Heart the Lover (38)

I called Yash while I was driving down to BU that afternoon. He’d come to love Ray Hart’s novels, too, and admitted upon rereading it that even ‘The Last Fall’ was a good story. It was one of those sharp sparkling October days. Even the highway was beautiful. Jack had gone to school and I was dressed and out of the house, being a professional writer again. Yash was the one person who would understand exactly how thrilling this moment was to me.

He answered on the first ring. I knew right away something was wrong.



The latest tests indicated that the tumors were growing again. The immunotherapy had stopped working. They had already taken him off the drug.

‘After one scan? What if it was a fluke? What if they start shrinking again next month?’

‘It’s a clinical trial. One strike and you’re out.’

‘What did your doctor say?’

‘He told me to tell people. Six months, is what he said.’

‘No. I don’t believe it. There’s got to be something else.’

‘Yeah,’ I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘I thought that’s what you’d say.’

His phone bounced like he was walking. I could hear how short his breaths were. ‘Where are you?’

‘In my empty house. I haven’t even gotten a couch yet.’

‘You need a couch.’

I heard him sit down somewhere. ‘A flight of stairs is like a triathlon for me.’ He paused. ‘Otherwise I’m just fine.’

I drove on through the sparkling day in a pair of new suede boots, bought for this moment, and felt as if a chasm of years had opened between us, me still young, and him an old man.

He regained his breath and said he was worried about his books. He didn’t want them to be separated. His voice split. Was he crying? He never cried. I didn’t think I could bear it. But he didn’t cry. He just said again that he worried no one would be able to take his books all together. This thought made his breathing worse and I wanted to say I would take them but I did not.

Instead I insisted there would be a new trial, a better drug. I said I would come visit soon, when things with Jack were more stable.

I walked to the university and found my way to the building on my itinerary, up to the classroom where the workshop was held. A few students were already there and I introduced myself and we chatted about their program. Ray Hart was the last to arrive and shut the door behind him.

‘She’s not here yet?’ he said, and a few of them pointed to me.

‘Ah, fantastic. Sorry.’ He came over and I stood up and we shook hands. ‘What a pleasure,’ he said. He was holding a few books, two of them mine, in a way that boys in college held them, against his hip. He wore old corduroys with the little ridges worn off at the butt. Everything reminded me of the college boy in his short story, even though he was over sixty now.

He offered me the highbacked chair at the head of the seminar table that was clearly meant for him, and I said I was fine where I was. He smiled and took his place and I could tell the students liked him, that he created an easy atmosphere in that room.

He began by saying he was grateful I was there, that he had admired my work since my first novel. He held up my most recent book and said it was one of the most astonishing things he’d read in years. His words made my chest burn. ‘I assigned it to this class two weeks ago and my inbox has been full of something I’m not used to receiving: thank-you notes. From these kids right here. Several confessed they’d never finished a book I assigned before this one. So, you have a captive audience for whatever nuggets of gold they can get out of you.’

He smiled warmly at me. I was stunned by his unexpected praise. We’d had no contact before this moment. I’d been invited by a committee, and all my interactions had been with an administrative assistant. I didn’t know he’d read a book of mine, and he had no idea of my attachment to his work.

I thanked him, my voice weakened by a swift clustering of feelings, and I tried to tell the story of discovering his work in college—but what came to mind was the photocopied pages beneath the back door of the Breach and Yash in the tree with my boys, all of them strong and healthy then, and Yash on the phone, upset about his books. I couldn’t tamp it all down. It got away from me so quickly. I began to cry at that seminar table and I could not stop. Ray Hart looked at me with horror and I could not explain about Jack, about Yash, about my love for Ray’s work and the great surprise of his kindness about mine, which I had all but given up on since Jack got sick. I kept holding up my hand, trying to reassure them I would collect myself in a moment.

I did eventually regain a bit of composure. To try to explain would unleash another episode, so I fell back on routine sentences about my novels and my process. I showed them the spiral notebooks with my first drafts written in pencil, and I answered their questions as best I could. After the class Ray Hart assigned a student to walk me over to the hall where I’d be speaking. When he introduced me on stage an hour later, I didn’t feel the warmth he’d had earlier for my work, but perhaps by then my shame was distorting things. At the dinner afterward we sat on opposite ends of the table, and I had to excuse myself before dessert, to make the drive back to Maine. In the car, I told myself I would write him to explain and apologize, but I never did. Once I got back on the highway I wanted to call Yash again and tell him what a fiasco it had been, meeting Ray Hart. But it was late and I did not want him to know, by telling him about all the crying at the seminar table, that I knew he was dying.