The Death Instinct

Colette remained quiet a long time. 'That's the word the doctors used,' she said at last. 'They said the bullets mushroomed.'

Before dawn, string-tied stacks of newspapers hit the streets, announcing in bold headlines a reconciliation between the United States and Mexico.

The American army at the border was standing down. Confidential Mexican agent Roberto Pesqueira declared in Washington unequivocally that American investments in his country would not be nationalized. United States law enforcement officers were said to have discovered and foiled a nefarious but unspecified plot to unseat General Obregon.

Younger's blood was drawn first thing that morning. He was still unconscious, but his fever had stabilized, although his body seemed wracked, weakened. Colette was there; Littlemore had gone home to his family.

A half-hour later, the surgeon from the night before came in. 'Eighty-six percent,' he said.

'It's a mistake,' answered Colette. 'No mistake. I'm sorry.'

'It doesn't matter,' said Colette. 'The count will improve by this evening. He's doing better. Much better. I can tell.'

Littlemore and Betty came back to the hospital at sunset. They had been there, one or the other, on and off, throughout the day. Littlemore's face was deeply drawn. They ran into Colette at the front door. 'I'm buying cigarettes,' explained Colette, smiling. 'He asked for them.'

'He's awake?' said Betty.

'Wide-awake,' said Colette. 'He's so much better.'

'I'll get him the smokes, Miss,' replied Littlemore, a tremendous weight lifting from him. 'You go back upstairs.'

'No, it's fine. He said he was hoping to talk to you.'

'To me?' asked Littlemore.

'Yes.'

'Doc doesn't talk to me. He doesn't talk to anybody. His neutrophils went down?'

'They're very strong,' said Colette. 'Ninety-five percent.'

'Ninety-five?' repeated Littlemore dumbly. 'But I thought-'

'It shows how hard he's fighting the infection. It's a good sign. But I think – I think – I think maybe you should hurry, Jimmy.' Colette turned and hid her face from them, but she didn't cry. 'Is there a tobacco nearby?'

'I know a place,' said Betty, understanding the French girl's meaning. 'I'll show you.'

A nurse was preparing a syringe when Littlemore entered the room. 'This will make you much more comfortable,' she said to Younger.

Younger was still lying on his stomach. His face, resting on one cheek, was turned toward the door; he saw Littlemore. His back, exposed from the waist up, had thick plasters in two places. His shining forehead was as pale as his white sheets, and he shook badly. 'No,' he said. His voice was strong, but he made no movement. 'No shot.'

'Afraid of a little shot, a big man like you?' said the nurse. 'Don't worry. You'll feel much better soon.'

Younger tried to lift himself; his arms looked powerful, but evidently it was too painful. He closed his eyes. 'No shot,' he repeated to Littlemore.

'Ma'am,' said Littlemore, 'he doesn't want the shot.'

'It's for his pain,' answered the nurse, paying no attention.

Younger shook his head.

'Sorry, ma'am, can't let you do that,' said Littlemore.

'Doctor's orders,' she replied as if those magic words preempted all further discussion. She tapped the syringe, forced a drop of clear liquid from the needle, and was just about to inject Younger when Littlemore seized her wrist and led her, protesting, out the door.

'Thanks,' said Younger.

Littlemore noticed matches and a packet of cigarettes on a table. 'I thought you were out of smokes.'

'One left,' said Younger.

'Want it?'

'Sure, let's do all the clichés. I reject the morphine. You put a cigarette in my mouth.'

'Is that a yes or a no?'

'No,' said Younger.

'You're not going to die on us, Doc, are you?'

'Thinking about it.'

A silence followed. Younger's teeth began to chatter. With an effort, he brought the noise to a halt.

'How's the job?' asked Younger.

'Job's good,' said Littlemore. 'Don't have one, but it's good.'

'Family?'

'Family's good.'

A steady dripping came from the intravenous tubes on the other side of the bed. They could hear traffic outside the closed window.

'That's good,' said Younger.

'You wanted to talk to me?' asked Littlemore.

'Who told you that?'

'The Miss.'

'Ridiculous,' said Younger. His teeth began to rattle again.

'I'm lighting you that cigarette,' said Littlemore. He did so, fingers not as steady as they usually were. 'There you go.'

'Thanks.' Younger smoked; it settled his clattering teeth. 'You realize there's a silver lining.'

'Oh, yeah – what?'

'If I die fast enough, you'll be in the clear at my hearing tomorrow. They can't make you pay a man's bail bond posthumously.'

'I already talked to the DA,' said Littlemore. 'He dropped the charges against you.'

'Ah. Excellent. Then my death will be completely pointless.'

There was a long pause.

'Good thing I'm not a believer,' said Younger, smoke curling into his eyes.

Another silence.

'Not even to my own family,' said Younger.

'What's that?' asked Littlemore.

'Nothing,' said Younger. 'Ash?'

Littlemore took the cigarette, tamped it into an ashtray, and returned it to Younger's mouth.

'I wasn't kind, Jim,' said Younger quietly.

'What are you talking about?'

'I was never kind. Not to one person. Not even to my family.'

'Sure you were,' said Littlemore. 'You took care of your mom when she got sick. I remember.'

'No, I didn't,' said Younger. 'And my father. All he ever wanted from me was a show of respect. That's all. Never gave it to him.' He laughed through the smoke. 'Funny thing was I did respect him. I wasn't like you. You visit your father every weekend. You make him part of your life. You talk about Washington.'

'My dad?' said Littlemore.

'Yes.'

'My dad?'

Younger looked at him.

'My dad's a drunk,' said Littlemore. 'He's been a drunk his whole life. He cheated. And he was crooked. Got kicked off the force for taking bribes. They took his badge, took his gun. Everything I ever said about him was a lie.'

'I know.'

'I know you know,' said Littlemore. 'But you let me tell my lies.'

Neither spoke.

'That was kind,' added Littlemore.

Younger grimaced. His head jerked back; his teeth clenched. The cigarette broke off, and the lit end flew in a little arc like a miniature rocket, bouncing off the sheet near his chin, then falling to the floor. At the same time, the door to the room opened.

'I'll get that,' said Colette, hurrying in, brushing a hot red ember off the sheet and cleaning up the floor. She placed her palm wordlessly below Younger's lips. From his mouth, he let slip the unsmoked butt end of the cigarette, which fell into her hand. He began to shake again and sweat.

No one said anything.

At last Littlemore asked, 'You in a lot of pain, Doc?'

'I never understood it,' said Younger.

'What?' asked Littlemore.

'Why I was alive. Why any of us were.'

'You understand now?' asked Colette.

Younger nodded. 'Not happiness. Not meaning. It's just-'

He stopped.

'What?' asked Colette.

'War.'

'Only some people aren't fighting,' said Littlemore, remembering something Younger had once said to him.

'No. Everyone's fighting. And I know what it's between, this war.' He looked at Colette.

'What?' asked Littlemore.

'Too late,' said Younger. He lost control of his torso, which began to convulse. Fresh blood appeared on his bandages. Whether the expression on his face was another grimace or a smile, Littlemore couldn't tell.

Colette stared. Betty called for the nurse.

In the middle of the night, Colette knelt alone at Younger's bed. A candle burned on the table. 'Can you hear me?' she whispered.