goodbye Stephanie. I'll never forget you. Thanks." 

"So long, tough guy," she said softly.

Jim kissed her forehead, released her hands, and walked rapidly down the hallway toward the stairs.

"Your wife's personal effects are at the office on the main floor," the nurse shouted as he hurried by. He hurried down the stairs, through the long corridor, out into the streets and over to his car. He slipped the key into the ignition, rested both hands on the steering wheel and looked at the imposing hospital.

No more. No more rushing straight from work without eating; no more fighting New York traffic; no more stupid nurses and doctors; no more tubes; no more Marie.
It was over––all over––she was dead.

He rested his head on his hands on the wheel and cried.