“Mr. President,” Greg says. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Just checking on you.” Alex clears his throat. He steps in slowly and crosses his arms. He pretends to be looking at the black-and-white photo on Greg’s wall of Addie and Freddie—Addie riding the carousel a year ago at Woodsen Park, the ballet dress she insisted on wearing that day, her soft bangs, eyes squinting from the sunlight. Freddie standing beside her grinning, long blond hair looking so beachy then, gold hoop earrings, her expression carefree. When was the last time his wife grinned? When have her eyes sparkled like this? Not for two months, at least. Greg thinks of how he just wants to tell her to relax, let me worry about this. He used to be able to make her happy so effortlessly （tickling her sides when she was making a salad, or coming out of the bathroom in his silky black robe）， but now with all this, he has to worry about her constant fear.
He is weary already, and he hasn’t even started fighting this thing. And now Alex is worried, too? Greg feels like some tragic man in a Greek myth who saddens everyone he meets.
“Checking on me? What am I, a soufflé?” He selects compose on his email. “I’m just in the middle of writing Edie at Home Walls.”
“Greg, what does Freddie say?”
Greg stiffens. He looks up from his computer screen. The empty email window beams at him. “About what?”
“Are you going to keep doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Doing what,” Alex says. “Avoiding your illness.”
“Illness.”
“Yes, your illness.”
“You make me sound like Emily Dickinson in a white nightgown.” For some reason, he always pictured the poet in bed in a nightgown, scribbling on parchment.
“Oh stop.”
“You stop.” Et tu, Alex, he wants to say. Don’t you know me better than this? Nothing has happened yet. He’s still trying to figure things out. Until then, can’t Freddie and Alex call the dogs off and let him be? He feels betrayed. Haven’t I proven myself to be more than a quivering sick man? Didn’t I oversee a huge merger less than a year ago? Didn’t I save clients who were all but signed off on leaving? Haven’t I kept Freddie and Addie wanting nothing? Just over a year ago, he ran two marathons in one summer. Can’t Greg be the one to tell them when to worry? Don’t they know he will wrestle and clobber this thing? That is who he is.
Alex goes to the door. “Pamela, Mr. Tyler and I are going to have a quick meeting.”
“Sure, Mr. Lionel. Anything you need?” she says outside.
“We’re fine,” Alex says, and closes the door softly.
“Thanks for not broadcasting my illness.” Greg pushes back his desk chair and looks out the window. The leaves are that fully awake color that will only last a day or two. A woman below pushes one of those horrible double-jogging strollers, and he wonders if he will lose the ability to move something like that, to lift the dog into the car, to carry fence posts on his shoulder.
“I want to know what the doctor says, and what we’re going to do. The doctor doesn’t say to do nothing, I assume.”
“Yes, he says I should make jokes about it and keep showing up at work.”
“Then you need a new doctor.” Alex takes off his glasses. His eyes look strange without them. He rubs his cheek and sits in the leather chair in front of Greg’s desk. “What are we talking here—chemo, radiation? Stem cell transplant?”
“All of the above, my friend. You should see the binders I get to read, and all the appointment cards we have on the fridge. It’s just a parade of great stuff waiting for Greggy.”
“I’m sick with worry about you.”
Greg’s stomach flips. “Stop.”
“Stop?”
“Yeah, stop.” He pauses. Looks down at the computer. He pushes his keyboard hard, hard enough to make it skate across the desk, and puts his arms behind his head. “I’m not worried, so you shouldn’t be.”
Alex does a half laugh, half sigh. “You’re not worried?”
“No, do I look worried?” He tries to flex his chest, his arms, as though he is standing at attention for some type of military inspection.
“Yes, I think you do.”
“I shouldn’t have even mentioned this to you.” He shakes his head. “You’re treating me like that egg experiment I did in high school.”
“I want to help. I’ll get you in to any specialist. I’ll hire a consultant who can explain every medical term at your appointments. Shoot, if I have to fly you to Switzerland, I will. I think of you as a son. You know that.” His voice wavers with emotion when he says this.