of ochre rooms—about twenty in all. Back behind the hopeful
was curious to learn.
*
The funeral director is happy when I pick up the phone.
They found his brother though she hasn’t spoken to him yet. His
to talk to him and see if he’d be willing to call back. I don’t know
what that means? The director’s not sure either, but since they
the body. They can’t release Lewis without his brother’s signature,
therefore, no funeral. But that doesn’t make sense, I argue. We’re
paying for it. What if this guy doesn’t sign off on it? What do
you do then? It will be turned over to the legal department. It’s a
process. It can take as long as six months. It’s not unusual.
*
My wife was there when I entered the room. She sat at
his bedside but got up, cradled my arm, and ushered me in. The
pall of ochre bled in from the hallway. A lamp was on supplying a
dull yellow glow leeched by the dark wood veneer of the lounge
chair and linen closet. Lewis was in bed, gray hair spiked wild
and disheveled, tubes running through his nostrils covered by an
oxygen mask venting puffs of vapor. Sprawled amidst the sheets
it were a manrope and his ship was going down. He clawed at the
mask and pulled it off his face. “That’s enough. I don’t want no
more,” he said.
My wife gently presented me at his bedside. “Jay’s here,
Lewis,” she said loudly, aiming for his left ear. She pulled his
masked off and set it aside as I gripped his shoulder.
“I don’t know. Not too good,” he said, eyes darting. “How’s
Josey?” Even now, he asked about Josey.
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