Free And West Is West by Ron Childress Page B

together. An unwell man, a dying man who likes control, he wants Ethan to take care of his daughter when he is gone. Despite their headbutting, Ethan gives himself credit for being the best option Leston had found for his Zoe. Less agreeably, perhaps Leston sees in him the stiff, analytic dourness by which the doctor governs his family. Or is it
governed
his family? “Has your father . . . has he . . .
already
?” Ethan says.
    Zoe’s fury is sudden. “
You
knew? You knew what he was planning?” Zoe’s wail pierces. Ethan leans a hand on his desk to stay steady. “You fucking heartless bastard. Why didn’t you tell me? I could have stopped him.”
    Her reaction makes Ethan leap to the worst conclusion—not that Leston is simply dead but that he has taken the easy way out. “Oh, Zoe,” he says. “I’m so—”
    â€œHow could you
not
do anything, Ethan?”
    Suddenly it’s clear. Leston had come to him as part of his final preparations. Looking back the signs were there: the ironic demeanor, the coy prognosis about how much time he had left. Facing a terminal illness, he wanted to die in his own way. Suicide under such conditions was logical. Ethan could easily construct a quality of life algorithm that would make the same decision. But he cannot tell Zoe this. “Your father only told me he was sick,” he says pathetically trying to excuse himself.
    â€œBut if you had read what he gave you, it might have changed things,” Zoe says, pleading against the facts, as do all who are in the early stages of grief. Ethan pulls himself back into detachment. He knows that he can only help Zoe right now by taking some of the blame. Zoe goes on with a sob. “At least it might have changed things for my mother.”
    â€œYour mother?” Ethan absorbs Zoe’s words until their meaning burns through. Irreligious as he is, “Jesus,” he blurts. He takes a gulp of air. “I’m sorry, Zoe.”
    Ethan’s breathlessness must be proof of innocence. Now Zoe’s the one detached. “Somehow he arranged for an EMS to arrive after it was over.”
    â€œHow did they? . . .”
    â€œNembutal and wine. They were in their bed. I was told they went peacefully. I don’t even think my mom knew what was happening.”
    â€œAREN’T YOU EVEN curious?” Alex asks.
    â€œNo,” Ethan says. It has been four days since Zoe’s call. He has still not looked at the documents her father gave him. Whatever Dr. Leston was up to, he will not be drawn into his web. “My life has moved on from Zoe.”
    â€œThat’s icy, man.” Buckled in the passenger’s seat, his head turned away, Alex seems to be gazing out his window. Through breaks in the tree line Ethan sees flashes of the Hudson below. He has rented a black BMW and he and Alex are on the Palisades gliding north to the Lestons’ funeral.
    â€œCould you do it?” Alex asks.
    â€œDo what?”
    â€œOff yourself like her old man.”
    â€œWho knows,” Ethan says.
    Alex has pulled his hair into a neat ponytail. He has evened out his movie star’s stubble and put on unscathed black jeans and a clean black shirt. He is wearing work boots though, originally black but now flecked with the pigments he’s not been able to scrape off. The dark sports coat that Ethan has loaned him lies draped across the backseat. Its arms are too long, but Alex has folded the sleeve ends into cuffs. He is handsome enough to make any clothing look deliberate, as if they are a new and edgy style.
    â€œBarbiturates and booze. Those are the sane man’s choice,” Alex says.
    â€œYou’ve been thinking about this, have you?”
    â€œWhy not. At our age dying is still a game. You can choose to or not. When you’re old your choice is basically to die slow or to die fast.”
    â€œAnd if you choose fast? What about the people you