A Gesture Life Read Free

two-hour walks?”
    “Every day,” I answered. Mr. Hickey was still quiet, holding thehandset to his ear. I said to her, “Why don’t we go together sometime? I head up through the state park these days, on the trails there, which are very pretty with the leaves full and shading. It’s hilly, but not so hard. What do you think?”
    But before she could answer, her husband brusquely put down the phone. “He’s not having a good morning,” he said to her, interrupting us as though he had been in our conversation all along. He was looking straight at his wife. “The new doctor is going to see him at one-thirty. I better get up there now.” He regarded me for a long, awkward moment. Then he said, “What do you want here, old man?”
    “James!”
    “Hold on, Annie. I’d just like to know what he wants from us. It can’t be an accident that he’s come today. Your buddy Mr. Finch at the bank didn’t ask you to drop by, did he?”
    It was a strange notion, and I had no reply.
    “Well, you can tell him anyway he’ll have the whole place soon. Lock, stock and barrel. We wish we could sell it, but do you know what the place is worth? I bet you have an idea.”
    “I can’t say, Mr. Hickey.”
    “Sure you can’t. You only say nice things, I guess. Should I tell you? About two-thirds what you sold it to us for. I’d have to find another hundred grand to clear the mortgage,
after
selling it. So it looks like foreclosure instead.”
    “He’s not in the least at fault, James,” Mrs. Hickey scolded. “So just please shut up now.”
    “This isn’t blame, dear. I’m not blaming anybody,” Mr. Hickey replied. He was regarding me with much umbrage. “This is just information. Mr. Hata appreciates knowing what’s happening in his town. We don’t need a mayor because we have Mr. Hata. I’msorry—
Doc
Hata. I never understood why you’re called that when it’s obvious you’re not a doctor.”
    “I don’t refer to myself as one.”
    “That you don’t. That’s true. But you seem to like the title. And I think it fits you, too.”
    Mrs. Hickey said, “Sometimes I despise you, James.”
    “Sometimes
I
despise me,” her husband replied, suddenly looking hurt. He stared down at his feet. Then he tried to embrace her, but she turned away. “Oh, hell with it,” he said, snatching his windbreaker from the rack on the wall. “Hell all.” He marched out, leaving the door wide open.
    Mrs. Hickey gathered herself and shut the door behind him. She was quite angry, though it was clear she was also deeply embarrassed and sorry for me. I told her she shouldn’t worry about my feelings being hurt, for it was obvious her husband was under a terrible strain. Mrs. Hickey thanked me for my kindness, and though I assented, I didn’t truly feel that it was kindness, on my part. Not really at all. It was an understanding, if anything. For I should say that I know from experience that the bearing of those in extreme circumstances can sometimes be untoward and even shocking, and we must try our best to understand what is actual and essential to a person, and what is by any indication anomalous, a momentary lapse that is better forgotten than considered time and time again, to little avail.
    Mrs. Hickey asked if I might stay and talk a little while, and I was glad to. She told me more about her son. It was true what I’d heard, that his heart was congenitally diseased, and he was now in urgent need of a transplant. He was on the national registry, of course, and because of his age and condition almost at the top of the list, but the dysfunction had accelerated, and the doctors now told them that hewas in real danger, that it was coming down to a matter of months, if a suitable donor wasn’t located. This besides the fact that after two and a half years, they were almost out of insurance.
    I had also visited on the day they were to inform the bank what their decision was about refinancing their mortgage, which was six months