The whisperer won’t even know me when he comes to bury my corpse.
The Seventeenth Day
What was it he said that last afternoon, after he made his grisly little joke about cutting off my leg with one of the can lids? Something about it being the equivalent of an animal chewing off a limb caught in a trap?
Well, here’s an interesting little problem in self-analysis: Suppose I had an axe or a hatchet. And suppose there isn’t any other way out of this prison. Would I be able to chop off my own leg in order to escape?
Never mind the fact that this cabin is isolated-more than a mile from its nearest neighbor, he said-and that I don’t know anything about tying off severed arteries. Never mind that I would surely bleed to death before I could crawl more than a couple of hundred yards. Let’s say help is close by. Let’s say that if I were able to chop my leg off, it would guarantee my survival. Would I be able to do it then? Would I have the guts and will of a fox or a wolf in the same situation?
I wonder.
I wonder just how many people would have an animal’s courage if they were confronted with that decision.
The Twentieth Day
’Twas the night before Christmas and all through the cabin, not a creature was stirring except the poor miserable bastard trapped here in chains.
The Twenty-First Day
Christmas Day.
And it’s snowing outside, it has been snowing most of the night. What we have here is a white Christmas. Outside the window it’s all picture-postcard stuff, snow falling, snow mantling the trees, the overcast high so that you can see everything in sharp relief. Any minute now, Bing Crosby will come strolling out of the woods singing “White Christmas.” Or he would if he wasn’t dead.
Now, now, let’s be cheerful here. It’s Christmas Day, it’s a white Christmas, let’s have a little good cheer.
Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la, la la la la. ’Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la la la, la la la la.
All right, that’s enough for now. A man can only take so much good cheer at one time. Too big a jolt and I might OD. Spread it out, make it last, there’s a long long day of celebration ahead.
Long day ahead for Kerry, too. How will she spend it? Sitting home alone, wondering, remembering how it was with us on Christmases past? Over at Eberhardt’s-he’d have invited her, the circumstances being what they are-or with one of her lady friends?
With Jim Carpenter?
Good-looking guy, Carpenter, suave, sophisticated, very successful in the ad business, eight or nine years closer to her age than I am, wears $800 suits and still has the trim body of an athlete. Besides which, he’s one of her bosses-Bates and Carpenter, San Francisco’s fastest rising ad agency. Maybe he’s been consoling her during the past three weeks, out of the office as well as in. Providing the strong male shoulder, the reassuring words in her time of need. How soon before she goes to bed with him, if she hasn’t already? Tonight, tomorrow night, some night next week-
Hey, hey, hold it right there.
Suppose she does go to bed with Jim Carpenter? So what? You stupid jealous schmuck, why shouldn’t she crawl into the sack with him or anybody else if she needs it badly enough? You expect her to keep the home fires burning forever, on blind faith? Stay celibate until she’s a crone? For all she knows you’re dead, pal, dead and buried somewhere-she doesn’t know anything about what happened to you, for Christ’s sake. She’s hurting too, you think you’re the only one? Don’t start condemning her, blaming her for anything.
Don’t doubt her, not even for one second.
Don’t stop loving her.
Heigh-ho, better lighten the mood again. Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. Oh what fun it is to ride a one-horse open sleigh. There, that’s better. That’s the old spirit.
Wonder how Eberhardt and Bobbie Jean are getting along? Has he slept with her yet? Popped the marriage question yet? No, it’s too early for him to be thinking seriously about tying the knot, too soon after the Mysterious Disappearance of His Partner. Got to observe a decent interval of mourning, after all. But it’d be nice if they do get together eventually. She’d be good for him; Kerry was right about that. He needs a woman with both feet on the ground and something in her mind besides sex and a collection of cobwebs and dust bunnies.
Snowing harder now. Where’s old Bing? Or don’t they dream of white Christmases where he is now?
Frosty, the snowman, was a hap-hap-happy soul, dee dee dee dee, dee dee dee dee, dee dee dee dee dee dee.
Well, what have we here? Can it be a parade of all my Christmases past, like ghosts lining up for review? Yes, indeed. Let’s see, these were joyous, and these were not so joyous, and this little group over here sucked out loud. None even close to this one, though. No presents on this Christmas; no fancy dinner, no wassail, no lovemaking, no caroling, no candlelight services at Mission Dolores to celebrate the birth of the Saviour. Instead we have tea and canned beef stew and canned spinach and Triscuits, we have snow and a Christmas-card view through a rimed window (who needs cards when you’ve got the real thing), we have unrelieved static in place of traditional music, and we have chains in lieu of colored lights and tinsel. But hey, it’s still Christmas, right? Sure it is. It’s still the greatest holiday of them all.
Merry Christmas, Kerry.
Merry Christmas, Eb.
Merry Christmas, Bobbie Jean.
Merry Christmas, you whispering mad dog son of a bitch.
Peace on earth, good will to men.
The Twenty-Fifth Day
I’ve been sick the past three days. Bad cold or flu, maybe even a touch of pneumonia. Fever, chills, aching in all my joints, weakness, nausea. I couldn’t do much of anything except lie on the cot, swaddled in my overcoat and both blankets, the heater turned all the way up, and drift in and out of sleep and a kind of delirium. Made myself get up once the first day to use the bathroom, fell down on the way back and couldn’t stand up, could not stand up, and had to crawl the rest of the way to the cot. Vomited on the floor later on because I was too weak even to try for the bathroom. Didn’t eat anything the first day, took a little soup and some tea the second morning that I threw back up, took more soup and tea the second night that stayed down. Yesterday I managed to hold solid food in my stomach again-about half a can of macaroni and cheese.
Once, during the worst of it, I dreamed that I was outside the cabin, running through the snowdrifts, laughing, free, and woke up feeling so shattered to find myself still shackled that I had to fight to keep from breaking down. Dreamed another time that Kerry and I were in bed, her bed, lying with our arms around each other after making love, and then she got up and went away and didn’t come back, didn’t come back, didn’t come back, and I searched everywhere for her but she was gone and I knew I would never see her again. That dream nearly unmanned me too.
Bad, very bad, those three days. The worst so far.
But whatever virus had hold of me, it seems to have weakened and let go. I woke up drenched in sweat and feeling that heavy, different kind of body ache that tells you a fever has finally broken and your body is rebuilding its defenses. Woke up feeling hungry, too, always a good sign. I was able to get up and move around, go through most of my morning routine-everything but the exercises-without too much difficulty. I ate a whole can of Chef Boyardee ravioli, a whole can of corn, a whole can of peaches in heavy, syrup. No sense in conserving rations today or tomorrow. I’ve got to regain my strength, guard against a relapse. Another viral bout like this one, at my age and with poor nourishment and no medication of any kind, and I might not survive it.