“Fred, take her below. Hank, help him. Tom, I need Winnie. Get her.”
Dr. Garcia found Joan in the saloon. She was lying down, a wet cloth over her forehead, with Olga Dabrowski seated I by her. Tom Finchley followed the doctor in, his face solemn. The Doctor said nothing, took Joan’s wrist, glanced at his watch.
Then he said, “It’s bad news, Joan.”
“I know, Roberto. He was gone before I came down here. (He’s not gone, Boss. Don’t put it that way. Jock is dead, as dead as I am. But not gone. Right, Jock?) (I think you’re splitting hairs Lively Legs—) (‘Lively Legs!’ You haven’t called me that in a long tune.) (How about last night?) (You called Joan that; you didn’t call me that, not last night.) (Will you two keep quiet? Or at least whisper? I’ve got to cope.)
(Sorry, Boss. Jock darling, whisper to me very quietly. Is Joan better at it than I am?) (Eunice, I can still hear you—and you have your tenses mixed.) (Boss darling, there are no tenses in the eternal Now. I asked Jock a question—and he’s too chicken to answer.) (I certainly am!) (Oh, well. With my equipment and my coaching. Joan is probably adequate by now. Plus a good start—you won’t believe this, Jock, but Boss has the dirtiest mind. That lady-lady act is just an act.) (Twin, quit trying to get my goat. I’m busy, Roberto is worried about us.) (Sorry, twin. I’ll be good.)
“Eunice, I want to make one thing clear. It would not have made any difference if it had happened ashore with all possible life-support at hand. Even with Dr. Hedrick at hand. Oh, we could have kept him alive—as a vegetable. Nothing else.”
“Jake never wanted that, Robert; I’ve heard him say so, emphatically. He never approved of the way I was kept alive.”
“The two cases are a hundred and eighty degrees apart, Joan. Your body was worn out but your brain was in good-shape. In Jake’s case—well, I gave him that physical before we put to sea; his body was in fine shape, for his age. But I know what the autopsy will show: a massive rupture of a large blood vessel in his brain; he died at once. A cerebral ‘accident’ we call it, because it’s unpredictable. If it’s any consolation, he didn’t suffer.”
(‘Didn’t suffer,’ eh? Try it, Bob—it felt like a kick in the head by a mule. But you’re right, it was just one blow. Not even a headache, afterward.) (About the same for me, Jock darling, when I got it. Boss had a much rougher time, for years.) (What if I had? It’s over now. Darlings, please keep quiet—we’ll talk when they let us alone.)
“Doctor, there will be no autopsy.”
“Joan, there should be an autopsy for your peace of mind.”
“It won’t bring Jake back and he wouldn’t like it. As for my ‘peace of mind,’ I have just one question. Was it. . . too much honeymoon?”
“Oh. No, just too many years. Joan, it wasn’t even from lifting that heavy load. Let me explain this sort of
‘accident.’ It’s like a weak spot in an old-fashioned pneumatic tire, worn almost through and ready to blow out—then anything can trigger it. Jake could simply have stood up, and keeled over—today, tomorrow, last week. Oh, it can happen during intercourse, you often hear men say they want to die ‘while tearing off one last load.’ But it’s a horrible experience for the woman involved—and probably isn’t a last orgasm anyhow, more likely he’s chopped down just before it.
“Far better the way Jake got it, still virile—I assume—” (You know darn well Jock was ‘still virile.’ Ask your wife. Ask Gigi. Hell, ask anybody.) (Eunice, was my behavior that blatant?) (Not blatant at all, Jock you lovin’ old goat. But news gets around.)
“—or I should say ‘I know’ as I was his physician. Jake was happy and strong and virile—and then he was through, like snipping a film. Don’t worry about ‘too much honeymoon.’ Getting married may have saved Jake years of hopeless senility. Or it may have chopped two weeks off his life as a small price for much happiness. But more likely it extended his life; a happy man functions better. Forget it, dear. When my time comes I hope I get it the way Jake got it—quickly, and happy to the end.”