Miracle Man (14 page)

“What do you mean?” Bobby glanced at the compass and turned the ship’s wheel.

“What I mean is that they wasted their time and talent. Some of them wasted it on abstract theories—they thought they were pure scientists. That’s a load of BS. Their theories got adapted into weaponry, or just made big bucks for some fat cats. You know what I’m talking about. What do you think Varneys wants from you?”

Bobby looked askance at Joe. “He’s given me a lot of opportunities.”

“That’s right, but payback doesn’t have to be on his terms. The OSSIS didn’t give you the gift that you have. If you owe anyone, it’s not them. Take control, Bobby, don’t let anyone use you or manipulate you.”

Bobby smiled, hoping to lighten the conversation. “You’re scaring me, Joe. What else can I do wrong?”

“You can get seduced by the limelight. I’ve known others who did. They wanted publicity, adulation, glamour—they thought they were celebrities—rock stars of the intelligentsia. They wasted their time on the cocktail party circuit. It can be tempting—-pretty girls, free booze and great hors d’ouevres.”

Bobby raised his eyebrows and cocked his head.

Joe laughed, “If I had been good enough, that’s what I would have done.”

“I could believe you would have, Joe,” Bobby said, grinning.

Joe stood behind Bobby and put his hands on his shoulders. He leaned to Bobby’s side and said softly in his ear, “Son—you have something very special—don’t squander it. Listen to your heart. We all have our allotted time. Use yours well.”

Dreamweaver
docked offshore in the marina at Rocky Neck. Bobby and Joe paddled the dinghy to the floating dock of The Studio restaurant, a rambling shingle structure precariously pinioned on old wooden pilings some thirty foot above the water. Bobby effortlessly bounded up the steep ramp to the dining room, while Joe held on to the ramp’s railings and climbed slowly. Joe was visibly out of breath when he reached the top. The fried clams and lobster rolls were succulent and magical. “It’s all about the batter the chef conjures up for the clams,” Joe said. “Just a hint of sweetness. And never over fry them or let them get limp and greasy.”

“And don’t skimp on the tartar sauce for the clams, or the mayo on the lobster,” said Bobby.

Joe ordered a chilled bottle of the best Meursault he could find on the wine list and proceeded to violate Massachusetts liquor laws by pouring Bobby a full glass also.

“Is it cool—me drinking wine in a public place?” Bobby asked.

“It’s for medicinal purposes. It aids the digestion. If we lived in France, you’d start drinking wine at eight. That’s why the French are so happy and charming.”

As always, the conversation flowed and Joe had a seemingly endless supply of funny stories. His wit was as sharp as ever and his sardonic sense of humor was a joy to Bobby. Bobby had long ago come to the realization that it wasn’t that Joe had more funny experiences in his life than anyone else, it was just his unusual perception of common occurrences that allowed him to find the comedic in the mundane. Bobby loved this about Joe and hoped to emulate it.

Back on
Dreamweaver
, Bobby steered the course home. Out in the open ocean, the sun burned low in the sky and the life sustaining orange ball seemed to grow bigger and brighter by the minute as it began to melt into the sea.

“Bobby, there’s something I have to tell you that’s not pleasant. I need you to be strong.”

Bobby laughed. “You’ve lost all your money playing the stock market so you have to sell
Dreamweaver
and move in with me. It’s okay Joe. I’ll still love you when you’re poor.
”

“I wish it were that simple,” said Joe. His eyes grew watery.

Bobby’s face lost its color. “What is it?”

“I’m dying Bobby. Very quickly. Pancreatic cancer. No one can help me. I only have a few months.”

Bobby grabbed Joe in a crushing bear hug and buried his face against the side of Joe’s head.
No God. Not again. Kill me instead. Not Joe. Don’t take Joe away from me.

Bobby’s body shook as he grasped on to Joe. Joe tried as hard as he could for as long as he could but finally he broke down. As darkness set in over the ocean, two figures overwhelmed by grief and their love for each other stood entangled on the deck of
Dreamweaver
as if their physical closeness could leave no room for death to come between them.

Finally, Joe broke the embrace. “Damn. All of this emotion is making me thirsty. We need some cognac.” Joe stumbled in the darkness to the galley bar and poured two large snifters of Hennessy, as his hands quivered from the emotional overload to his nervous system. He walked back to Bobby, handed him one and said, “Let’s sit down. Pull a few blankets—it’s getting cold out here.”

Joe and Bobby sat huddled next to each other under two deck blankets as Bobby extended his long legs and steered the boat’s wheel with his feet.
Silence
engulfed them for the remainder of the trip.

20

T
he next few months were
intense for Bobby. He buried himself in his biophysics doctoral thesis, working at least eighteen hours a day seven days a week, finishing it two months after that last fateful trip on
Dreamweaver
. His thesis was considered so ground-breaking, it was published in its entirety in the
Cambridge Quarterly Review
and became the subject of protracted analsyis, accolades and international academic debate in the scientific community for the next two years. As soon as Bobby finished the document, he left the Institute and moved into Joe’s Brookline house full-time to help care for him. By then, physically Joe was a shadow of his former self. He had lost at least thirty pounds and looked twenty years older. His olive complexion had gone pale and pasty, his face was lined and gaunt, his body appeared small and fragile, and his hands boney with bulging veins like those of an old man. Joe’s elegant master bedroom had been converted into a veritable hospital room, complete with hospital bed, IV drips, vital-signs monitors, respirator, bed pans, and wheel chair. Because of his wealth, he had the privilege of fading away within the dignified confines of his home rather than in a hospital ward or hospice.

Joe laughed. “You see, Bobby. It always pays to have a few bucks socked away so you can deteriorate in style. There’s no pine disinfectant smell here, linoleum floors, swinging doors or surly orderlies. I’m going out with panache.”

“I don’t know how you can keep your sense of humor, Joe.”

“Would I be better off without it?” Joe smiled at Bobby. “I’ve had a fantastic life, son. It could have been longer, but it could have been a lot shorter too. Particularly when I think about some of the crazy stuff I’ve done. I have only one regret.”

“What’s that?”

Joe grasped Bobby’s hand. “That I won’t live to see what you can do. What I know you will do.”

Bobby shook his head and looked down at the floor. “Don’t say that, Joe. I’m a shooting star. Here today gone tomorrow. I’ll be a burnout like most of the others were.”

Joe squeezed Bobby’s hand as hard as he could. His face reddened and his voice raised, the effort making it raspy. “Oh no you won’t Bobby. You will be what you make yourself be.”

Bobby looked up at Joe with glassy eyes filled with love. Joe’s voice softened, as did his grip on Bobby’s hand. He smiled and continued, “If you let me down kid, I’ll come back and haunt the crap out of you and then you’ll really know what bad dreams are.” They both laughed, but the interchange seemed to have tired Joe. Bobby held a cup of crushed ice up to Joe’s lips and helped him put some into his mouth to hydrate him.

The last few weeks of Joe’s life were horrific. He was fed intravenously and was on a constant morphine drip. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he slept most of the time. Bobby sat at his side for hours on end, holding Joe’s unrecognizable hand. He slept on a roll-away bed only ten feet away from Joe. Bobby missed talking to him so much that on a few occasions, he asked the nurse to stop the morphine drip so that Joe would regain consciousness. Bobby soon abandoned that when he saw that without the constant influx of mind numbing drugs, Joe would be in excruciating pain. It was unbearable for Bobby to watch Joe disappear from his life this way.

“How much longer will this continue?” Bobby asked Joe’s attending physician.

“We’re very close to the end now, son. His lungs and heart will shut down within twenty-four hours. We’ve done everything we could for him,” responded the doctor.

Bobby’s eyes were wild. “No, you didn’t. Everybody just let him die. No one helped him.”

“We did everything that modern medical science can do.”

“Then modern medical science sucks. It stinks. It’s a big fucking joke. He shouldn’t be dying.” Bobby buried his face against the thin remnant of Joe’s chest.

“I’ll be back in the early morning. You should then be ready to say your goodbyes. I’ll try to bring him out of it just for a few minutes then,” said the doctor as he packed his bag and made his exit.

That night Bobby went to the bar in Joe’s library. It was a hand carved, polished mahogany bar, modeled after those found in English pubs. Bobby took two heavy crystal tumblers off the shelf, filled them with ice and generously poured Joe’s favorite single-malt scotch, an eighteen year old Macallan. He took the glasses into Joe’s bedroom, placed one on Joe’s lap as he slept and wrapped Joe’s claw-like hand around it.

“Joe, I thought you might want a drink. God knows, I need one.” Bobby swallowed
the smooth Scottish elixir, and then brought Joe’s glass up to Joe’s lips.

“I know you can smell this Joe and you’re thanking me right now.” Bobby dipped his index finger into Joe’s glass and traced the scotch on to Joe’s lips.

“A toast to you, Joe. You’ll always be my captain.”

The next morning at eight, Joe’s doctor arrived back at the house. It was evident that he wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible and get on with his day. Bobby was annoyed by the doctor’s perfunctory attitude.
So is this how it ends for all of us?
thought Bobby.
Is this all there is? The denouement to the life of an accomplished and loved man is that he just becomes an inconvenience in someone’s busy schedule.

The doctor disconnected the morphine drip, and then gave Joe an injection. “This will make him lucid but still keep the pain at bay for a few minutes, but then the drip has to go back or he’ll go through the roof.”

Joe’s eyes gradually opened. He looked at the physician and Bobby.

“Joe, you don’t have much time,” the doctor said.

Hearing these words, Joe’s facial muscles tensed and his eyes watered. The sadness of recognition that registered on Joe’s face was an image Bobby knew he would never forget. He stood by Joe’s bedside and bent over and kissed Joe’s forehead as he grasped Joe’s left hand.

“Joe, I’ve been here the whole time. I never left. I’ve missed you so much.” Joe smiled.

“Why do I smell scotch?” Joe asked.

Bobby held up the tumbler so Joe could see it without having to crane his neck.

“Macallan 18. I’ve taught you some valuable things, Bobby,” Joe said, as he chuckled.

“Joe, do you remember the soca dance party on Cruz Beach? Wasn’t that amazing?”

“I remember it like it was yesterday, Bobby. Those girls sure knew how to shake what the good Lord gave them.”

Joe stiffened and his eyes glared. He bit his lower lip and clutched Bobby’s hand. “We have to put him back under,” said the doctor as he got ready to stab the needle of the morphine drip back into Joe’s IV.

“Wait,” said Joe as he grimaced in pain.

Bobby
put his face against Joe’s as he cradled Joe’s head in his hands.

“Joe, thank you for taking me into your life. I’ll love you forever.”

With difficulty, through clenched teeth and uneasy breathing, Joe’s voice came out as only a weak whisper, “Bobby, don’t forget what I told you. I love you kid.”

Within seconds after the morphine drip began to dispense its salutary poison, Joe’s eyes went dead.