Free A Small Matter by M.M. Wilshire

“We’re
past all that--way past. Our priority now is just to try and stay
alive.”
    “I feel so small,” she said. “This whole
thing about dying seems so monumental, and yet I know that I’m just
another cancer victim. History will never record my name or my
pain. My story is like that play by Sartre--No Exit.”
    “There’s a way out,” he said. “You’re still
young. You could still fight for your freedom.”
    “You mean chemo,” she said, “along with
enough radiation to re-fuel Chernobyl.”
    “I mean freedom,” he said. “It’s natural for
you to shy away from the fight in the aftermath of receiving the
bad news, but you’ve still got time to put a few moves on the
tumor--this is no time for quiet diplomacy--this is the time to
wrestle the thing to the ground and stomp its shins flat.”
    “Let’s sit down,” she said. The waiter
appeared. “Two Blackjacks, neat,” she said. They sat in silence
while the drinks arrived--an inch of liquid at the bottom of a
couple of short, square tumblers. “Keep ‘em coming,” Mulroney said.
They each raised their tumblers to directly below eye level, nodded
to each other and sipped simultaneously, the silent liquid raking
their throats.
    “All right,” she said, “you think I should
abandon my resistance to the doctors and go for the cure?”
    “Well why not?” he said. “you said you wanted
more time--that’s what they sell over there--time.”
    “Mulroney,” she said. “This morning you
proposed to me and I accepted. This afternoon, you rescued me from
paralysis. Now you’re selling me time, as though it’s something
simple--like boarding an airplane, or buying a new outfit. All I
have to do is walk into my friendly doctor’s office, select from a
menu of treatment options, and add a day, a week, or a few months
to my earthly existence.”
    “Or live for many years thereafter. It is
simple,” he said. “We can drive over and see your doctor right
now.”
    “You’ve forgot one thing,” she said.
    “What?” he said.
    “My tumor,” she said. “It’s way ahead of my
doctor--it’s like a fire that’s already spread through my house and
is getting ready to knock out the power box any minute!”
    The waiter set out the second round and lost
a napkin to the reviving Santa Ana breezes. Mulroney and Vickie sat
and sipped, united in their intent to grab a special moment, facing
their common enemy, one far more hateful than either felt it had a
right to be.
    “You’re a blasted hypocrite, Mulroney,” she
said.
    He took a careful sip. “I’ve been called
worse,” he said.
    “I mean it,” she said. “You need open heart
surgery, but you’ve refused it. So how do you justify telling me to
go through the agony of chemo?”
    “I have to go,” he said. “Kilkenney will be
dry by now.”
    “Very funny,” she said.
    “Sorry,” he said. “I resort to humor when I
don’t like where something is going.”
    “I’m sorry, too,” she said. “But my condition
has exacted its toll on my normal compassion and forbearance, so
I’ll say it again--Mulroney, you’re the world’s biggest hypocrite!”
She tried to read his expression, but his face was swept clean of
any guile.
    “It’s always been something of a point of
honor for me,” he said, “to challenge the bad things that come my
way. But right now I’m at a loss--the truth is, the thought of
going under the knife and having my chest pried open with those big
pincers scares me to death. I’d rather walk down 103rd Street at
night armed only with a baseball bat than face that. And there’s
one other thing.”
    “Which is?” she said.
    “I’ve never argued with my fiancée
before--I’ve never had a fiancée to argue with--and I don’t like
it.”
    “We’re having our first fight,” Vickie
said.
    His face split into a goofy grin. “Gee,
that’s beautiful,” he said. “Oh! I love you so!”
    “You’re relationship impaired, you big ape,”
she said. “So