Gangster

Summer, 1996 I had come to watch him die. His head sank into the center of the pillow, his face an ominous yel-low, paper-thin eyelids closed. IV lines and a heart monitor were wired to his frail body, the veins on each arm were a thick purple. A thin blue sheet covered his chest; long hands, more bone than skin, rested flat across its top. He took in slow breaths, gurgles working their way from throat to nose, the rank odor of death floating through the room like seaside fog. I pushed an ugly metal chair against the side of a cold radiator and sat down, my back to the dark city sky. It was late, well past visiting hours, but the duty nurses let me stay, waving aside the rules for the dying man in room 617B, adopting the indifferent manner he had used to ignore society's demands for the bulk of his life. They walked in at regular intervals, easing their way past the two guards who sat erect just outside the door, their starched whites stretched by slightly expanding waistlines. They checked his blood pressure, monitored the IV's and pumped in extra doses of painkiller with thin needles hidden in the front pockets of their uniforms. He had been in the hospital for four weeks and a priest had twice been called to administer last rites. "If he pulls through and you need me again, just call the parish," the priest said in a raspy voice that sounded more than eager to do God's work. "It's just down the street." "You've been here twice," I said as gently as I could. "That's more than enough." "He needs to die in a state of grace." The priest looked across the bed, his liver-patched fingers shaking as they folded a purple vestment. "He would want that." "No," I told him, my eyes fixed on the dying man. "I don't think he would." * * * I went to the hospital every night, leaving work just after six, drop-ping by my apartment to shower and change before walking the ten blocks north, stopping only to pick up a large salad and two cups of coffee at a Greek diner across from the emergency room. I sat by his bed, the light from the soundless television above us flickering across our faces, the city sounds from the streets below merging with the beeps and buzzes of the monitors attached to his body. Some nights I would feel tears streak down my cheeks, as I saw the life depart from his once strong frame. Other nights would bring waves of anger, tense reminders of the evils he had heaped on those who dared to defy him. As far as I knew, I was the only one who cared whether he lived or died. He lay in that bed suffering from one of fate's cruelest blows: he had outlived both his enemies and his friends. His children would visit on occasion, concerned more about a future cash windfall than his fi-nal days. Each eyed me with distrust, suspicious of my bond with their father, envious of our time together, wondering why he had chosen me to share his secrets. There were two daughters and a son, all grown and with their own families. They had been raised without the burden of financial worry, but their father's steady hand and love had long ago been supplanted by suburban comfort, private school educations, trips to Europe and hefty allowances. There were few shared memories to unite them now and there was little else for them to do during these last moments than sit, stare and leave as quietly as they had entered. We exchanged nods and glances, never words, our common ground asleep in the bed that separated us. It was a space that seemed as wide and cold as aCarcaterra, Lorenzo is the author of 'Gangster' with ISBN 9780345401007 and ISBN 034540100X.