I nod at this, for lack of a better answer. Then we sit quietly for a moment, as I finish the breakfast he has brought me. One of the qualities I have always admired is Renny’s unflinching forthrightness, more intimate than emotional, which the long hiatus in our friendship doesn’t seem to have dulled. Of course I never knew that he and Liv Crawford were in a relationship, but even just the idea appeals to me; I know they say opposites attract, but in this case I imagine that their similarities in character made for an exciting and volatile mix, ready fuel for the fire.
“Who was that woman you used to spend time with, Doc?” he says, walking around the bed, to the window. “I remember you strolling around the village with a fine looker on your arm. Am I right?”
“I’m not sure if you are.”
“Come now, Doc, don’t play cute with me. She was quite tall, if I remember correctly. Statuesque, in fact. What was her name? You introduced us once, years ago, at a village festival. I’m not mistaken about this.”
“A woman?”
“Yes, yes,” he says, mirthfully annoyed. “A woman.”
“Perhaps then you are talking about Mary Burns.”
“That’s right! Exactly. The striking widow, Mary Burns. What ever came of her? I thought you two were very much the item.”
“We were always friendly.”
Renny laughs, almost a guffaw, as he plucks a rose from the vase. “Friendly, you say. Hmm. I recall seeing some cooing and nuzzling beneath the linden trees, when they turned on the string lights for the evening in the park.”
“Cooing and nuzzling?”
“Yes,” he says, “I’m sure that’s what it was.”
“Mr. Banerjee,” I say. “I’m not sure how to respond to these terms.”
“No responses needed. I have an excellent memory. I see it now, very clearly.” He casts his gaze past my shoulder, off and faraway. His brown face has the lustrous sheen of melted chocolate. “I see Doc Hata and Mrs. Burns, in silhouette, by the swan pond. How they stroll majestically. So very venerable. And look, here they are again, in a window booth at Jolene’s Diner, spooning cherry ice cream from a shared dish. Do I see them once more? Ah, at the July Fourth parade, standing outside Sunny Medical Supply, waving at the procession. Are they holding hands? I can’t see.”
“I’m sure they aren’t,” I say in mock defense, acknowledging the scenes he is calling up. Renny Banerjee is remembering correctly, of course; I was with Mary Burns in those places (if not exact times), and I was more than content to be with her, to spend the idle hours together, in the park or a restaurant or the local movie theater. And yet as much as I happily recall those moments, there is an unformed quality to them as well, as if they are someone else’s memories and reflections, though somehow available only to me, to keep and to hold. Their warmth is fleeting, like a winter sun passing through clouds, and what I have left is the nervous heat of my retorts. But Renny Banerjee pushes on.
“Mary Burns is a lovely woman, a lovely woman. If I could marry a woman who would look like that when she got older! If there were a guarantee! Amazing. Oh, Doc, I recall a striking figure as well. Firm, athletic. I’m sorry to say this, but that’s one well-built woman. You still see her from time to time?”
“I’m sorry to say I don’t.”
“What’s this?” he says, his face all clamor and disappointment.
I tell him, “She passed away last year.”
“How terrible,” he says, obviously stunned. “I’m so sorry. So sorry. I never heard anything.”
“Yes. It was liver cancer.”
“I imagine it must have been quite sudden,” he says, still with a funny look on his face. He sits down again in the bedside chair.
“Yes,” I answer. I wish to explain, but I realize there is nothing else to say. Owing to our health-related careers, we have come to know that with liver cancer, it can sometimes be a matter of months, which it was in Mary Burns’s case, from diagnosis to end.
“I’m sorry now I talked about her like that,” Renny Banerjee says. “I didn’t know her, but I mean for your sake. I’m a very stupid man sometimes. I hope you’ll forgive me, Doc. Maybe I ought to leave now, and let you rest.”
“Please, please,” I tell him, “there’s no need to go right now. I was very happy to hear your compliments. And I’m sure Mrs. Burns would have been as well. This is an unnecessary feeling. I must insist. You’ve done nothing but cheer me with your visit.”
“I’m a fool,” he grumbles, knocking on his own head. “A big fool.”
“Nonsense, I’m not upset, or offended. I’m very pleased, in fact, and look, you’ve even brought me a hot breakfast as well. Which is delicious.”
He nods weakly. “I see I neglected to bring you coffee.”
“You probably remembered that I don’t drink coffee.”
Renny Banerjee smiles. “I didn’t, but it’s nice of you to say. I actually do have to get back upstairs if I’m going to do some work today, but I’ll be content to stay longer, whatever you wish.”
“You know I’m not one to get in the way of someone and his work,” I say happily. “But perhaps I will see you tomorrow? Doctor Weil wants me to stay until Wednesday morning. My breathing feels good, but I guess he’s concerned about infection.”
“Weil’s overcautious. And he’s pretty much a horse’s ass.”
“He is new, isn’t he?” I ask.
“A couple years,” Renny answers. “Young hotshot from the city. Everybody around here loves him. I don’t. He’s officious and arrogant. It seems they have to train them like that now.” He turns for the door. “I’ll bring breakfast again tomorrow. No, no, I will. No arguments. What do you want, omelette, pancakes, quiche lorraine?”
“I’ll leave it to you,” I tell him.
“Fine then. Rest well, Doc.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“Will be done. And I’m so sorry, again.”
“No matter.”
“Goodbye, then.”
“Goodbye.”
* * *
THE FACT WAS, I didn’t see Mary Burns at the end. It was from mutual acquaintances that I learned she was ill, and by chance, this only a few weeks before she died. But I didn’t call on her at her house or here at the hospital, where she spent the final days of her life. At the time, it didn’t seem that I should, and the last thing I wished to do was to upset her or cause her distress in any way. But of course, I sometimes think that I should have visited her, sat by her bed and held her hand and said whatever words could have lent her comfort.
When I saw the newspaper notice, I didn’t quite believe that she had passed away. I read the small print many times over, reading her full name again and again, the address of her house on Mountview (the same street as mine), the name of her long-dead husband, and her survivors and where they were living. She had two children and five grandchildren, none of whom I’d ever met. I did learn several facts about her that I was surprised I hadn’t found out before. For example, she was a summa cum laude graduate of Mount Holyoke College, and served as a WAVE during the Second World War. There was a picture with the notice, but one taken from her early middle-age, which I supposed was how her children best wished to remember her, in the high glow and prime of her life.
We first met on our street, right in front of my house. I had lived there a number of years, but as it mostly is in towns like Bedley Run, and particularly on streets like ours, being neighbors means sharing the most limited kinds of intimacies, such as sewer lines and property boundaries and annual property tax valuations. Anything that falls into a more personal realm is only tentatively welcomed. I know certain families have enjoyed relationships because of their children, had carpools and holiday barbecues, and perhaps a shared weekend at a country house upstate or on the Long Island shore, but on the whole an unwritten covenant of conduct governs us, a signet of cordiality and decorum, in whose ethic, if it can be called such a thing, the worst wrong is to be drawn forth and disturbed.