Death Kit (32 page)

First article of the treaty: the aunt will be present during the afternoon visit. Most of which is filled by a new installment of Jane Austen's lucid narrative; the remainder, with watery old conversation led by the aunt and with Diddy's vaporish musings.

Second article: Diddy and Mrs. Nayburn will eat dinner together.

Third article: the evening visiting hours are reserved for Diddy alone. With the aunt either returning to the rooming house to watch TV in the parlor or to chat in the kitchen with the friendly landlady, a widow about Mrs. Nayburn's age; or going to a movie that Diddy usually selects and to which he escorts her after they leave the restaurant. When Diddy returns to the hospital, usually reads to Hester for a full two hours. Occasionally whispering an endearment. An expression of his solicitude and yearning.

Diddy aware each evening, from the moment he enters the restaurant with Mrs. Nayburn and all the while he's seated at a table with her, and also whenever he takes her up to the box office of a movie theatre, usually located downtown, that he risks running into Watkins or the Reagers or one of his other colleagues at the plant. Slightly apprehensive. But doesn't want to hide. Sooner or later, they're bound to find out what he's been doing these weeks anyway.

Although Diddy awaits Hester's release impatiently, he finds this period enjoyable. Time passes lightly. Something comforting in the regularity of his actions. A routine has been set. And things are in their places, where you'd expect them to be. His room at the Canada always looking the same. Maid service irreproachable: each day the bathroom is mopped down, the bed remade with fresh sheets, his shoes shined, the desk replenished with flowers. And Hester always where he thinks she is: in the hospital. Diddy's fantasies that she's having a romance with her doctor have subsided. And Mrs. Nayburn always on hand. Her unfailing presence also, in its way (now), part of the reassuring stability of things, ever since she's come to annoy Diddy so much less. Ever since she divulged the truth about Hester's blindness, on the day after her niece's operation, Diddy has continued to feel warmly toward Mrs. Nayburn. The feeling of mild affectionate esteem doesn't grow, but still holds its own. Not tolerance, exactly; Diddy is too divided in his real feelings. A kind of meta-tolerance.

How absurd it seems (now) that Diddy once found Mrs. Nayburn not only an exasperating trial to his patience and good manners, but a menace, too. He scarcely minds the dinners they (now) take together each night. Even though the conversations conducted then are invariably shallow. One topic that recurs again and again: the hospital bills. But even Mrs. Nayburn seems shy about asking Diddy straight out how much he's willing to contribute. Finally, one evening, he tells her. And makes out a check. Being not that intimate that either cares to talk about himself, they talk mostly about other people. Two other people. And about the past. Mrs. Nayburn tells stories about Hester as a child—all stories, it's understood though never stated, taking place before the girl was fourteen. In exchange, Diddy talks about Paul's childhood, about what it's like to be a child prodigy so far as a mere brother can understand what Paul felt. And accounts of Paul's later glory: the scholarship to Paris, the first appearance with the New York Philharmonic when he was fifteen, the international piano competition won at the age of nineteen which made him world-famous. Mrs. Nayburn's pleasure in his stories is so artless, Diddy can hardly take offense. Nor be depressed, even though in all these conversations there's no reversion to the intimate soundings of that first dinner. Diddy able to remember he's not sitting across from a witch; or a reincarnation of Mary; or a faceless occupant of a train compartment with two bulging paper bags, like dead dogs, at her feet. Across from him in a booth or at a table in the Olympia Restaurant, the Greenleaf Diner, Cavanaugh's Steak Joint, or any of the other restaurants they try, is Jessie Nayburn. A decent, well-meaning, lonely woman. After Diddy, the person most devoted to Hester in the whole world. Nurtured and cared for Diddy's beloved all those years before Diddy found her. He calls her Jessie with pleasure, though still Mrs. Nayburn in his head. But in his head, he isn't calculating exactly when Mrs. Nayburn will or must return to the empty house in Indiana. Since she appears to grasp the situation and to accept it, Diddy assumes she will leave shortly. As far as he's concerned (now), she can stay until Hester leaves the hospital, since the two of them can't be alone until after then.

What does Diddy do before his visits to Hester and the nightly dinner with Mrs. Nayburn? Nothing. Which isn't odd, when you consider where he is and what engages his attention. But odd, perhaps, that he doesn't mind it. At least, a little. A man who's had virtually no time to himself in many years, except for the four days at the beginning of October—actually, six counting the weekend—following his release from the hospital. A man holding down a five-day-a-week job for so many years, who devoted his annual two- and then three-week vacations, usually spent in Europe, to the kind of strenuous traveling which allows less leisure than the same number of ordinary weeks of work. Odd, then, for a man so inured to work to take so naturally to his present leisure.

Doesn't feel the lack of occupation (now). Neither bored nor restless.

Maybe Diddy wasn't such a compulsive worker, after all. It's amazing how much he sleeps, too. Nine or ten hours, usually dreamless, each night. Hasn't slept so long since he was in grade school, when Mary was so strict about the boys “keeping a schedule.” Throughout his childhood—more precisely until he was fourteen, when Mary either left the household of her own accord or was fired by his mother—Mary monitored the bedtime hour of both boys. And by a standard that was distinctly Victorian. Bedtime was advanced thirty minutes each year, but the hour remained too early; always a time when most of his neighborhood pals were still up and playing. So Diddy had good reason to hate going to bed, to grumble loudly when the light was turned off and Mary left the room. But found, nevertheless, that he rarely could hold out against sleep for more than a few minutes in the dark, or almost dark. Even though agitated with admiration and envy of Paul, in the other bed, who could remain awake for hours; studying scores by flashlight under a tent made with his blanket, so his light wouldn't shine on the floor and be detected by someone passing outside the bedroom. In imitation, Diddy got a flashlight of his own, and sometimes tried to read a novel in his own tent. But all too soon, sleep vanquished him; vanquished pride, too.

The sleepless nights came many years later. And (now) Diddy is sleeping again. Voluptuous, generous amounts. Rarely waking before ten or eleven o'clock. If showered, shaved, dressed and down by eleven, he can still make breakfast in the hotel coffee shop. If later than that, the drugstore on the corner is equally good. Of course, he picks up a copy of the
Courier-Gazette
first thing when he comes down to the lobby, as a matter of duty. Conscientiously reads it through at breakfast, to prove to himself that he's not afraid of finding what, in fact, he doesn't find. Then, if it's not too cold, a stroll about the park in what's left of the morning. Occasionally, he turns up at the hospital and sneaks up to Hester's room for a good-morning hug, though visiting at this hour is forbidden. With or without the illicit extra visit, it's soon time for lunch, which Diddy usually takes in the dining room of the Canada, except for Wednesday, when the Lions hold their weekly luncheon, and Friday, the day for the Junior Chamber of Commerce; on which days he eats at the drugstore. A brief nap after lunch, sometimes no more than fifteen minutes. But always easy to slip into and arise from. Time for his legitimate visit. Diddy usually leaves around two o'clock, walking across the park again. His evening meal with Mrs. Nayburn starts at six o'clock, sometimes even five-thirty; so he can rejoin Hester promptly at seven. After leaving the hospital at nine, or as late as the nurse's negligence permits, Diddy usually walks straight back to the Canada, though sometimes the longer way, around the park. Buys one or two sandwiches and a container of Coke at the drugstore, and weighs himself. Also, a paperback book or a magazine, either at the drugstore or at the newsstand in the hotel lobby. To his room. Gets in bed with snack and reading matter. Rarely turning on the television; he might get interested in the movie, and push himself to stay awake longer than he would have otherwise. This way works better. Eats and, rather quickly, reads himself to sleep.

Lacking exercise, apart from his three or four walks each day across the park to and from the hospital, and eating three full meals and snacks in between, no wonder Diddy is putting on weight. By the end of the seventeen days, he's close to gaining back the whole twenty pounds lost to despair and shame and death. Throughout his twenties, he'd kept pretty much the weight he had in college; the normal weight for a man of his height and relatively slender frame. Started to lose, very slowly, three years ago. And then, a month ago, shedding twenty pounds within a few days. Has he gained it all back? He hasn't been enterprising enough to seek out one of the hundreds of scales that must be distributed in examination rooms throughout the hospital, accuracy guaranteed by their site. Instead, Diddy feeds a penny into the undoubtedly inaccurate scale at the back of the drugstore every evening. No matter. If used frequently enough, it appears, an inaccurate machine is just as useful as an accurate one. And Diddy goes on weighing himself daily on the drugstore's scale. The base figure which the inaccurate machine gives may be wrong, but from then on it will tell Diddy exactly how much, if anything, he's gaining each day.

A few fluctuations, of course. One evening, Diddy found he had lost two pounds. Then remembered that yesterday there had been a slight estrangement, veiled but still bruising, between himself and Hester. And that he'd been so upset he had skipped the late evening snack, as well as lunch today.

Mostly, Diddy's weight is going up steadily. Clothes don't fit well (now). Notices in the shower a slight paunchiness about the waist. A different notch in his belt. But Hester doesn't object. She must notice—blind people would be especially perceptive about these things—the new fullness of his face when she strokes his cheek. Diddy likes this bigger, more robust body. Taking up more space in the world. Feels pride when he's added enough flesh to his fragile left wrist to warrant readjusting the buckle on his watch strap. Enjoying the slightly cramped situation of his body inside his clothes, which is such that he's no longer comfortable keeping anything thick, especially any metal object, in his trousers pockets. To repeat: Hester, who must notice, doesn't mind. At least, hasn't commented on it. But should Hester suggest that he lose some of this new weight, Diddy would accede without complaint or resentment. Partly feeling she's right, and that he's indulging himself. Partly out of the desire to please.

On the twelfth afternoon following the operation, Mrs. Nayburn announced that she was leaving tomorrow. Has her bags packed. And a train ticket for home in her purse, bought that morning.

Isn't that awfully abrupt, announcing her proposed departure only a day in advance? Is she angry? Hard to tell. Mrs. Nayburn's manner with her niece is affectionate but matter-of-fact. Hester seems genuinely sorry at the news; at least the suddenness of it. Asks her aunt several times if she's really sure. Seems to accept Mrs. Nayburn's firm yes at face value, and not unhappily. To Diddy's relief, didn't plead with her aunt to stay on a bit longer.

Yet, Diddy thinks, Hester must be anxious. Isn't it plausible that she's wondering whether Mrs. Nayburn has told the whole truth about her decision? Doesn't Hester worry that, because she can't study the woman's face, she's missing some clue to her aunt's feelings and intentions?

Diddy studies the woman's face for her. Decidedly more impassive than usual. Could she just be attempting to be dignified? All the while holding back her real feelings: wounded dignity, sense of loss. But if Diddy had to judge, he'd say that the kind of pride that prompts people to make such successfully expressionless masks of their faces isn't part of Mrs. Nayburn's character. Diddy's guess is that the woman doesn't mean to leave tomorrow at all. It's because she's not actually going that she's not really sad.

Hoping he's made clear that his resentments have entirely dissolved, Diddy tells Mrs. Nayburn that, as far as he's concerned, he'd prefer that she didn't go. Unless she genuinely wants to. “Anyway, you'll be visiting us soon in New York.” A surprising thing for Diddy to say when, probably out of consideration for his clamorous wish to have Hester to himself, neither of the two women has yet spoken of a future visit; though it must have, many times, crossed their minds. Odd that it should turn out that if anyone is faintly coaxing Mrs. Nayburn to stay, it's not Hester but Diddy.

But Diddy is wrong. Mrs. Nayburn isn't bluffing; is truly bent on going. And when he realizes that the aunt's plans are genuine, Diddy begins to feel an unexpected elation. Hadn't thought it mattered to him, one way or the other. Apparently, it did. The old spiteful feelings seep back. Mrs. Nayburn is, after all, a kind of barrier to the union between Hester and himself; a formidable vestige of the past. But when she goes, the only hurdle left to surmount is Hester's discharge from the hospital. Diddy, allowing a shade too much of the jubilation he feels to show. (Now) Mrs. Nayburn, with more sensitivity than Diddy had given her credit for having, immediately picks up the subtle change in his manner; and correctly interprets it. Becomes more distant to both of them, vaguely reproachful. Aiming a diminutive sour barb at Diddy. “Hester, if I stay here any longer, lolling about, just sitting and eating and watching movies, I'll start getting fat like Dalton.” Hester smiles. Diddy feeling a wonderful solidarity with her, despite the fact that they can't exchange those light, ironic glances that any other young couple would at such a moment, while dealing indulgently with the whining petulance of their elders. Of those who've outlived their chance for happiness.