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  “. . . And if the tests show you are a candidate for resection, I’d like to schedule you for further surgery,” Dr. Bennett said.

  “Hold on, Doc. What’s the bottom line here? I’m probably going to die anyway, right?” He smiled, hoping it would assure the doctor that he could handle the truth. Dr. Bennett closed the file and folded his hands on top of it.

  “The cancer has spread. There’s probably no way to stop it or remove all the malignant cells.”

  “Then why operate again?”

  “The longevity rate is about 15 percent in successful candidates for resection and—”

  “No. If it’s just a matter of time, I’d rather not prolong it.” Mike had thought through this scene, and he recited his lines in response to the doctor’s cues like a well-rehearsed play.

  “Well, in some cases, surgery and chemotherapy can offer patients a little more time. Make them more comfortable—”

  “That stuff’s not for me.”

  “Listen, Mike—”

  “There’s really no point, you know what I mean? If surgery can’t cure me, then why bother with it? I don’t want to go back in the hospital and put my family through that mess again.”

  “Well, just let me outline the course of treatment I would like to advise.”

  Mike smiled. “No thanks. Just tell me how long I’ve got.”

  The doctor picked up a thin, gold pen from his desk and began to toy with it. “It’s hard to say for sure.”

  “Take an educated guess. I won’t sue you if you’re wrong.”

  Dr. Bennett looked away. “Unless you consent to surgery and chemotherapy . . . maybe three months. Six at the most.”

  Mike repeated the words to himself but he barely comprehended them. He had three months to live. Six at the most.

  In the room next door the piano wrung out sympathy like a cleaning lady wrings out a floor mop, but the out-of-tune notes made it sound as comical as an old silent movie. Mike imagined all the blue-haired ladies who volunteered at the Cancer Center reaching for their hankies. He smiled to himself.

  “Thanks, Doc. I appreciate you giving it to me straight.”

  Now that Mike knew the truth, he wanted to get as far away from this tiny office as he could and get on with what remained of his life. Smell the fall air. Soar the blue skies. He stood and edged toward the door. The doctor’s chair groaned as he swiveled to face him.

  “Please think about it some more, Mike. Talk it over with your family, at least. And if you change your mind, I can fit you in the schedule right away.” Mike nodded vaguely and opened the door. “May I give the Cancer Center your name?” the doctor asked. “They provide a lot of helpful services.”

  “Sure. Whatever.” Halfway out the door Mike paused and turned back. “By the way, how often do they play that awful piano next door?” He motioned toward the wall with his thumb.

  “You mean at the Cancer Center? I don’t know . . . maybe once or twice a month. Mostly for fundraisers and social events, I guess.”

  “Then I’d buy some earplugs if I were you. See you later, Doc.”

  He waved his cap in salute, then pulled it over his bald spot and strolled through the waiting room and into the lobby. The tall front doors framed a magnificent view of rolling green hills, interrupted here and there with the first colors of fall; fiery copper, bronze, and gold. Mike froze, staring at the beautiful sight. He loved autumn, loved flying his plane over the familiar Connecticut countryside as he had this morning.

  In three months the flaming beauty of autumn would be extinguished—and so would his life. Three months to live. September, October, November. It wasn’t enough. He thought back three months, to June. It seemed like yesterday.

  Suddenly Mike heard a burst of applause down the hall, and he remembered the piano. He followed the sound, curious to see the pianist who’d played the musical accompaniment to Dr. Bennett’s tragic news. “Am I too late for the concert?” he asked the receptionist.

  “Well, yes, I’m afraid it’s almost over, but Professor Brewster might play an encore. It’s in the lounge on your right.”

  The lounge was crowded, with folding chairs and wheelchairs stuffed into every available space. Mike squeezed inside and found a place to stand along the rear wall beside a pretty blond nurse. He peered over the sea of heads and spotted the pianist, bowing stiffly beside the piano. Professor Brewster didn’t look at all like Mike had envisioned. Instead of a distinguished, white-bearded gentleman in a tuxedo, he saw a prim-looking woman with a shapeless body, wearing an ugly suit the color of mud. She was about his own age, Mike guessed, and wore her dark hair cut short. She had ramrod straight posture, and all the lines in her face seemed creased into a permanent frown.

  “Is that Professor Brewster?” he asked the nurse in a stage whisper.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you suppose she knows her piano is out of tune?”

  “Shh . . .” Professor Brewster had begun to speak.

  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. You’ve been most kind.” Her voice sounded cold and formal, and her smile looked stiff from lack of use. For some reason she seemed vaguely familiar to Mike, and he tried to recall where they might have met.

  “For my encore I will play a short piece by Bach.” She pronounced the composer’s name reverently, the way TV preachers said “God.”

  As the encore took off, Mike discovered that watching Professor Brewster play was much more interesting than listening to her through the wall. She sat stiffly on the bench, dangerously close to the edge, and glared at the piano like a general sizing up the enemy. Her long, tapered fingers hovered motionlessly above the keyboard, then suddenly attacked like well-aimed missiles. The music rattled like a burst of machine-gun fire. A few moments later the music slowed and the professor used her fingers to caress each note, as if wooing the instrument, drawing soothing music from deep inside of it. Mike watched in fascination.

  The audience burst into wild applause when the encore ended. Suddenly Mike realized why the professor looked familiar to him, and he laughed out loud. The blond nurse turned to him as if waiting for an explanation.

  “Sorry,” he said, chuckling. “It’s just that the professor reminds me of a card game I once had as a kid. She looks like ‘The Old Maid.’”

  The nurse’s eyes went wide. “Really, sir! Wilhelmina Brewster is on our Board of Directors! She’s a professor of music at Faith College and a very distinguished citizen of our community!”

  “Aw, I’m sorry, Miss.” Mike smiled, as he touched her arm. “I didn’t mean to insult the good professor. Forgive me?”

  “Oh, that’s OK.” The nurse said with a little wave.

  “So tell me something, Miss . . .” He leaned closer, whispering like a conspirator. “Is Professor Brewster married?”

  The nurse glanced at the stiffly bowing professor, then covered her mouth to hide a smile. “Actually, no . . . she’s not!” Mike held a finger to his lips and winked.

  When the applause ended and the audience rose to leave, Mike waded through the crowd toward the piano. Professor Brewster greeted members of her audience as if they were fellow mourners at a funeral, shaking each hand somberly, her face grim. Mike waited in line, surprised by how tall she was up close—at least three inches taller than he was. When his turn came, he took her dry, limp hand and wrung it vigorously.

  “Hi, Professor Brewster. I’m Mike Dolan. I enjoyed your encore, but do you know your piano is out of tune?”

  Professor Brewster’s eyebrows flew up and her jaw fell down as if the puppeteer had suddenly dropped the strings. Someone behind him muttered, “How rude!” Mike hadn’t meant to be. He hurried to remedy his error.

  “I’m sorry. No offense, Ma’am. But if the Cancer Center can’t afford to get it fixed I’d be glad to kick in a little something to help out. I know they’re always hard up for funds around here. Believe me, it would be money well spent!” Miss Brewster’s gaze could have turned lava to stone. The corners o
f her mouth curved down in stern disapproval as she jerked her hand from Mike’s enthusiastic grasp. How could he make her understand that he hadn’t meant to insult her? “Of course, I’m just an ordinary guy, and I don’t know as much about music as you do, I’m sure. But the sound really grates on a fella’s nerves, you know? Being out of tune and all? Especially when I was sitting next door in the doctor’s office finding out that I’m going to die in three or four months. It probably bothers a lot of other people over there too.” Mike smiled broadly, but the professor’s forbidding expression never changed.

  “OK, then, how about this, Professor? You hunt down a good mechanic and give me a call.” He fumbled in the front pocket of his work shirt. “Here’s my card. Call me, and I’ll send you some money to help you pay for it.”

  She made no attempt to take his card, and Mike finally stuffed it into the pocket of her suit coat. He started to leave, then turned back.

  “Oh, yeah, and in the meantime, give a dying man one last request . . . don’t let anybody play on this thing until it’s fixed up, OK?” He reached behind her and shut the keyboard lid with a soft, melodic slam. The strings seemed to shudder with relief. “Bye.” Mike tipped his cap to her and headed for the airport to grab some sky.

  *****

  Professor Wilhelmina Brewster walked briskly out the door of the Cancer Center. She had no reason to hurry, but the lifelong habit could not be changed. As she marched to her car, oblivious to her surroundings and the beautiful fall afternoon, she reviewed every note of the piano recital she had just performed. She had played well.

  As Wilhelmina stepped off the curb to cross to the parking lot, a convertible suddenly roared past, startling her. It was filled with young people, some in Faith College sweatshirts, honking the horn and singing the college football song. Wilhelmina’s pleasant mood vanished. Resentment boiled inside her at these strangers in the loud convertible for reminding her of a place she wanted to be but didn’t belong, a place that was so much a part of her but where she wasn’t wanted anymore. The car turned the corner in a flurry of fallen leaves.

  She unlocked her blue Buick sedan and got in. The vinyl upholstery was hot from the afternoon sunshine. The seven-year-old car still smelled new. She started the engine with a surge of hope. There must be someplace she had to be: a Connecticut League for Life meeting, the Ladies” Missionary Society, her weekly Bible study, the Garden Club? But there was no place to go except home, nowhere she was needed or wanted. She felt tears filling her eyes and was ashamed of herself. She had always been so strong, so proud of her independence. Why had she become so emotional lately?

  She shut off the engine and reached in her pocket for a tissue. Instead, she found a business card. It had a picture of an airplane in the corner and bright blue lettering:

  Michael G. Dolan

  Dolan and Sons Aviation

  Cargo and Commuter Flights

  Private Instruction

  She stared at the card for a moment, unable to imagine where it had come from, then she remembered the rude little man at the recital who had told her the piano was out of tune. As if it had been her fault! Everyone knows that a pianist plays whatever instrument is available! A piano can’t be tuned on the spot like a violin or a harp! She replayed the scene in her mind, searching for an appropriately scathing reply she might have given him. At the time, his rudeness had rendered her speechless. What else had he said? “. . . only three or four months to live . . . give a dying man one last request . . .”

  She dismissed the incident with a sigh. She didn’t like to think about it, but there had probably been many terminally ill patients in her audience today. In fact she became a volunteer after her own mother died of cancer several years earlier. She knew from experience what Mr. Dolan’s last three or four months would be like. Did he know? Probably not. He’d seemed too cheerful about it all, not asking for pity. The truth probably hadn’t hit him yet. He was still in denial. But when that stage ended . . .

  Tears welled up in her eyes again, and she scolded herself for them as she dug in her purse for a hanky. “Really, Wilhelmina! Such foolishness!”

  She remembered smiling through Dean Bradford’s long farewell speech at her retirement party last spring, putting on a brave show, disguising her unbearable pain as he’d severed her from the life she loved.

  “Of course, this isn’t good-bye,” the dean had said. “As part of our faculty emeritus, I’m sure Professor Brewster will be called upon often for her wisdom and experience.” He’d hinted that he might win her an exemption from the mandatory retirement policy and keep her on the faculty part-time, but it hadn’t happened. They’d bypassed her when they’d formed a search committee to hire her replacement. Her name hadn’t appeared on the jury list to audition incoming freshmen for scholarship funds. And the invitation to the president’s annual fall faculty party had never arrived. She had smiled bravely as if it hadn’t hurt at all, just as Mr. Dolan smiled this afternoon. But now the campus had returned to life, a new semester was well underway, and for the first time in 41 years Wilhelmina wasn’t part of it. A confident, young Ph.D. candidate probably sat in her office, filling her shelves with his books, while she sat here, alone. She had given her life to Faith College, and they had taken it, leaving her with nothing but a small pension and a few farewell gifts.

  In many ways she was dying, too, just like Michael G. Dolan, except that Mr. Dolan would soon rest in peace while she would be forced to go on living an empty existence. She blew her nose on the lace-edged hanky. Yes, the truth had finally hit home.

  She started the engine again and put the car into gear, driving the long way home instead of cutting across the campus. Her house, a stately, two-story Georgian brick, looked cold and dark in the fall afternoon light. She drove to the end of the curving driveway, past her formal flower beds and rosebushes. She was proud of her gardens. Most of her neighbors hired part-time gardeners or landscaping services, but Wilhelmina loved tending her flowers nearly as much as playing the piano. Weeding, fertilizing, and careful pruning had kept her busy most of the summer, but the first frost in a couple of weeks would soon deprive her of this joy as well.

  She pulled the car into the garage and walked around front to check the mailbox, hoping to find a letter with the familiar Faith College letterhead. They should have discovered their mistake by now. They would apologize for their oversight and ask her to return. But the only thing in the mailbox was a flyer: “Back to School Special; $2 off a large pizza with campus I.D. card.” She unlocked the front door and angrily tossed the flyer in the hall wastebasket.

  As she wandered into her formal living room and switched on the lights, it seemed as if she had just left home a few minutes ago for her recital. Her polished cherry-wood furniture reflected the glow, but the room still felt dark to her. Maybe she should have the Oriental rugs and draperies cleaned. A fine sheen of dust coated the grand piano, but she resisted the urge to brush it away with her hand, knowing it would damage the finish. She stuck her finger into the soil of her African violets in the bay window. They needed water. Maybe she should clean her entire house from top to bottom and fill the long winter days ahead with hard work. Her older brother had advised her to find something to occupy her time this winter. But what could ever replace her teaching career?

  Wilhelmina put a Chopin etude on the stereo, then abruptly shut it off again after the opening notes. One of her students had played that etude at his recital last spring. How long would it take for the memories to fade? How long until she could listen to a recording or attend a concert without feeling such terrible pain?

  The clock told her it was suppertime, but she didn’t feel hungry. She picked at a little leftover salad, ate half a muffin, then dumped a pot of stale coffee down the drain. Wearily, she checked the memos she had written to herself and tacked to the refrigerator with magnetic quarter notes. She found nothing scheduled for tonight. Or tomorrow either, for that matter.

  Suddenly the phone ran
g and she hurried to answer it, hoping to hear Dean Bradford’s familiar voice offering her an end to this empty existence. “Hello, Wilhelmina? This is Carol. How are you?” Disappointment and rage brought tears to Wilhelmina’s eyes, choking off her reply. “I’m calling to remind you about the meeting this Friday at the Cancer Center. We’re going to get the addresses of new patients to contact next week and—”

  “I already know about the meeting, Carol.”

  “Well, I’m supposed to call everyone, you know, I’m just doing my job.”

  “I’m sorry,” Wilhelmina said, blinking away her tears. “Do you need a ride on Friday? I can pick you up.” Carol always needed a ride.

  “Yes, if you don’t mind, dear. OK then, I’ll see you Friday. Bye-bye.”

  Wilhelmina checked to make sure the date was marked on her calendar, glad to see at least one of the huge blank spaces filled in. September’s photograph showed a weathered, one-room schoolhouse beneath an oak tree in fall foliage. The inspirational verse reminded her to “Rejoice in the Lord always.” Now what was that supposed to mean? How could she rejoice when they’d ripped her life away from her against her will? Rejoice in the Lord? She’d sacrificed her entire life for God, but He didn’t seem to care about her anymore or even answer her prayers! She tore the picture off the top of the calendar, crushed it between her hands, and threw it across the room. Then Wilhelmina Brewster sank down at the table, laid her head on her arms, and wept.

  Chapter 2

  Tuesday, September 8, 1987

  Mike Dolan studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he shaved. He’d lost more weight, but at least his face still looked tanned and healthy. He would tell his son Steve that he was on a diet. After all, he could stand to lose a little weight. He patted the slight belly that still hung over his belt. His family would never have to know the truth.