Chapter 1: The News

The subway car is packed as usual, lined with a myriad of faces that echo cosmopolitanism. A white middle-aged man is sitting between a black man and an old Asian lady. His face is made up of elegant features that would make you think that this was a handsome man not so long ago. In fact, in his better days most would still deem him worthy of the label. In spite of his years his hair is still thick and smooth, dark-brown with hints of gold. His eyes are also brown, light brown to be precise. They carry a sad expression today, one of angst and gravity. The train meanders gracefully in the dark alleys beneath the ground, until gradually slowing down and coming to a stop. As the doors slide open the man stands up and leaves and an Indian man immediately takes his place.

            He walks up the stairs leading him to the surface and as he breathes the polluted air of the metropolis he finds himself in the centre of the modern world. He's surrounded by people and traffic lights and cars and motorbikes and buses and sounds and smells. He's surrounded by civilization. For almost any tourist in the world Times Square feels grand and chaotic, intimidating even. To him it's just a familiar place, he grew up here, he's lived here his whole life, this is what he calls home.

            He keeps walking. It's a rainy day and the rain falls heavily and incessantly on the concrete. Cars drive by, inadvertently splashing water on people who are trying to get home as fast and as dry as possible after a long day at work. All those skyscrapers, cutting through the rain, lurching for the gods up in the sky. Giant towers of concrete and steel who make mortal humans feel like ants. Minuscule, insignificant ants, ready to be crushed under the weight of commerce  and industry and entertainment and advertising.             He keeps walking, his pace slow and his expression grave. The wet jeans rub against his skin and his shoes feel increasingly less dry inside. Even so, his grey waist-coat does a good job of protecting him against the rain and the cold, until he finally walks into a bar.

            O'Neills, says the signing on the door.

            'Hi John. What is it gonna be today?' Asks the bartender. Light grey hair and deep rinkles place him in his seventies or early eighties. The accent is Irish. Not the American kind, but the real one. He's short but sturdy. Portly. There's something about him that tells you he's a nice guy.

            'Hello Rory. I would like a Guiness please,' says the man. Raspy voice. The accent is American, New Yorker. The tone is lugubrious, like the expression on his face.

            'Sorry to tell you this John but you don't look so good. Having a bad day? I Don't blame you. This weather will throw anyone into a sullen mood...'

            'I wish that was my biggest problem...' the man says, wryly.

            'Is it something serious?' Asks Rory, the old bartender.

            'No, don't worry about it. Everything's ok.'

            'Ok, but if you need anything you know where to find me,' Jack says, sounding truly sincere. 'By the way, Arthur came in about fifteen minutes ago, he's sitting somewhere in the back.' The old man point at a part of the bar that isn't visible from where they are standing. Noticing that John doesn't seem so happy about the prospect of seeing Arthur he asks:

            'Is everything ok between you fellas?'

            'Yeah, it's just that I was planning on having a drink by myself, that's all.'

            'I understand. We all have those days in which we just want to be by ourselves. You can drink your beer here if you want, I promise not to bother you anymore.'

            'No, it's ok, and you're not bothering me Rory, don't worry. I have something to discuss with him anyways. I might as well do it now,' says John, standing up and walking towards the rear part of the bar.

'Do you mind if I seat down?' Asks John.

Arthur looks up at him, mildly surprised. Arthur is in his seventies and his hair is the colour of silver. 'I went by your apartment before coming here. You weren't there. Where did you go?' He asks.

            'I had to go somewhere. Nothing important,' answers John, sitting down and placing his guiness on the table in front of him.

            'You're lying,' says Arthur after staring at him for a short moment.

            'How do you know?'

            ' I've known you for thirty years. I can see when something is bothering you, and I can see when you're lying. You can tell me.'

            'I always thought it would be different. I guess I never thought I would be sitting here today, in a day like this, in a place like this, having you in front of me and looking at me that way... I'm dying Arthur. It's cancer. I'm dying and there is nothing I can do to stop that from happening.'

            'Are you sure it can't be cured? Medicine is so advanced these days...'

            'I went to the hospital today. There isn't much they can do. They want me to subject myself to chemotherapy and a bunch of other shit but all it's gonna do is delay the outcome. You don't just walk from something like what I have. You suffer and then you die.'

            'Did you find out today?' Asks Arthur, without really knowing what else to say.

            'Why does that even matter Arthur? I'm telling you that I'm going to die and you ask me if I found out about it today?'

            'I'm sorry John. I just don't know what to say, that's all...'

            'Don't worry about it. There isn't much you can say. It doesn't matter what anyone says, it's not gonna make it any better... I've known it for about a month, I just didn't know it was this bad.'

            'I'm really sorry. If there's anything I can do to help I'll do it John.'

            'You could give me a cigarette.'

            'A ciga... of course.'

            He hands him the cigarette and lights it up for him. The he does the same thing for himself. As they smoke in silence for a short while he notices that John seems more relaxed now, he's almost enjoying himself now, in spite of his condition.

            'You know, not everything is bad about this whole situation,' John tells him. 'I haven't had one of these for six years. I forgot how good it feels. I feel stupid now, for having stopped smoking for so long. Everyone used to tell me that smoking would end up killing me if I didn't stop. I finally stopped and look at me now. It's ironic, to say the least.'

            'Maybe it will kill me' says Arthur, 'I've been smoking for forty years after all. Maybe it will give me lung cancer.'

            No. It won't. It's enough that one of us got sick. You'll die of something else. Something more pleasant hopefully...'

            'John... I wish we could trade places...'

            'Thanks Arthur, but you can't. I wouldn't tell you anyway. You know that. This is how it's gotta be. This is what the man upstairs wants, that is, if he's even up there.'

            'How long... do you have left?'

            'Six months. A year maybe, if things go my way.. They don't know for sure. It depends on a number of factors. Not very long though.'

            'John you have to... you have to do what the doctors tell you to do. You've got to fight this thing with everything you got!'

            'I don't have to do anything!' shouted John, letting out some of the anger that had been building up inside him since he had left the hospital earlier in the afternoon. 'Look... even if I do my very best, do all the treatments available to me, this thing will still kill me eventually. The doctor was very clear about this point. It's just a matter of when and how I go now, it's not about if anymore.'

            'If you... if you need money I can try to help you out. I don't have a lot of money but...'

            'Arthur, we both know you are penniless, but I appreciate the offer nevertheless. You're a good friend. My best friend.'

            'You're gonna have to tell Henry about this John...'

            'I haven't spoken to him in three years.'

            'Even so. He needs to know.'

            'Yes... I suppose he does.'

Back at his apartment, John stares at the black telephone lying on a small round table in front of him. He does this for at least five minutes before finally picking up the phone book and looking up a number. He dials it slowly, his finger shaking slightly.

            Someone answers. A female voice. 'Hello?'

            John instantly recognizes the voice on the other side of the line. Yet he says nothing.

            'Hello, is someone there? Is this a joke? Hello?'

            No words come out from John's mouth.

            'I'm going to hang up unless you...'

            'Joyce... it's me, John,' he finally finds the courage to say.

            A moment of silence and then she finally greets him back 'Hello John.'

            'You have a British accent now. I thought you might be someone else. I thought I had the wrong number.'

            'No you didn't' she says.

            'No I didn't,' he admits.

            'What do you want John? It's very late over here. Did you realize that before you decided to call me?'

            'Uh... no. I'm sorry. Did I wake you up? What time is it over there?'

            'It's past one, but you didn't wake me up. I've been having some trouble sleeping lately...'

            'Is something wrong with you?'

            'No it's fine, I'm ok. What about you? Why are you calling?'

            'It's... it's sorta hard to say it.' He takes a deep breath and says it. 'I'm not ok. I'm dying.' He doesn't hear anything for a few seconds. Then he thinks he hears a soft sob. 'Are you crying?'

            'No, of course not', answers the woman. Her voice sounds different now, she's lying. 'What's wrong with you? Your liver?'

            'No. Cancer.'

            'I'm sorry John. I'm really sorry,' she says after another brief moment of silence.  

            'I know.'

            'Is there any chance you might survive? Maybe with all the treatments they have available these days...'

            'No,' he says, interrupting her. 'The doctor said I'm done for. Six months to a year. No way out.'

            'John... I'm really sorry. I know some people who work in that field... Maybe you can come over here and get a second opinion. Please do. It can't harm to try.'

            'Actually in this case...'

            'I can't believe you are joking about this.'

            'Why not? I can't change what is happening to me. I might as well accept it.'

            'You always were strange John...'

            'I still am. Look Joyce, is Henry home?'

            'He hasn't been home in a long time John. You should know that.'

            'Maybe I would if you hadn't moved to another continent.'

            'That's not fair John. That's not fair and you know it!' yell the woman, pity replaced by anger.

            'Who's on the phone dear? Is everything ok?' Asks a voice in the background.

            'Yeah, it's fine. I'll go back to bed in a minute hun.'

            'You woke him up huh?'

            'Look John, I'm very sorry about what's happening to you, but it's not my fault ok?'

            'I know it's not. Look, I didn't call you so we could argue. I just want to know where Henry is.'

            'He's in France I think.'

            'You think?'

            'Well, our relationship is a bit strained these days. Last time I talked to him he was in a small town somewhere in southern France.'

            'When was that?'

            'It was about three months ago. I think he's still over there. I would like to think he would have told me if he had decided to move somewhere else. I'm not sure though'. The woman's voice sounds sad and melancholic now.

            'You should call him', says John.

            'John, I should call him but so should you! You're his dad and he needs to know what is happening.'

            'I can't call him Joyce. Please, I'm begging you. Tell him what's happening to me. Just let him know. I can't call him to tell him something like this.'

            'Fine... I'll call him.'

            'Thank you Joyce.'

            'John... I'll call him tomorrow ok? I have to go to bed now.'

            'Ok Joyce, goodbye.'

            'Goodbye John.'

            Joyce is a good looking woman, even in her late forties. She has long and lustrous dark hair. Her brown eyes twinkle with tears.

            'Are you ok? What happened? Was that John on the phone?' Asks her husband, who has now joined her in the living room.

            'Yes'

            'What did he say to you?' He asks, anger present in his voice.

            'He's dying of cancer. He wants me to tell Henry.'

            'He shouldn't have asked you that. It's not fair on you. Why doesn't he tell him himself?'

            'He's dying. He's weak. He's scared. I don't know for sure, but I couldn't say no to a dying man.'

            'Are you sad because he is dying? Even after the way he treated you and Henry?' He asks, now wrapping her in his arms in an attempt to comfort her.

            'We all make mistakes in life. I can't help but feeling bad for him. I know that deep down he's a good man and I know that in spite of everything that has happened in the past he has always loved Henry...'

Calling his ex-wife wasn't easy for John. In the last five or six years in particular he had been avoiding as much as possible any contact with that part of his life. Hearing the sound of her voice again reminded him of what had been and made him wonder about what could have been but never was. Pacing around his three-room apartment in New York he felt like he had never been as miserable as he was now. He didn't have much time left, so the past became more important than it had ever been before. He didn't keep any photos around him in plain sight, so he had to open more than a few drawers before he could find the one he was looking for, even if sub-consciously.

            Seating on his bed, he looks at the framed memory that he now holds in his hands. He sees a time when he still smiled in pictures, when he still had a family. Henry and Joyce are also smiling in the picture. He had fought the tears throughout the day, indeed throughout the week and even the month, and yet now he cannot hold them in anymore as he looks at all he has lost.