This Too the Wind Beareth Away

Three visitors for Orson: four, if you counted Eli. (Count Eli.) Four visitors, four friends. Orson had been home since Tuesday. He was feeling pretty good. He was on his own, mostly. Amanda had offered to stay nights, but Orson had told her not to be silly. He felt pretty good. Pretty good. No need for a nurse. He'd be fine. Amanda didn't like it, but, "Don't worry," Orson told her. "Look: What's the worst thing that happens?"

"The worst thing?"

"See?"

"You're a bright little ray of sunshine today, aren't you?" Amanda asked him.

"Always," said Orson. "But, no. Look: there's no need for you to come. Besides, Terry won't be happy, you sleeping over here every night. What's he going to do?"

"He suggested I come," Amanda said. "It was his idea. He wants to help."

"I know."

"Like everybody else."

"I know."

"So?"

"I told you," said Orson. "No need. I'll be fine."

Visitors, friends. They came in the afternoons, so Orson wouldn't have to feed them. They brought pies, cookies, soups, covered dishes—until Amanda said Orson didn't have much appetite, really. He would in time, of course, as he got stronger, but he didn't have much appetite now. He didn't need a lot of food.

"Got the word from Mandy: no eats," said Spencer when he showed up at Orson's with nothing but a brown paper bag. He took from it a half-gallon of Jack, put it on the kitchen table in front of Orson.

"Knocks the spots off mac and cheese, don't it?" Spencer asked.

"It does," said Orson.

Spencer sat across the table from Orson. He examined Orson. "You look good," he said.

"Bullshit," said Orson.

"No," said Spencer. "You do. You look better than you did when they started."

"Thanks."

"What do they say?"

"Nothing. They're doctors."

"Come on," said Spencer. "Lighten up. You're home. They let you go. They wouldn't have if they didn't think you could make it. I'm betting you're off the hook."

Orson nodded at the bottle on the table between them. "You bring that so we could sit here and look at it?" he asked Spencer.

Spencer stood and took the bottle to the sink. "You want anything with it?" he asked Orson.

"Put it in a glass, I guess," said Orson. "I ain't up to lifting that big of a jug today."

Spencer fixed two glasses of Jack and brought them back to the table. He raised his glass to Orson. "Whether you like it or not," he said, "you do look better."

"Fact is," said Orson, "I feel pretty good. But next guy I see in a doctor coat, I'll throw something at him."

Something heavy, something sharp. Something that would hurt. Get their attention, get them to talk to you. The doctors didn't tell you anything, but they knew everything. The higher up they were, the more they knew, the less they said. They gave you all this stuff—poison, really, nothing else—for the treatments. The treatments. The treatments were as though they'd set fire to your house, and then, when there was nothing left but a pile of ashes, they pulled out—what?—the bathtub, the toaster, the coffee pot, and told you this was your deal now, this was your life. This, right here. Good luck. Don't forget to stop by the Billing Office on your way out.

"What?" Orson asked.

"I said they know their stuff, up there."

"Up there, where?"

"Dartmouth."

"Oh," said Orson. "Sure. Sure, they do. They know their stuff there, if they do anywhere, I guess. They ought to. The room alone, the bed, runs you, oh, a grand a day?"

"Runs you a good deal more than that," said Spencer. "But, still, look at Trevor. Been okay, been clean, for what, seven, eight years? He's playing ball."

"Trevor's a kid, though," said Orson.

"Okay, but there was...