January 21, 1978 (Part 5 of 8)

     He pulled back into the same parking spot and grabbed what passed for groceries, feeling light and energized as he walked down the stairs.  He knocked on the door and heard the hinges squeak as it swung open in response to touch. 
     Something was wrong.  In this neighborhood you always locked up.  And especially when holding dope.  He stepped back, set the groceries down and pulled the .45 from where the shoulder holster cradled it beneath his left arm.  He thumbed the safety off and, drawing back the hammer, stepped quietly into the apartment.
     Kerry was lying on the couch, not moving.  He looked around the room and then quickly checked the kitchen area, bathroom and bedroom.  Finding no one else in the place he hurried back to her.  She had dressed again and seemed to be sleeping comfortably. But that was impossible considering the amount of crank she’d done with him. 
     His vision seemed to become a series of slow motion flashes- the belt around her arm, the syringe on the dirty carpet beneath her limp hand, the spoon, and the cellophane with only one rock remaining in it.
     “You did that fucking much?” he muttered to himself.
     He sat beside her and felt her wrist for a pulse.  Nothing.  Felt her neck.  Nothing.  Leaned his ear close to her nose.  Not even the lightest wisp of breath.  He tried all three again and found nothing.  Again. Again.  Nothing.  He looked around, feeling helpless.  The place rented month-to-month and came furnished, but with no phone.  And that was how she’d kept things.  Shit!
     Then he saw the papers neatly placed in the center of the coffee table.  On top was a handwritten note with his name on it.

Dear Doran,

I’m so sorry to do this to you but I know I can count on you.  I’ve not told anyone what’s going on with me but I went to my third oncologist last week and he said the same as the others.  I got cancer- everywhere, killing me, and I got maybe six months left, three probably.  And they tell me it’d be hell to last that long.  So no thanks. 

Take this note and medical papers and anything else that says you been here and leave.  Find a pay phone and make an anonymous call.  I’ll be just another OD.  Do it fast so Amy doesn’t find me. She’d lose it.  And please call my brother Tom.  216.555.5655. He still cares. 

Remember what I told you.  You’re better than this place and those people.  Thanks for today. 

                                                            Kerry

“But the worst enemy you can encounter will always be you, yourself; you lie in wait for yourself in caves and woods.”

So no guilt.  I’d have found a way to do this without you.  Bye.

      He sat staring at the note for a few moments.  Then, for a long time, he just looked at her. 

     "Goddamn Nietzsche nihilist crap makes me want kill myself, too,” he muttered.
      Finally, numbly, tearing his eyes from her face, he looked around the room again and noticed the rest of the papers on the table.  He picked them up and read.  They were from various doctors’ offices and were filled with little boxes with check marks here and there.  He didn’t really understand most of it but he knew what words like lymphoma, metastases, chemotherapy and terminal meant.  He read that her lungs, pancreas and liver had all been involved.  It was everywhere, eating her alive. He tried to imagine how terrifying it must have been for her to read these things about herself.
      He heard a noise in the hallway outside and realized that he was sitting there beside her, this way, and the door was still standing wide open.  He set the papers back where she’d left them, went to the door and looked out.  No one was there so he stepped out and brought the groceries inside, closing the door behind him. 
      He felt a strange clarity of purpose that was way beyond anything the crank ever did.  He picked up his gun first and slid back into the holster, its weight against his ribs no longer reassuring.  He looked around the room carefully, deliberately.  Aside from the note and what he’d just brought in, there was really nothing there that would in any way point to him.  He found a paper Chik-Fil-A napkin and wiped the spoon and syringe of fingerprints just in case.  But she was right.  All anyone walking in here would see would be one more OD’d meth head. 
     He stopped, hesitating at the door and looked back at her one last time.  There were traffic sounds from the interstate.  There was noise from a television in another apartment.  A couple was arguing in another.  She was right.  This place was shit.  She’d been chasing what she saw as her only way out every since he’d known her, probably for years before that.  And when it came for her, even from so unexpected a place, she’d faced it with heart and dignity.  He could only hope for that kind of courage when his turn came. 
     As he stood there a thought came to him.  He took the bottle of Jack and a glass from the kitchen.  He sat again by her on the couch.  He took her hand in his.  It seemed even smaller in death’s cool wrap.  He sat like that, drinking and thinking.  The Jack went down easy.  His thoughts raced so quickly that he could only grab hold of impressions, words, the big words.  Life, death, sex, tears, violence, laughter, friends, family.  Futility.  Finality.  Her. 
     He finished the drink and gently lowered her hand back to its outstretched position.  He stood.  He bent and placed a soft kiss on her forehead and whispered “I hope you find it.  Bye”.
     He left.