Fly Away Page 3

  He heard the rumble of a jet engine overhead and looked at his watch. Like a sailor navigating by the stars, Mike timed his daily routine by the passenger jets that roared over his house on their way to and from Hartford Airport, 25 miles away. This United commuter jet to Washington told him it was almost time to leave for work.

  He switched off the bathroom light and went into the hallway. He could see his entire house at once from here. In the tiny, crowded living room on his right there were cobwebs on the moose antlers and dust on his bowling trophies. The bear skin rug needed a pass with the vacuum. Newspapers and aviation magazines lay scattered everywhere. In the bedroom on his left he saw his unmade bed. Small mounds of dirty laundry decorated that room, along with still more aviation magazines. Behind him in the kitchen, a pile of dishes in the sink threatened to topple over. He knew he should tidy up. But Buster and Heinz, his canine roommates, sat expectantly at his feet, tails thumping on the hardwood floor.

  They were big dogs—too big for his tiny bungalow—and every time they moved they swept something off an end table or shelf with their bushy, wagging tails, leaving a trail of disaster and dog hair in their wake. Buster, who was mostly golden retriever, had an amiable personality, opening his heart to friend and stranger alike. Heinz, a black and white mutt of “57 varieties,” served as the watchdog of the pair, more cautious and protective of his home and master.

  “Ah, let’s skip the cleaning,” Mike told them. “We can take care of this place tomorrow, right guys? Let’s go to the park and walk through the leaves.” Buster sprang up and raced to the back door, tail wagging. Heinz gave a woof of approval. “OK, that settles it. Let me call Steve first.” He dialed the familiar number on the wall phone in the kitchen.

  “Hi, Cheryl, is Steve there? Oh . . . he left already, huh? OK, I’ll catch him later at the hangar. Hey, give those kids a kiss from Grandpa, OK? Bye.” As he reached for his jacket, the dogs suddenly tore past him again, heading for the front door, barking a warning. A second later the doorbell rang. “OK, guys, OK! You did your job, now quiet down!” he had to shout above the noise. The barking continued, each dog trying to outdo the other.

  Mike opened the door, then froze in astonishment. Professor Brewster—the piano lady—stood on his front porch! She looked equally astonished to see him, and for a moment neither of them could speak. Buster broke the impasse by leaping against the tattered screen door, barking a friendly greeting. Behind him, Heinz growled a more menacing alarm. Professor Brewster and the frail-looking woman beside her backed up a few steps. Mike tugged on Buster’s collar.

  “Get down, you big horse! You’re scaring these nice people half to death! It’s OK, ladies,” he shouted above the din. “They’re just being friendly. They won’t hurt anybody.” He grabbed Heinz’s collar with his other hand and pointed both dogs toward the kitchen. “Go on, guys . . . go lay down.” The dogs crept into the kitchen like guilty schoolboys headed for the principal’s office. Mike held the screen door open.

  “Come on in, ladies. It’s great to see you again, Professor. You get that piano tuned up yet?”

  “We’re not here about the piano, Mr. Dolan.” Her expression was somber, as if she’d come to deliver news of a terrible disaster.

  Mike turned to the second woman and got a totally different impression. Her face glowed as if she’d come to tell him he’d won the lottery. With her feathery gray hair and quick, birdlike movements, she posed a humorous contrast to the tall, scholarly professor, like a twittering sparrow beside a gloomy owl.

  “Hello, I’m Carol Nugent. We’re here representing the hospice program. Can we have a few minutes of your time?”

  “Sure! Sure! C’mon in!” Heinz barked in protest from the kitchen. Mrs. Nugent hesitated on the doorstep.

  “Oh, dear . . . maybe I’d better not. I’m terribly allergic to dogs, you see.”

  The professor glared at her as if she were a piano student who’d played a wrong note. “Really, Carol. This will only take a few minutes.”

  “Well . . . alright, but . . .”

  Mike held the door open for them as they stepped gingerly into the living room. He watched them take in the cluttered surroundings and wished he had tidied up.

  “Sorry about the mess,” he began, but a violent sneeze from Mrs. Nugent interrupted him.

  “Oh, dear,” she moaned, as her hanky fluttered around her nose.

  “Won’t you ladies sit down?” Mike whisked a T-shirt and three magazines off the sofa and kicked a pair of socks out of sight beneath the lopsided coffee table.

  The ladies sat down as another sneeze overwhelmed Mrs. Nugent. It was followed by a pitiful, “Oh, dear,” and more hanky flutters. Mike parked on a footstool nearby.

  “We represent the Cancer Society’s hospice program,” Mrs. Nugent began, wiping her nose. “Have you heard of it before?” Mike shook his head. Mrs. Nugent sneezed. “We’re a volunteer group, working with cancer patients and their families and—” She paused to sneeze three times in a row, which seemed to be more than the professor could tolerate.

  “Really, Carol! Perhaps you’d better wait in the car. I’ll take care of this.” She snatched the brochures and clipboard away from her as Mrs. Nugent excused herself with another sneeze and fled to the car.

  The professor cleared her throat. “As Mrs. Nugent was saying, we’re a volunteer group, working with cancer patients and their families. We received your name from Dr. Bennett’s office.”

  She paused to slap a shiny brochure down on the table in front of him. Mike picked it up and glanced at the picture, then set it down again, strategically hiding a half-eaten bologna sandwich that even the dogs hadn’t wanted.

  “Our hospice program offers support services to you and your family—transportation to therapy appointments, meals for those on special diets, help with housekeeping . . .” Her gaze flickered around the room. “. . . things of that nature. We also have clergymen and counselors on staff if you or your family require spiritual help and so forth.”

  Mike felt a wave of pity for stuffy Professor Brewster. She seemed very ill at ease with people, especially those who were terminally ill. He guessed that the delicate Mrs. Nugent usually did most of the talking. He smiled warmly to put the professor at ease, but her dour expression never changed. He remembered reading somewhere that it took more facial muscles to frown than to smile and briefly considered sharing that news with her.

  “We also offer practical help with home nursing care,” she continued, “for any patients who may require it in the later stages of their illness. And of course we have patient support groups where you and your family can meet and talk with other cancer patients and their families.” She fidgeted on the lumpy sofa, moving closer to the edge as if eager to finish. “I can help you fill out this information sheet if you’d like me to, Mr. Dolan. It would give us a better idea what your specific needs might be.” She flourished a pen and clicked it open.

  “Well, I appreciate you coming all the way out here, Professor, but to tell you the truth, I don’t think I’ll be needing all these services . . . even though you probably think this place could use a housekeeper.”

  “Perhaps your family would be interested in our programs, Mr. Dolan. “

  “Well, they don’t exactly know that I’m dying, yet, and I’d just as soon keep it that way. You see, all the family I have is my son Steve, his wife, Cheryl, and their three kids. My oldest boy died in Vietnam and my wife Helen died 17 years ago. So I want my remaining time with them to be like it always was, you know? Not all misty and sad because I’m dying. I can’t stand everyone feeling sorry for me and all that.” From Professor Brewster’s reaction, Mike guessed he had played a whole bunch of wrong notes.

  “Your family has a right to know about your illness, Mr. Dolan. Besides, you can’t disguise your condition forever. Your son should do his part to take care of your needs.”

  “Oh, I know Steve would be glad to do whatever he could. He helped me take care of
Helen when she was dying of cancer. But that’s just what I’m hoping to avoid. My wife was sick an awful long time, and even though we loved her very much it was terribly hard on everyone to watch her suffer.”

  “That’s where hospice can help you. And your son as well.”

  “You know what? You get to the point with loved ones where they’re suffering so much you just wish they could die. Then you feel guilty for wishing it. I can’t put Steve through that ordeal again. Or Cheryl and my grandkids either.”

  “There is always Mercy Hospital, which specializes in care for the terminally ill. You don’t have to burden your family.”

  “Ma’am, I don’t want to die hooked up to a bunch of tubes and gadgets. Do you?”

  “Well . . . I really . . .”

  “Listen, Professor, my oldest son, Mikey Jr., was a chopper pilot. He flew Huey Cobras over in Nam picking up wounded and flying them to aid stations. He saved a lot of lives back then. When his chopper was shot down, he died instantly . . .” Mike snapped his fingers. “But he died living, you know what I mean? Living life to the fullest, right up to the end. That’s what I want to do, too . . . die living.”

  She stared at him without answering. Mike couldn’t tell if she understood. “Look, I know my old body is all full of cancer, but I still feel pretty good right now. So I’m just going to keep on living like I always have and not let on to Steve that anything’s wrong. Then when the time comes and the cancer starts winning the fight, well, I guess I’ll just take my Cessna up one day and forget to land her again.”

  Professor Brewster reacted as if she’d been struck. “Mr. Dolan! You wouldn’t end your own life!”

  “Well, my doctor says my life is about to end anyway. What difference will a few days or weeks make?”

  “I think you need to discuss this with your clergyman right away!”

  Mike laughed. “An old sinner like me? I can’t say that I know any clergyman who’d talk to me.”

  “Well, hospice has many denominations represented on their staff. I’d be happy to arrange an appointment with a pastor or a priest.” Mike patted her shoulder to calm her, but she stiffened at his touch. He quickly retreated.

  “I do appreciate your concern, Ma’am, and I’m sorry if I’ve shocked you. But I’ve thought this all out, and I know it’s the best thing I could do for my family. My grandkids will accept my death a lot better knowing I died in the cockpit, doing what I love the most.”

  Professor Brewster stood abruptly and brushed the dog hair from her dark wool skirt. “I really must go.” Her reaction puzzled him. Mike hadn’t intended to tell anyone about his final plans. They had just slipped out. But he couldn’t understand why she seemed so upset. If he was going to die anyway, what did it matter when or how? He followed her to the door. “The hospice phone number is on the brochure if you decide to call us, Mr. Dolan.”

  “OK, thanks . . . and hey, I hope you won’t tell anybody what we . . . uh . . . talked about, Professor.”

  “Of course not. Good day.” The screen door banged behind her as she marched to the car.

  “Hey, Professor!” Mike opened the door again and shouted after her. “Don’t forget about tuning that piano!” She got into the car as if she hadn’t heard.

  Mike walked out to the kitchen, shaking his head. He never had been very good at figuring out women. His dogs scrambled to their feet. “OK, guys. Let’s go for that walk.”

  *****

  Wilhelmina gripped the steering wheel and drove through the swirling leaves as if pursued by mobsters. Coming face-to-face again with that rude little man from the piano recital had surprised her. But what he’d revealed to her about his plans to commit suicide had left her deeply shaken. She barely heard what Carol was saying to her.

  “. . . and I’m really sorry for running out on you, dear, but my goodness, I just couldn’t stop sneezing in there! All that dog hair. And that horrible black rug too. What do you suppose it was? A dead bear? Anyway, I just couldn’t help myself. It was dusty in there, too, wasn’t it? I hope Mr. Dolan signed up for housekeeping services . . .”

  Wilhelmina stomped on the accelerator, wishing she could tell Carol to be quiet. What did a little dust matter when Mr. Dolan planned to kill himself! It was too horrible to think about. Wilhelmina had never faced anything like this in her life, but Carol barely paused for breath.

  “Did you get the forms all filled out and everything, dear? I really hated to leave you all alone but—” Wilhelmina swerved suddenly to avoid a slower-moving car and Carol gasped. “Good heavens, Wilhelmina! Why are you driving so fast?”

  Wilhelmina didn’t answer.

  Suicide! She tried not to picture Mr. Dolan hanging from the rafters in his basement or grimly swallowing an overdose of pills beside his bathroom sink or putting a loaded gun to his temple.

  “Why are you turning here, Wilhelmina? This isn’t the way to—”

  “I know. I’m taking you home.”

  “Home? . . . But we have three more patients to visit.”

  “I’m not feeling well. Couldn’t we visit them tomorrow?”

  “Well, I suppose we could, but . . . listen, are you upset with me or something? You’ve hardly said two words to me since we left that last home, and now you want to quit? I’m sorry I couldn’t stop sneezing—”

  “I’m not mad at you. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Well, what’s wrong, then? Did that last man give you a hard time or something? He seemed like such a nice person.”

  Wilhelmina pulled up in front of Carol’s house, stepping on the brakes a little harder than she intended to. She left the engine running. “Can we talk about it some other time, Carol? I need to go home and lie down.”

  “Sure . . . OK . . . I’ll call you.” The moment Carol closed the door Wilhelmina stomped on the accelerator and the car roared away. She caught a glimpse of Carol in the rearview mirror, standing on the curb, staring after her, wide-eyed. Wilhelmina knew she owed Carol an explanation or an apology but not now. Not while she was so upset. She had to talk to someone about this but certainly not Carol Nugent. Carol could spread a story faster than Wilhelmina could dial the phone.

  Suicide. The thought of it chilled her. Maybe she should talk to the hospice director. But what about her promise to Mr. Dolan not to say anything? As she drove blindly through the streets wondering what to do, she suddenly thought of her pastor. He would never betray a confidence. She could give him Mr. Dolan’s name and address, and the pastor would know exactly what to say to him. She turned at the next corner and drove straight to her church.

  “Is Pastor Stockman in, please?” she asked the church secretary. “I don’t have an appointment, but I’d like to speak with him for a moment, if I may.”

  “He’s on the phone right now, Professor Brewster, but I don’t think he’ll be long. Why don’t you have a seat?”

  Wilhelmina was too distraught to sit. She paced the length of the reception area several times until Pastor Stockman finally appeared at his office door and invited her in. The pastor was a tall, distinguished looking man in his early fifties with receding black hair and a beard salted with gray. He had a gracious, kindly manner and spoke with such an air of spiritual wisdom that he reminded Wilhelmina of one of the Old Testament patriarchs or prophets. He led her into his spacious office where hundreds of books lined the walls; everything from commentaries and concordances to counseling and cults. Wilhelmina began speaking before she’d even taken her seat.

  “A most upsetting incident occurred today, Pastor. I simply must discuss it with someone, and I knew you’d understand the need to keep it confidential.”

  The pastor sank into the chair behind his enormous desk and nodded somberly. “Of course.”

  “I just visited a man for the Cancer Society’s hospice program, a terminal cancer patient. In the course of our conversation he confided in me that he wouldn’t be needing hospice’s services because he plans to end his own life!”

  The
pastor sat forward abruptly. “Oh, my.”

  “I think you can see why I’m so upset. We both feel the same way about euthanasia. As members of the Connecticut League for Life we can’t simply look the other way when someone is planning suicide. But I don’t know what to do. He has actually admitted that he intends to kill himself.”

  “I can certainly understand why you’re upset, Miss Brewster.”

  “I was hoping that you could stop him, somehow, Pastor. I realize I can’t report him anywhere, can I? Because of client confidentiality?”

  “Hmm ... that’s probably true ...” Pastor Stockman stroked his beard thoughtfully. He always spoke slowly, as if considering every word carefully before answering, a habit that drove impatient people like Wilhelmina crazy and made an appointment with him seem interminable.

  “Do you know if he’s a member of any church?” he finally asked. “Maybe you could speak to his pastor or priest.”

  “He said he didn’t have a church affiliation or a pastor. I offered to refer him to one of our hospice clergymen, but he refused.”

  Pastor Stockman paused. “Hmm . . . you don’t think he’s a Christian, then?”

  “Well, I have to assume not. And that makes matters even worse, doesn’t it, if he does commit suicide?”

  The pastor stared thoughtfully at the ceiling for a moment, as if the answer he sought was encoded in the tiny dots of the ceiling tiles. “Does he have a specific plan to end his life, Miss Brewster, or were these just vague threats?”

  Wilhelmina thought for a moment. What had Mr. Dolan said? Something about taking off in his airplane and forgetting to land again.

  “No, it’s not a vague threat. He seems to have it all planned.”

  “Hmm . . .” A flashing red light on Pastor Stockman’s telephone ticked off the seconds noiselessly. Finally he leaned forward. “Do you think this could just be a manifestation of self-pity? It would be natural for him to feel hopeless if he recently found out that he’s terminally ill. Thoughts of suicide are often an initial reaction to news of this nature. Did he seem emotionally upset to you?”