Free Last Call by Laura Pedersen Page B

jungle.”
    Rosamond appears shocked by this pronouncement, or else his use of slang, or most likely both. “Did you know either of these women?”
    “Of course not,” says Hayden. “I was trying to match up your disease, so you can start gatherin’ information, you know: when she was diagnosed, what kind of treatments they tried. I don’t want to influence you one way or another, but in my opinion those homeopathic patients go the fastest—the people who start ordering celery-eucalyptus pills and the like from Guadalajara. What a racket! In my next life I want to be a vitamin salesman.”
    Rosamond doesn’t appear amused by this stab at humor. Or by Hayden’s plans for the day. With her time so limited she’d prefer doing and seeing all the things she’s missed, to live as fully as she can in whatever time is left. It was Hayden’s sheer exuberance that she’d been fascinated by in the first place. “It all sounds rather depressing,” she replies sadly.
    “Oh, it’s
not
,” Hayden says passionately. “Tell her, Joey.”
    “We have a good time at funerals,” Joey concurs, but not very convincingly. Though he doesn’t say it out loud, the fun is wearing off, despite Hayden’s constant reminder that the first three letters in the word
funeral
spell f-u-n. “And at the Jewish ones you get to wear a hat and then throw dirt onto the casket at the graveyard.”
    “No funerals, please,” says Rosamond.
    “Well then,” says Hayden, attempting to salvage the situation, “there’s not
only
funerals. I have a friend who works in a nursing home for the terminally ill and he can get us in there. Or there’s the Death and Dying section of the Barnes and Noble superstore.” He holds up a cassette. “And I have an audiotape version of
Final Exit
—it’s very detailed, about gettin’ your papers organized and then committing suicide.”
    Rosamond blanches at the word
suicide
. Then she becomes a bit teary-eyed. “I don’t want to hear about that either.”
    “Maybe the cemetery . . .” Hayden’s voice trails off, perplexed and disheartened that he can’t seem to make a sale.
    “No cemeteries. No funerals. No death!” she announces. “I had such fun at the ball game. It made me realize that there are so many things I’ve never done. . . . I entered the convent when I was nineteen, after going to an all-girl Catholic school and working for a year as a kindergarten assistant.” She wipes the tears from her eyes. “I haven’t had fun in twenty years. Except for the hospital, I haven’t been anywhere in two decades!”
    “Oh, you want to go to another
ball game
!” Hayden suddenly cheers up again. Okay, so she’s in denial and unwilling to face reality just yet. “Darn. The Mets are away this weekend.”
    “It doesn’t have to be a ball game. I mean, I haven’t been
anywhere
.”
    “Then . . . well, uh . . . Joey . . .”
    But Joey understands right away. It’s as if Rosamond has been in school her entire adult life and this is the first day of summer vacation. She wants to feel the sunshine on her face and have a good time without worrying about scowling grown-ups, surprise quizzes, and homework assignments. And quite frankly, he wouldn’t exactly mind a break from his grandfather’s recent fascination with death either.
    chapter twelve
    L et’s go to the Long Island Game Farm!” says Joey. “I saw an ad on television. It’s exit sixty-nine on the expressway.”
    Hayden glances at Rosamond. She finally looks pleased.
    “Long Island Game Farm or bust!” he announces and turns the station wagon around. In rotating the steering wheel Hayden has the odd sensation that what’s left of his life may be taking a turn as well.
    “That sounds lovely, Mr. MacBride.”
    “
Mr. MacBride?
Sounds as if I’m bein’ measured for a coffin! Please, call me Hayden.”
    “All right, Hayden.” She glances shyly down at the floor mat. “Then please call me Rosamond.”
    “I do’an’ know if I