Prologue #2
It's a log A-frame with a green metal roof, the garage under the porch. The old swing set is still in the backyard, now rusted, faded, and splintering. We remodeled the kitchen just last year. Our primary suite bathroom was slated for a remodel this year, but that's irrelevant now.
We sit in the garage, engine off, in silence, for several minutes before Taylor finally looks at me. "We need to talk."
I shake my head. "Tay—"
She kisses my cheek and opens her door, moving slowly, stiffly. "Gazebo, five minutes. Bring the Pappy."
When I made Captain five years ago, the guys in the station pooled their money and bought me a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle. I only pour a finger or two for special occasions. This is not the occasion I was envisioning.
Nonetheless, I grab the bottle from the sideboard in the den, two glasses, and head out to the gazebo.
Noel and I built the gazebo for Taylor's birthday ten years ago.
It's at the river's edge on a low bluff overlooking the river and the field beyond it.
Deer, moose, elk, wolves, coyotes, cranes, swans, eagles…
the wildlife of Alaska crosses that field every day, and it's Taylor's favorite place on earth.
It's why we bought the acreage and built the house.
I find her there already, holding something in her hand—a cannabis cigarette. We're not partiers. I only have a drink or two now and then, and she's the same. We've never smoked cannabis or tobacco. It's recreationally legal here, but it's just never been our thing.
"Betsey gave it to me," she says as I sit down. She lights it with a transparent yellow Bic lighter, coughs a few times. "I'm not surprised, honey. I can feel it. I don't know how to explain it, I just…I can just feel it."
I pour a finger…and then with a muttered curse, fill the glass almost halfway. Take a sip. "Tay, I…" My eyes mist, and my throat closes. "Fuck."
Acrid, sweet, slightly skunky smoke writhes around us. "Baby, I need you to listen to me, now."
I shake my head. "Tay—"
"Noah, please."
Sip. Swallow. Watch the cranes root in the grass at the water's edge, one always watching while the other forages. "I'm listening."
"I'm gonna do this my way. And you have to let me.
" She holds the smoldering, stinking joint away from me as she leans toward me.
"It's in your nature to fix things. I know this.
But you can't fix this, babe. So first, you're gonna call our son and give him the news.
Second, you're gonna go back to work. When I need you with me full-time, I'll tell you.
Till then, we'll get a nurse. I won’t spend my last days on earth in a goddamned hospital, please just understand that—that's number three.
Whatever happens, it happens here at home.
Fourth, when I die, cremate me and spread my ashes on the river.
Then, have a wake. I know we're not Irish, but I want you to celebrate my life, not mourn my death.
I want you to get shitfaced. Take time off work.
Deal with it, Noah Austin. This isn't something you can repress or ignore. "
My wife knows me, alright.
She's not done. "This is the most important part, Noah, so please, please hear me. Look at me now, baby." She touches my jaw, and I meet her eyes. "Someday, after I'm gone, I want you to let someone else in."
I shake my head, open my mouth to protest, but she covers my mouth.
"No, babe. You have to. It's what I want. It'll take time, I know. You won't want to." She sighs. “It won't be a betrayal. You won't forget me. Honoring me, our marriage, our love, our lives together—honoring my wishes is gonna mean letting someone else in, someday."
"Taylor, Jesus, I—"
She blinks hard. "I have to say all this now, honey. It's gonna happen fast, and I need you to understand what I want and need now, while I can still articulate it." She squeezes my hand. "I won't prolong it, and I don't want you to, either. Say you understand."
I shake my head. "I can't."
"You have to, baby. I know you can't think about the future or about someone else right now.
Just…remember what I'm saying. Okay? In a few years, at some point, someone is going to come along.
Let it happen. If she fills that hole in your life, if she makes you smile again, know that it's with my blessing. Just tuck that away for someday, okay?"
I nod—it's all I can do.
One of the cranes chatters noisily. A fish splashes out of the river. A red-tailed hawk swoops low and soars over the field beyond the river, winging out of sight over the tree line.
"I love you, Noah." She whispers it, leans her head on my shoulder.
I kiss her crown. "Love you more, Tay."
"…Shockwaves are rippling through the NHL this week as Noel Austin, the league's top scoring center, announces his retirement.
He was plagued by a nagging knee injury all last season, and according to sources close to him, he spent the off-season aggressively rehabbing it, hoping to make a comeback this season.
The early weeks of the season looked promising as the phenom roared to the top of the leaderboard with thirty-seven goals.
All that came to a screeching halt last week when legendary Tampa enforcer Ihor Kucherov leveled him with a vicious crosscheck that left him bleeding on the ice with a concussion and a shattered right wrist. Despite early hopes that he'd be able to return this season, Seattle has been tight-lipped about Austin's recovery progress.
And then, just yesterday, Lon Roberts, the head coach, announced a surprise press conference with Austin.
The buzz was immediate—everyone thought he was announcing his return to the ice.
Instead, he stunned the sports world by announcing that he was hanging up his skates for good.
Personal reasons, he stated, along with the unfortunate reality that his wrist injury was worse than previously thought.
That plus his knee injury from last season, along with a family situation requiring his immediate, personal attention, equals the loss of one of the NHL's true greats, well before his time… "
The ESPN talking head continues in that vein, playing some of Noel's best highlights from his thirteen-year career…of which there are many.
"I didn't want him to retire," Taylor says, her voice faint and tired but clearly annoyed.
"Noel makes his own decisions," I answer. "He always has."
"I thought his wrist was better."
"So did I."
"When does he get in?" she asks.
"Today, I think."
She moans as a wave of pain rocks her, and I mute the TV as the talking head moves on to another story from the world of sports. I squeeze her hand, hating that I can't do anything.
"I need my boy," she whispers. "I need my boy."
She drifts into a fitful sleep, sweating and pale, moaning occasionally.
Having been awake with her most of the night, I take the opportunity to close my eyes as well.
I'm woken by the sound of tires on gravel.
Moving quietly so as not to wake Taylor, I step outside onto the front porch.
A dark gray pickup halts in the driveway—Noel's Ram TRX, an utterly absurd vehicle, but what else is a single thirty-year-old going to spend his millions on? He’s already paid off our mortgage and both of our cars.
The rumbling engine cuts off, and the driver's door swings open.
Noel emerges, all six-six and two-forty of him.
He's wearing a Skyhawks ball cap backward, a pair of faded blue jeans, the same ratty New Balance sneakers he's owned since his senior year, a plain white v-neck tee, and the leather bomber jacket that my father gave him for his graduation—the same jacket my father wore as a combat pilot in WW2.
His dark blond hair is too long, curling at his neck under the brim of the hat, and when he pulls off his sunglasses, I can see the emotion written on his face. Noel has never had a good poker face.
He trudges heavily up the steps to the porch, halts a couple of feet away from me, swallowing hard. "Dad."
I cross the space between us in a long stride, yank him to me, and embrace him roughly. "Noel. You made it."
He clings to me, gripping the shoulder of my shirt as he heaves a ragged sigh. "How is she?" he asks, pulling away.
I shrug, swallowing hard and shaking my head. "As well as one can expect from a dying woman, son."
He shudders at this, a viciously suppressed and violently aborted sob. "Fuck. FUCK!" he clings to me even harder, the sobs silently wracking him. "Mom."
"I know, son. Trust me, I know." I pull away enough to hold his eyes. "I gotta warn you, Noel, when you see her, she's…" I trail off, trying to swallow the hot lump in my throat. "It's gonna be hard."
He nods heavily, scrubbing roughly at his face with both hands. He wanders to the railing, braces against it, and hangs his head, deep breathing to compose himself.
"Alright," he mutters, more to himself than out loud. "You can do this, Noel."
With another harsh breath, he straightens, scrapes the hat off his head, runs his hand through his hair, and replaces the hat. The action has the feel of a man armoring himself for battle, somehow.
There is no front door. Living out here where we do, a good ten minutes outside town—which I know doesn't sound like much, but things get real wild real fast, and homes are few and far between, making it feel more isolated than it is—we never get visitors, so why bother with an entrance we knew we'd never use?
The porch goes right into the main open living space, and the garage opens into the walkout basement beneath it.