Time for Endings: Interview #3 (The Final Cut)

It's good to see you again.
I'd bet you say that to everyone.

But I always mean it.
I'm sure you do. What's on your mind this time?

I thought we'd discuss your latest project.
That's it?

We'll see. You know I like to wander.
Fair enough.

It appears that you're finished with the project. Am I right?
I think you are. I always qualify that, though, since I've been known to change my mind.

Why are you ending it? You wrote only five "endings."
Well, how many endings does a person really need? They can't go on forever.

I couldn't help noticing that the final two pieces involve beds. Was that intentional?
Do you want it to be intentional?

I have no preference. I just thought it was an interesting prop.
Prop? Why a prop? It's more of a location. You ever experienced insomnia?

As a rule, no. Why?
If you ever do, the experts will tell you that the only things you should do is bed is sleep and have sex. Everything else should be done someplace else.

That makes sense, I suppose.
No, it doesn't. We can't dismiss how much time we spend in bed--not just for sleeping and sex, but for so much else. Most of us are born in a bed, and perhaps most of us will die in one, if we're lucky. Beds are great places for conversations. We generally feel safe there, and it's a fine place to ponder what we need to do on any particular day. And depending on when we're in bed, we can feel safe and protected, or we can be quite vulnerable.

I see. So, do you think using the bed as a location in two different stories was intentional?
You're often annoyingly persistent.

It's my job. It's what I do.
Then I'd say that, no, it was not intentional. I probably didn't even realize it until you brought it up.

You don't read them when you're done?
Generally, no. That's why you might find typos.

In "Ending #2" you have a family that seems to be in some kind of trouble. What prompted that story?
Nothing prompted it. I just typed the first line, and the rest took care of itself. These pieces are not long enough to require any planning.

The family--or the parents, at least--appear nervous about returning to their home.
They are.

Why?
I don't know. I wrote only the ending, not the rest of the story.

I think readers might need a bit more information, some background.
I told you before that I don't have any readers.

And the father in that one. He and his children have witnessed their cabin--or a cabin--burning. Yet you never say why it burned, or why the son has only one shoe.
No, I don't. You're more than welcome to fill in the rest of the story on your own. You've got an imagination, so you should write your own version of the story. Have some fun with it.

Also, I didn't find much happiness in any of the stories.
I think one of them has some happiness--the fourth one if I remember correctly.

Readers...
...which I don't have.

...might be put off by the sense of bleakness in the works.
Perhaps all of the happiness takes place before the endings. Besides, life isn't always peaches and cream, is it?

No. But I think if people are unhappy in their own lives, or even in parts of their lives, they're not going to want to read something that takes them even further down.
I'm not trying to take anyone anywhere. These are works of fiction. You know that, right? It's all pretend. The works are not about me or my experiences; they're just a bunch of words strung loosely together, and they have no meaning beyond what they are.

I think I understand what you're saying. Is there anything else you'd like to tell me, or to tell anyone.
Ummm... No. But you realize that you and I are just pretend, too, right?

So, this is fiction, as well?
Damned right it is.

Ending #5

In which we find the fifth (and probably final) installment of an ending for something that has not been written.

David says that he is comfortable, that this is a good way for things to end. "I was glad we got to go to London," he says as though we'd been there yesterday and not several months ago right before things turned bad. "Could you move the vase off of the windowsill?"

Annie, our older sister, had sent the flowers--a bouquet of bright blooms that she hoped would add some light to the room. I lift the vase and set it beside the picture of Mom and Dad. "You need anything to eat or drink?" I ask.

"Not now," he says. He struggles to get his arm untangled from the IV. He doesn't want me to help with such things, but we both know that in a few days he won't be able to do it alone. "Is Terri coming by today?"

Terri is the head hospice nurse. "Yeah. In a little while. It's still early." He trusts Terri more than he trusts anyone else, even me. I can't blame him for that. Terri is a short, thin brunette, characteristics my brother has always sought in women. I'm usually here all night while Terri and her crew take over in the morning until I can return about lunchtime. Someone called in sick this morning, though, so I'm covering for a few hours until Terri can get here.

"I've lived a good life, you know," he says. "I'm happy with how things turned out, overall." He laughs. "Well, not with this part, but everything before this."

I sit down again and stay silent. I'm never sure of when I should talk. Terri told me that I should let David guide how each day goes. Sometimes we nap at the same time, and when we do I remember how we had to share a bed for awhile when we were kids.

"One thing I would change," David says, "is not eating enough bagels."

"Bagels?" I ask. I'm sometimes not sure of it's him or the morphine drip talking.

"Yeah. Bagels. I always liked bagels. But when I was married to Cindy, she wouldn't buy them because she was so anti-carb, as though bread was the worst thing a person could eat. I let her win that fight because at the time I thought letting her win was important."

"You can eat bagels any time you want to, David."

"Like I said, I'm happy with how things turned out. I mean, I'd rather die with small regrets--like bagels--than die thinking I'd missed something major."

"That makes sense," I say, and I start mentally counting my regrets. Maybe that's what he wants me to do.

David has drifted off. He seems relaxed, and I walk to his side and wipe the moisture from the corners of his mouth. He looks so young, now--not my older brother, not someone who has suffered so much in the last year. I turn the lights off and shut the window blind most of the way so that only a bit of light shines through. Annie's flowers stay bright. I sit down again and listen to David's breathing, and I watch the regular drops of fluid that leave the IV bag and slide down the clear plastic tube.

In the notebook that Terri and I keep on the table beside the chair, I jot notes about how David was last night--if he ate anything, how he seems to be feeling. I know that things will get worse soon, that at some point David won't even know we're here. I hear mockingbirds in the trees outside. In the kitchen, ice cubes fall into the tray. I consider how things have gone these last 65 years, and I realize that, overall, and except for this, I'm happy with how things have turned out.

Ending #4

In which we find the fourth installment of an ending for something that has not been written.


I looked outside and saw that the rain had ended. The hotel room was still dark, and Sherrie was lying on the bed, the heavy blanket pulled up to her chin. The garbage truck that I'd heard earlier had just left the parking lot, the flashing orange light on its roof reflected in puddles. "It's going to be a good day," I said as I sat on the foot of the bed. "The rain has stopped."

Sherrie pushed against my back with her foot. "You say every day is going to be good."

"I'm an optimist," I told her.

"Since when?" I liked how her voice sounded in the morning: soft, a little raspy.

"Since I met you," I said. And I meant that, too. When we left Paducah, just before we crossed the river into Illinois, I realized that things had changed and were going to be different. It was a good realization.

"You're sappy, sometimes," Sherrie said. "Come back to bed."

I wanted to get on the road early. We were almost to St. Louis, and I didn't want our momentum to stop. "Only for a little while," I said. 

Under the covers, I lay on my back as Sherrie pushed up against me and rested her forearm on my chest. I felt protected, loved. "I'm going to drive into Missouri," she said. 

"Then I get Kansas," I said. "You can have all of Missouri."

She giggled. "This is exciting, isn't it?"

"It is," I said. 

We were quiet for awhile. Daylight had begun moving around the side of the window's drapes. I could tell from her breathing that Sherrie had drifted off. I shut my eyes and thought that maybe she had the right idea. Everything that had happened in Paducah had been left behind when we'd packed the car and driven out of town. So, I lay there and caressed Sherrie's forearm, letting my eyes shut to the morning, letting Sherrie hold me like that.