Rides a Stranger by David Bell Page A

beneath the sheets, and while I never saw anything gross on his hands, I always wondered. Was I touching feces? Or worse? And I never failed to wash my hands when I left his bedside.
    The old man looked me in the eye. His eyes were blue like mine. A little watery but bright blue. And intelligent. There could be no doubt someone—Joseph Henry Kurtwood, my father—was staring back at me. He was in there. I knew that.
    “How are you, Dad?” I asked.
    He didn’t say anything. I reminded him that he didn’t have to say anything, that I understood he might be too tired to speak and to save his strength. I didn’t know—and I’m sure he didn’t either—what he would be saving it for, but it was something to say, something to fill the quiet space in the house. The kind of quiet that descends on a house with a dying person inside it.
    My mom hovered nearby.
    “Don, honey, why don’t you tell Dad about your tenure vote?” Mom said, always cheery. “Joe, Don got tenure at the university.”
    “I thought you wanted me to tell him?” I said.
    “Don’t be sassy,” Mom said. “Tell him about it.”
    “Sure,” I said. “Why not?”
    I turned back to Dad. Why not, indeed? The truth is—he didn’t really care. And I didn’t really care. It was no great accomplishment to earn tenure at a mid-sized public institution in the south. Publish a few articles, go to a few conferences, show up for meetings on time, attend the department holiday party and get a little tipsy but not too drunk, and I was a shoo-in. The department approved me unanimously. They didn’t care that Rebecca and I had divorced. Hell, Rebecca voted for me.
    But it was something to talk about, the adult equivalent of bringing home a high score on a Civics exam or a report card with more Bs than Cs.
    “I got tenure, Dad,” I said. “I’m an associate professor of English.”
    He squeezed my hand.
    I took this to be his way of congratulating me, so I said, “Thanks.”
    He squeezed again. Harder. More insistent.
    “Okay,” I said. “The vote was unanimous—”
    This time he didn’t squeeze so much as he tugged my hand, jerking me a little forward in my chair. It surprised me. I didn’t know the old man had that much strength left.
    “What is it, Dad?” I asked.
    He didn’t squeeze or tug. His face looked strained, and some of the color had drained from it. His shoulders sank down even farther into the mattress, another little bit of him disappearing.
    His lips moved. They moved but no sound came out.
    “What is it, Dad?”
    “Is he thirsty?” Mom asked. “He always thirsty. It’s those pills.”
    “Are you thirsty, Dad?” I asked. But I knew that wasn’t it. His head moved again, almost imperceptibly. Just about a quarter inch of movement. “Do you want …?”
    I stood up. His lips moved some more.
    “Is he saying something?” Mom asked.
    “I don’t know. You keep talking.”
    “Don’t sass.”
    “Shh.”
    I leaned forward, my ear almost pressing against the old man’s lips. I felt his breath against my skin, hot and clammy. Dying. The last few weeks of precious breath he had left.
    I stood that way for a long time, thinking the moment had passed and no words would come.
    But then he said it. Two words.
    I think.
    He said, “Good will.”
     
    The end came three weeks later.
    Because it took Dad so long to die, there was a lot of time to plan. When I spoke to Mom on the phone that day, she told me that she didn’t need any help.
    “It’s all arranged,” she said. “You can come for the funeral.”
    Something rustled in the background. Then a ripping noise.
    “Are you okay?” I asked.
    “Me?” she said.
    She sounded surprised that I would even ask the question. I figured a whole host of people had been asking her that question over the past few years. First, when Dad became sick, and then even more intensely in the wake of his death.
    “Yes, Mom. Are you okay? How are you holding up?”
    “I’m fine,” she said.