A Year Less a Day (8 page)

“That's good,” he says, like someone making a point with an antonym.

Ruth picks up on Jordan's lack of enthusiasm, but gets it wrong and assumes he is upset that he won't be around to share in the success. What to say?
It'll help pay for your funeral!

“I've paid your mother and all the bills,” she carries on, with nowhere else to go, though she doesn't mention the money she owes Tom. But Jordan's downcast eyes finally get to her and she questions, “What's the matter?”

“I wasn't going to tell you,” says Jordan.

“Tell me what?”

Jordan turns away. “No. This isn't fair. You keep the money. You'll need it when I'm gone.”

“What? Tell me what,” she demands.

Jordan plays the computer keyboard for a few seconds as he weighs his options, then, with his eyes firmly on the floor, he lays out the situation. The radiotherapy and chemotherapy have had no effect, and despite his outward appearance, the cancer has metastasized throughout his body, eating away at his organs and his mind.

“I feel like killing myself right now,” he angrily admits. “Why should I wait? What have I got to wait for?”

“But I thought you were doing better,” protests Ruth.

“It's the drugs, Ruth. Without the drugs I'd be finished.”

Ruth stifles the sobs as she sits back thinking,
Please wait 'til Christmas. It's only a few weeks away.
But there's a gremlin inside her saying,
That's right. Tell him to hang on 'til Christmas so you can go through the gift nightmare again, and just think of all the happy Christmases you'll have in the future
.

“There is something I've been meaning to ask,” she says, finally plucking up the courage. “I'd like to try for another baby.”

“Ruth ...” he starts, but she persists.

“I know you'll say it's stupid, but when you're gone I'll have nothing left. If it was a boy I'd call him Jordan, and I'd tell him what a wonderful dad you would have been: a proud and caring man who would have loved him and cherished ...”

“Ruth ...” he tries again.

“And if it was a girl, I'd tell her all about you, how kind you were, and ... and ...” she pauses, then bursts into tears. “You've no idea what it's like growing
up thinking your father's a man in a poster. But you're not just a picture. You're real, and If I had your baby he'd be real ...”

“Ruth,” he says gently as she winds down, “it's too late. That's one of the side effects. I can't, Ruth, it's too late. Although there is ...” Then he stops as she looks at him questioningly and stifles her sobs.

“There is what?”

“Nothing,” he says, looking away, but she grasps his chin and turns him back, demanding. “There is what?”

Jordan takes a few seconds, then tells her about an experimental program with a ninety percent success rate that he's found on the Internet—two weeks' intense therapy requiring total isolation as the body is cleansed of toxins with special herbs and minerals.

“Trina was right,” Ruth yells delightedly. “She said you'd find a cure on the Web.”

“Calm down, Ruth,” says Jordan. “It may not work. Anyway, there's a big problem.”

“What problem? Do it—you must do it. Why won't you do it?”

“Because it costs ten thousand dollars and I'd have to go Los Angeles, that's why.”

“How dare you?” Ruth shouts, “How could do this to me? I don't care what it costs. If you think money is more important to me than your life, you must be crazy. When? When can they do it?”

“It's not that easy ...”

“What do you mean?”

Jordan takes a few seconds to arrange his thoughts, but Ruth is unrelenting.

“Jordan. I'm asking you what you mean.”

“There's selection tests and things. They don't take everybody,” he says, “Then there's the money ...”

“I'll get the money; stop worrying. Get on the computer, or whatever you have to do, and tell them you want to try.”

“If you're sure ...”

Ruth buttonholes Tom in the middle of his morning dash and has him dancing up and down in the middle of the café.

“That's a lot of money for you, Ruth,” he says sagely.

“I know. I know. But it's really important. And the café is making good money now. I'll easily pay it back. Can you lend it to me? Please.”

“I'll have to talk to my people in London,” he says in all seriousness and even consults his watch before declaring that, with an eight-hour time difference, he just might catch them before they leave the city. “As long as I can get to the little boys' room first,” he says pointedly, and Ruth blushes as she steps aside.

“Oh yes, of course. Sorry.”

It is a little after three p.m. in the city of London and Samantha Bliss is driving her father past the Bank of England on their way to Daphne's home in Westchester. If Tom does have any people in London, they're not amongst the bowler-hatted bunch scuttling out of the building and struggling with recalcitrant umbrellas as they battle the weather and head for Bank tube station.

“Look at this fucking weather,” complains Samantha as she wipes at the condensation on the windshield.

“At least Daphne won't swear at me all the time,” rebukes Bliss, but Samantha cuts back quickly. “Careful, Dad, or you'll be walking.”

“Sorry,” he laughs, adding, “I'm looking forward to a few weeks with her, actually—especially Christmas—she's such a game old bird.”

“I hope no one shoots her then.”

“Very droll, Sam ... Oh. Watch the lights.”

“I can't see a fucking thing,” she moans as they slide to a halt; then she gives her father a sly look. “Just don't get up to any mischief with her, that's all.”

“Sam! She's old enough to be my grandmother.”

“I didn't mean that kind of mischief, Dad. You know what I mean.”

Trina is brimming with mischievousness and hiding behind oversized shades as she sidles up to Ruth in the café's kitchen a week later. “I've got you into the cancer support group. Tonight at seven,” she says, darkening her voice.

“Only you could make it sound like a fucking adventure,” snaps Ruth, though she's not ungrateful. “You didn't give them my name did you?” she asks quickly.

“Nope. Just said you were a friend.”

Ruth climbs down a notch. “Jordan will kill me if he finds out.”

“I dunno why.”

Ruth tries to fix Trina's eyes through the dark glasses—desperate to convey the delicacy of her situation. “Jordan borrowed some money, and if the lender discovered he was ...” she pauses, but the word “dying” is too much for her.

Trina finishes the sentence, sneering, “I suppose the bastard would want it back.”

Ruth nods, though she has no intention of explaining that the bastard is Jordan's mother.

“It's not Tom, is it?” asks Trina as she takes off her glasses to stare quizzically at Ruth.

“Tom?” Ruth questions in surprise. “The Tom who comes in every morning? Why him?”

Trina freezes. “That's three questions, Ruth.”

“So?”

“Golden rule, Ruth. If you ask someone a direct question and they come back with three or more in return, you've got your answer.”

“You could be wrong ...” starts Ruth, but Trina isn't listening as she rants about Tom.

“The greasy little turd's a shark. ‘Borrow as much as you like,' he says, but he never tells you he charges, like, a gazillion percent interest a week.”

“How much?”

“A gazillion. Plus the arranging fee he tacks on the first week so you get hammered with the interest on that as well.”

Ruth pales. “I didn't know ...”

“Oh yeah. He's a skunk.”

“What happens if people can't pay?”

“He doesn't care. It's not his own money—he hasn't got any.” Trina drops her voice. “He's just a front man.”

“For who?”

Trina shrugs. “I don't know. But you can bet it's not the sort of person you'd ever invite to a Tupperware party.”

Ruth had spent the rest of the day cowering in the kitchen, trying to keep her hands off the sharpest knives,
and by the time she arrives at the group meeting she needs all the support she can get. Trina takes her, and Erica—the soft-haired, soft-bodied coordinator—welcomes them with a face-splitting smile as a group of wretched women shuffle morosely in.

“You wouldn't believe how difficult it is to get men here,” says Erica. and Trina takes a quick look around at the slump-shouldered matrons and unthinkingly mutters, “I'm not surprised.”

There's an edge to Erica's tone as she looks at Trina and explains, “We don't usually allow visitors, but if you're quiet you can stay.”

The semicircle of dejected participants introduce themselves, reciting their husband's afflictions mechanically, like addicts at Alcoholics Anonymous. “My name is Joy. My husband has stage-two, grade-four, prostate cancer,” says one woman, her face now permanently fixed in anguish. “He's had a bilateral orchiectomy, but his legs are swelling and he's down to a hundred and ten pounds. But I'm strong. I will survive.”

It's Ruth's turn, and Trina gives her a nudge. But Ruth's stuck to the chair. Her mind is whirling. Jordan's cancer is somewhere, but where precisely? He's never told her. “Cancer,” is all he's ever said and she's never pushed for more ... never wanted more. His cancer is the other woman—the one tearing them both apart and taking him away, and it's not something easily discussed over dinner—it's more a topic for a surprise breakfast attack when the offender is too bleary to defend himself after a night's partying. But Ruth and Jordan haven't partied for a very long time.

Erica encourages her. “Just tell us where the cancer is, Ruth; how aggressive; how advanced; some symptoms—weight loss, hair loss, etcetera.”

“He's usually tired,” says Ruth under pressure. “He just lies around.”

“Huh ... Men!” utters Trina and catches a warning look from Erica.

The disclosure that Jordan is going to Los Angeles for the experimental treatment brings a skeptical look from Erica and censure from Trina.

“You never told me that,” Trina complains, but Erica shushes her and turns to Ruth. “Maybe you should keep a journal. Something we can work through together. Questions, fears, the good things and the bad.”

“Something cheery to read later on,” mutters Trina, risking eviction.

“The main thing is to keep your spirits up.” Erica pauses with a grin that looks like a grimace. “And try to be positive, Ruth. Look on the bright side.”

“Yep. You'll soon have your own bedroom back,” murmurs Trina
sotto voce
with her head in her purse.

The meeting slowly falls apart as weary participants head back to their nightmares, while Trina drags Ruth into a pub.

“Keeping up your spirits,” insists Trina ordering large gins, and she gives Ruth a playful shove as a man at the bar takes his time looking her over.

“Could be your lucky night,” whispers Trina irreverently and Ruth looks up, startled.

“Did you see that?” she says, as the man gives her an obvious wink.

“Well, you're a good looking woman, Ruth.”

“Rubbish. It's the dress.”

The dress wasn't from Marcie's collection. The continual strain and the demands of running the café single-handedly have reduced Ruth to a point where she can fit into some of Trina's baggier outfits. Ruth may still fill the full woollen skirt and ballooning
blouse with wholesome curves, but virtually all the curves are now in the right places.

As their drinks arrive, Ruth's concern over money bubbles to the surface and she starts, “You know you said that Tom's a shark ...”

“I knew it,” spits Trina. “He's hooked you hasn't he?”

“Just a bit,” Ruth admits ruefully.

“Pay him back, the moment you see him.” says Trina earnestly, “Before you get too deep.”

Ruth is already sinking, and Tom circles for a few days, trying to catch sight of her as he moves around the café flourishing his flashy magazines like a badge of honour. Ruth busies herself in the kitchen with the door closed and prays he won't knock.

I thought you'd stopped hiding
, mocks the voice inside, and she doesn't disagree, but what to do? You could ask him how much you owe, but what then? Whatever his answer she has no means to pay—even the interest. A quick calculation brings her close to fifteen thousand dollars, though that doesn't include the arranging fee or accumulated interest, and Jordan still needs more than they make each month.

The approach of Detective Sergeant Phillips' robust figure has saved Ruth from Tom on several occasions.

“Hi, Mike. You're getting to be quite a regular,” she tells him one day, and he smiles and gives her hand an affectionate squeeze. “It's like ‘Cheers,'” he says. “Everybody knows my name.”

Ruth turns peach, drops her eyes, and slides back to the kitchen. Trina is shoulder-surfing the crossword gang as they scrunch tightly around a small table in a corner, but Ruth's hurried departure catches her eye; so does the policeman's satisfied glow.

“I think he likes you,” she tells Ruth a few minutes later, but Ruth feigns deafness as she pummels some whole-grain dough and slaps it into baking pans. “Have you paid Tom yet?” Trina continues as she helps herself to an apple. Ruth's affirmative nod is a lie. Trina knows, but doesn't push the point.

It's over a week since Trina's warning, but Tom's meter is still running. Ruth knows there will be a judgment day—the day after Jordan's funeral, when she stands to survey the wreckage of her life—then the greasy little man will pop up with his hand out.