Maggie sat at the dinner table across from Mark, wondering which part of him was dying the fastest. Was it where the cancer grew? She wasn’t sure. Cancer is a living thing, after all, something that wandered where it shouldn’t have and multiplied. Whichever part it was, she hoped it would go fast. Watching him suffer this was a burden now more than anything else. They’d talked about that, and Mark reminded her, in his gentle way, that he was suffering most of all. What love they shared was washing away under the IV drip she checked nightly. She was tired, beyond tired, and ready for him to go.

Most nights, she imagined killing him. Well, not killing him, exactly. By the time her fantasy starts, she’s already killed him, sitting silently at his bedside with her eyes closed taking in the quiet. No more loud dinners like tonight. Mark couldn’t help it; the only way he could chew now was loudly. His jaw had weakened over the past few months, and now he ate like her mother did near the end, fork hanging in her wrinkled fingers, head just above the plate with lips at the rim scraping eggs and sausage into her mouth. It was a pride thing, she thought. Both Mom and Mark were strong most of their lives, and both insisted on feeding themselves. So as much as Maggie hated the sound, she endured it for his sake.

She wrapped up the leftovers, putting them in the “Thursday” row in the fridge. By the time she cleaned their plates he was in bed, IV at his side, huffing from the walk. That was one thing she wasn’t numb to: how weak he’d become. When they were young, she would feign sleep on the couch so Mark would come into the living room, chuckling at the sight of her before draping her over his shoulder and carrying her to sleep. She appreciated the irony, at least: not only could she carry him now, but some nights she had to. When she checked on him, he had wrapped himself in his fluffy blanket, the white one with his old red quilt on top, smiling like a younger man with his eyes closed, the lamp on the nightstand washing him in amber. It felt good to see him like that. She checked his blood pressure and central line, tracing her pinched fingers down the tube to where it entered the side of his chest into his axillary vein. The doctor had taught her that name and repeated it every month.

“What’re you smiling about?” She lifted his head up and pulled the pillow down to his shoulders. He opened his eyes and looked at her.

“Dinner was good tonight.” His hazel irises held the lamplight.

“Could be your last, hon.” She turned the lamp off.

“What’re you gonna do, snip my IV?”

“Only if I loved you.” She flashed that devilish smile Mark loved. His face twisted in faux heartbreak, one hand on his chest, smile bigger than ever.

“Rich coming over tonight?” He asked.

“He’ll be here soon. Say hi or no?”

“I’d better rest. You two enjoy.” Young Mark faded, then, and Old Mark took his place. No smile this time. She kissed him on the forehead and walked out, closing the door behind her.

Their old couch was an off-yellow with green and purple flowers and red flannel patches covering its holes. Two pillows of the same pattern leaned against its arms. It had been in the living room for so long that she’d forgotten why they kept it at all. Their TV was just as old, though she remembered driving home with it one day 30 years ago. She laid down on the couch, wedging the pillow between her arm and head and grabbing the TV remote off the carpet. Every night, a local station broadcasted a segment called the “Midnight Feature” where they played old horror movies. Maggie had always loved horror movies, though Mark couldn’t stand them.

Tonight’s flick was one of his most reviled: the original “Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” Maggie attributed this to his inexplicably deep fear of Communists. He could barely explain that before he started shuddering too hard to speak, so she didn’t breach the subject. The movie started just as Richard knocked on the door. She answered it, inviting him in with a kiss. He was a larger man than Mark, and dumber, in many ways, with an endless supply of dusty jeans and button-ups of all types. Tonight, he wore a red and black flannel. In a few minutes, it was off. She leaned on his chest and closed her eyes, taking in his scent.

They stumbled towards the couch, guided by her hand. Something along the way brushed cold against it and shattered on the ground. She stopped for a minute and looked at the pieces. It was the smallest lamp they had, one of the few Mark loved. He would have heard it, she knew, but right now, she didn’t care. Let him hear.

“Christ. Grab a trash bag, will you?” Rich pulled away.

She pulled him back. “Tomorrow.”

Rich tripped and crumpled, ending up with his back on the wood floor inches from the glass. If Maggie was any less desperate, they would have made it to the couch. Tonight, that wasn’t the case.
 
***
 
Rich stood in front of the bathroom mirror, faucet running, alcohol soaked cotton pad in hand. While he cleaned the scratches on his chest, she leaned in the doorway, cleaning those on his back.

“Rough tonight.” He dabbed at the tracks, bearing the sting with a furrowed brow. 

Was it too much for you?”

“Not for me. For you, though, different story.” The scratches were clean now. She reached past his back and grabbed a towel from the rack for him.

“I can go softer next time.” She squeezed in next to him and held the towel under the faucet. He inched away from her, looking uncomfortable and focusing on the pad.

“S’not what I mean, Peach. The scratches, the lamp...” He held out an open hand.

She gave Rich the towel. Heat bloomed in her stomach.

He finished just in time for the last bit of “Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” The TV sat in a small entertainment center, just above a shelf of old VHS tapes. She scanned her selection as they sat down, wishing she could watch every one tonight: “Night of the Living Dead” at the front, “Golem,” her favorite German film further down, and “Kairo,” an import from Japan that she still didn’t understand, at the end. She leaned on Rich’s shoulder, his arm propped on the back of the couch.

This was her favorite part: Dr. Miles Bennell, now free of Santa Mira’s body snatchers, runs up a a street at rush hour, two lanes of early morning commuters blaring their horns as he stumbles between them blustering about a town taken over by aliens and pleading for the drivers’ help. They pass by with raised fists and Outta the way! shouts, Miles an unstable annoyance on their way to work. Bennell knows how he sounds, how he’d react to a shouting man like that and freezes in the road, his ranting mouth moving in and out of the passing headlights. 
Old movie acting like that cracked Rich up, but she loved the naked terror on Kevin McCarthy’s face, his booming voice and senseless masculinity. She wanted that moment, to break from reality somewhere public and be put away for good. Then she thought of the skin under her fingernails, the anger in the sex. The way her husband’s skin felt, and drifted off.

In the morning she swept the lamp shards up to the local news. Mark was still asleep when she finished, so she laid on the couch. The sun shined through the living room window, dust falling through the beams. Chin propped on the couch’s arm, she tried to follow one spec at a time. She lost them when they drifted into the shadows.

For now, the house was quiet, but every morning, one of three things would happen: Mark would lay humming to himself until she woke up (Hum Days), sob for as long as he needed to before breakfast (Cry Days) or rustle in the sheets and groan in pain, a deep groan from the pit of his stomach (Groan Days). She was used to the sound, but it made her heart pound anyway.

From the bedroom, she heard the sheets rustle.
 
***

The groans stopped by lunch time. He was exhausted then, but still seemed more slumped over than usual. It looked like his body was gathering inwards, more of him disappearing every day. The Super Anti-Cancer Breakfast Smoothie wasn’t going to replace what he was losing. She grabbed it from the “Friday” row in the fridge regardless. Routine was good, and done gently enough, simple acts like putting the cup’s straw to his lips passed as love.

He was usually this weak in the mornings, and it was hard to take at first. The IV pole at his side was the toughest thing to get used to, like a constant reminder of how little time he had left. But today, it was harder to be numb to his weakness. She only saw the top of his head as he slurped the purple stuff through the straw and swallowed with a lipsmack and sigh.

“Heard—heard—” heavy breaths cut off his words. “—you—you and Rich—last night.”

“The lamp, I know, hon. I’m sor—”

“I—I miss you—like that.” Mark lifted his head just enough to gaze at her, wheezing.

Her hands started to shake, and it was cold. Somewhere along the way, she forgot that part of him existed. She sipped her coffee, hoping he’d forget before she swallowed and cycled through memories of their love life. Maybe that part of him died the fastest. It only took the diagnosis and one chemo session to put him out of commission. Here and there a time with Rich slipped into her reminiscence.

“I want—want to try. With you.” He drank more smoothie.

“We talked about that. Doctor said it’s too much right now.”

e lifted his head. “I’m getting—close.”

A sudden fire rushed through her, burning across her nerves and through her veins, ending in the depths of her stomach. He’d always joked about them ending up on Investigation ID, the tired wife smothers her ailing husband, but he had never talked about just dying. She wanted to be generous these last days with him, it had just been so long. The thought of them together made her whole body quiver. She didn’t know how to respond, and instead watched ribbons of steam rise from her mug.

“Just once.” His voice cracked like that was the last thing he’d ever say.

“You’d need pills and—”

“No pills.”

“How will you...make it work?” The question felt so brash, but she needed some assurance.

“You just—touch me, and we’re—with each other. Like that.”

She felt the fire in her stomach again, but it was different this time. More desperate and blinding. The way it burned made her want to dash her mug against the wall, slap the smoothie from under his dry, bloody lips. What he asked was unfair, and she’d have to explain everything to Rich because he’d have feelings about it. This kind of relationship was still new, and she didn’t want to hurt him. She was sure he would understand where she was coming from, maybe even talk Mark out of it. She tried to remember where her cell phone was. Mark drank more of his smoothie in a slurp long and lazy enough to feel mocking.

“Sweetie,” he whispered. “Are you—okay?”

She nodded quick, and heard an IV fluid droplet splash in his bag.

“Talk about it later?” She got up midsentence and walked behind his wheelchair, grabbing the handles. “Done with the smoothie?”

He nodded and leaned back, grabbing the IV pole as she pulled him out, turning in a slow circle and heading straight for the bedroom. The bed hadn’t yet been made, so she watched her husband muscle his way under that red quilt. Another thing he insisted on doing himself, even on Groan Days. He’d normally lift up once on trembling forearms and vault from the chair, but now he was on his third try. She knew he wasn’t that weak. So this was a guilt trip. The more he’d struggle to get in bed, the worse she’d feel for bringing him there. It was hard to not take him under the arms right then and lay him down. If she could just do that and watch a movie, she’d calm down.

He plopped down in the chair and sighed. “You don’t—have to watch me.”

“It’s fine.”

“I would—like it if—you—left.” He spoke to her sideways, one hazel eye staring, back like a shepherd’s crook.

“It’s no prob—”

“—it’s not—about you, Maggie.” With that, he turned away, eyes fixed on the crinkled bedsheets. Sometimes he got like that, and the self-pity was tough to handle. She spent what was left of the day on the couch waiting for the sun to fall, snuffing out the fire when it swelled in her stomach.

Mark had been asleep most of the day by this point. He only woke up for his meds and an early dinner. By sunset, Maggie was on her own again, laying on the couch with her head propped on the armrest. A grid of moonlight cut through the window. Her limp arm swung over its tilted border, into the light and back out again. She half-expected its shadow to continue swinging even if she stopped, like it wasn’t hers at all.
 
***
 
In their worst moments, she returned to the horror classic “Night of the Living Dead.” This morning certainly warranted it. She popped the tape in and pressed play, scooting back a couple feet from the TV and hugging her knees as Barbra and Johnny’s car rounded that bend on the hill. The whole opening was burned into her memory, but what really hit her was the “Hushabye Mountain” scene. After Barbra emerges from the farmhouse kitchen, a music box across the dining room catches her eye. It looks like a small gazebo with tiny revolving doors that open to the tune of “Hushabye Mountain” from “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.” She leans down and peers through the doors as they open, eye fixed on the camera. It was a beautiful shot, but Maggie wasn’t sure why. She rewound the scene again and again, humming along to the song and wondering what Barbra was looking at through the music box.

The repetition must’ve stirred Mark awake because by the fifth play, she heard his wheelchair clicking over the hardwood from his bedroom. She had already fed him, and he wasn’t due for meds until tomorrow. The wheels stopped right next to the couch behind her. She pretended not to hear, rewinding the scene for a sixth time. Why wasn’t he saying anything?

“Can’t sleep,” he managed to choke out.

She paused the tape and turned around. His head was up this time, eyes livelier, but no smile. The sight of him, parked next to the couch, hands hanging over the armrests, somehow made her feel worse. She pushed those feelings down and cracked a smile, one he didn’t return.

“Can I...” The TV screen nestled in his eyes, turning them both to white, lifeless orbs. “...watch the movie with you?”

They’d only watched one horror movie together: “The Exorcist,” opening night, 1973, and to this day, he still won’t watch it or any other horror movies she loved. Something like this had never happened, especially not while he was sick. It felt like a set-up that could backfire at any moment, but it was his choice. She nodded and reached for the play button before he stopped her.

“No, from the beginning.”

She rewound the movie, back to Barbra and Johnny rounding the bend. She heard him pat the couch cushion closest to him. The fire in her stomach returned. She didn’t want to move from her spot to be close to him, but she turned to see his hand on the yellow fabric, insistent. She rose and went to the couch, sitting down after he raised his hand. It had been a long time since they sat like this, she realized. What was the last movie they watched together?

"Any Commies in this one?” He asked.

She calmed at the question and looked at him. “Depends on how you look at it.”

“Well, tell me when to cover my eyes.”

He might as well have covered his eyes for the whole movie, but he was a trooper. Even the gory stuff didn’t affect him. The head at the top of the farmhouse stairs (made of ham giblets drizzled with chocolate syrup) only made him gasp. The shambling zombies, the Cooper daughter in the basement, the car explosion, and even Ben’s final look out the window at the end didn’t phase him. When the credits rolled, she looked at her husband, wide awake and smirking, and took his hand.
 
***
 
Rich had planned to come over the next night, and Maggie felt uneasy. After Mark watched the movie with her, something changed. She still took care of him: IV, meds, food, bathroom, repeat, but it wasn’t so taxing. If he had the strength, she wondered if he would watch another movie with her tonight. The thought drove her through the day, and by midafternoon, she called her lover.

“Peach,” he answered. “I’ll be by tonight.”

“Wait, Rich.” She twirled the phone cord around her finger. “Can we take a raincheck?”

“Oh. I ‘spose. Everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine. Mark just...” She regretted not rehearsing what to say. “...he wants to be with me again.”

“He wants to fuck you?”

She sighed. “Something like that. I wanted to tell you because you might have feelings about it, and I don’t want to upset you.”

“Upset me? Peach, Mark’s your man. I’m the side guy. No need to tell me, just do what works for y’all.”

She suddenly felt stupid for calling. “Right, right. I’ll talk to you later.”

She hung up and felt a rush of anxiety. Her and her husband would be together again, maybe even tonight.

He was still in bed at noon. She got his Super Anti-Cancer breakfast smoothie from the “Saturday” row in the fridge, along with his meds, and brought them to the bedroom. Mark was awake and staring at the ceiling. It didn’t look like it would be a Cry Day or a Hum Day, certainly not a Groan Day. So what was it? The fire in her stomach rested, though it was still there. Part of her wanted to sing “Hushabye Mountain” just to press that feeling down forever.

“I had a dream about that Living Dead.” He perched on his elbows as she handed him the smoothie and the pills.

“A nightmare?”

“Not a nightmare. We were in that house—looking through the planks of wood over the windows and laughing about how slow they all moved.”

“That’s why the smile, huh?”

“Part of it.” He slurped his drink. “The wheelchair’s easier on my ass than that couch, though.”

“Aren’t you a lucky one.”

He shrugged as best he could. Maybe he was the lucky one.

“Hon, I’ve thought about what you said...” She said as he put the drink on the nightstand. “...and I want to try.”

He didn’t smile, then. Instead, he nodded, and went back to drinking his smoothie. She thought he would be more excited than that. Wasn’t this what he wanted?

“Well, I’d better—rest some more.” He took one last drink and laid down.

Maybe she should do the same. So she got into the bed next to him, on her side, knees drawn in, and looked at her husband.

“In the bed?” She asked.

He shook his head. “In the foyer. Like Rich.”
 
***
           
Night fell, and the couple lay awake in their bed. Mark’s heart seemed to be pounding, and Maggie was worried they wouldn’t make it to the foyer. The moon beamed through the window, painting a cluster of white squares next to the bed. She passed through them to the closet and pulled out the silk slip she wore as a younger woman. She undressed, knowing her husband was watching, and slipped it on her body. Some of the fabric nestled between folds of her wrinkled skin, and she felt self-conscious for the first time in ages. When she turned, he was staring, and it looked like he was crying.

“Sweetie, are you okay?” She asked, adjusting the shoulder straps.

“I’m okay.” And he said little more that night.

She helped him undress. He moved from the bed to his wheelchair, IV pole at his side, and she pushed him out to the foyer. The wood was cold and dense. Laying on it could hurt him, especially if he wanted to be treated like Rich. Part of her hoped she didn’t have the capacity to do that. Rich’s body could take the abuse, and he didn’t seem to mind it. Mark was a much more fragile creature.

They stopped just feet away from the front door, and her husband hoisted himself out of the chair with an unusual quickness. She pushed the extendable IV pole down so the tube wouldn’t come undone and took him under the arms, laying him down like a clean comforter. Maggie let her slip fall. She could see her husband’s heart quicken through his chest. Mark was like a gaunt skeleton on the floor, gray against the ebonized hardwood. He was stiff and obviously uncomfortable, arms straight at his side and legs spread only slightly. His cock lay curled against his pubis.

“Treat me like Rich,” he said.

She remembered the nail and bite marks, how they must have burned. If that was what he wanted, she would give it to him.

Crouching down to straddle him, her knees creaked and cracked. Coming to rest on the floor, she could feel what cartilage was left shift around her knee joint. His cock didn’t shift, and she knew it wouldn’t. Even so, he didn’t mind. His eyes were closed and mouth craned open, like the touch of her was healing enough. She leaned down and kissed him on the lips, grinding awkwardly on top of him, listening to his soft moans. She realized that she couldn’t treat him like Rich. Their skin had been separated for too long for her to rend it now. She just wanted to feel it, feel him inside of it. So she did, drawing her fingers along his vascularity, patches where it hung loose around his elbow, below his chin, draped over his chest, the rows of ribs like a makeshift prison cell.

“Mag.” He hadn’t used that name in ages. “I missed you.”

She wanted to say I was here, how could you miss me? Instead, she said “I missed you, too, Mark.”

His heart was beating faster and faster as she felt the scruff between her legs press into him. She slid her tongue from shoulder-to-shoulder, biting his collarbone as she passed and tickling the skin with her tongue. He laughed when she whispered What a hunk and My big man, an old laugh from deep in the gut, something she thought his sickness took away. And when they were done, and her husband’s heart slowed, she rolled over and laid next to him, drawing his head to her chest with one arm and following his breaths.

“You weren’t—rough with me. Not like Rich.”

She kissed the top of his head. “You’re not Rich.”

Mark’s head was light, his neck even thinner up close. She held onto him tighter than she meant to like she was worried a stray breeze could carry him off. She imagined him naked in the night sky, neither rising nor falling, arms and legs hanging like pendants from the corners of his body. Just before Maggie wanted to rise, put him to bed, she heard him humming, felt it in her chest. It was off-pitch, rising too much at points and not falling enough at others, but it was a familiar song. It almost sounded like “Hushabye Mountain.

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