Just a Walk in the Woods

by Lloyd B. Abrams

Man, do I know it. Smoking did me in. Had my first Lucky Strike at twelve, chain-smoked Marlboros throughout my life. Tried to give them up many times, but just couldn’t kick the habit.

And Carla’s been gone eleven years. Breast cancer. She didn’t deserve to die the way she did; no one did. It was worse than awful, but I could never find the right word. Harrowing, maybe? Agonizing? Torturous? Soul-crushing? After many unrelenting months, it was finally over.

Then I took up with Mary Beth, the bartender over at Duffy’s, who I’d known forever. Sometimes she stayed over, but a lot less lately. I understand. I really do. Even I don’t want to be with me sometimes.

It’s early on a Saturday morning. I figured if I was gonna take care of what I had to do, today was the day. Else, I might never get the chance.

My son Bobby’s a cop, close to retirement. But he says, “Dad, the money’s really great, especially with O.T. And I’m not really killing myself.” He’s always been a straight shooter, not bent or lazy like the sector cop around here who I’ve seen napping behind the firehouse. Bobby even carries off the job, for protection, or just in case. He’s a good guy, a really good man. Treats himself and his family right. Every year, I marked his work days on a calendar and knew he had today off. So I called him on his cell.

“Hey Bobby … you wanna take a ride up to the cabin?”

“How come? Dad … it’s four hours plus … with no traffic.”

“I just wanna check it out before I check out.”

“C’mon … cut the bullshit, Dad.”

The old cabin butts up against the state forest. But air conditioning, my wide screen Samsung and a six-pack down here is a helluva lot better than mosquitoes and black flies, crappy TV reception and worst, no wifi.

“When d’ya wanna do this, Dad?” I hear annoyance.

“How ’bout now?’

“Now? Why now?”

“I dunno. Just wanna check out the place. You know … one last time.”

“You think you’re up for it?”

“C’mon, Bobby. You’ll be back before dark.” I didn’t want to sound like I was begging.

A pause. A coupla moments, then a couple more. “All right, Dad. Lemme talk to Sheryl. See what she’s up to. But I think it’ll be okay. I’ll be over in fifteen, maybe half an hour, tops.”

It’s been tough bending over, tough getting dressed without help. Ever try pulling your briefs on if your gut is on fire? My aide comes in five mornings a week. She laughs her big laugh when I called her my Jamaican Goddess. “Oh, Mr. Peter, you’re a fine one,” she says with that lilt. She helps me in the shower, cooks me meals and leaves leftovers, tidies up a bit. On weekends, she was off, and I was on my own.

During the week, I still managed to get my old Honda Odyssey washed, packed and ready for the trip even though it would surely get all muddied up by the time we got to the cabin.

Bobby arrived a bit late, but I didn’t mind. That’s the way he is. Always a bit late, but always dependable when he had to be.

I was already waiting outside.

“Bobby … let’s take mine. It needs to be driven.”

“Okay … all right.” Bobby usually wanted to drive his big Yukon with its four-wheel drive but I guess he didn’t feel like arguing. I tossed him my keys and slid into the passenger seat.

He got in, started it up, and waited. Then he said, “Dad … wouldya please put your seat belt on.”

“What the hell for?” I raised my voice, mock angry. Then chuckled. Pulled out a handkerchief when I felt a cough coming. Wiped my mouth, noticed the smattering of blood. Hope Bobby didn’t.

“C’mon, Dad.”

“Okay … okay.” I reached back, pulled the belt around and clicked it shut.

Bobby drove fast. Our route was up the Cross Island, over the Throgs Neck to the Cross Bronx, which wouldn’t become a traffic nightmare until later, and then the Major Deegan to the Thruway. The Northway past Albany. Then onto the two-laners around Lake George He never worries about being pulled over. Cops: the brotherhood, professional courtesy and all that.

It was quiet in the car. We didn’t talk much. Never really got deep into things. And now, what’s there to say? How do I tell my son that I was afraid? That I was scared shitless? That I’ve always missed his mom despite Mary Beth? Missed being healthy? Missed being able to take a full breath? That I think that I’d had enough? That it was time to call it quits? I guess I must’ve dozed off for a while.

When we got to the cabin, I stepped out, pine needles underfoot. Smelled the air – wet, fresh, cool, woodsy. “Better than Long Island, isn’t it?” I said. Tried to breathe it all in, but right away started hacking. Handkerchief, blood spots. The usual.

When I caught my breath, I walked up to the cabin, unlocked the door, and gave it a quick look-see. “Hey Bobby. Everything seems A-OK.” Then, “I hope you and Sheryl and the kids, and Lisa and Tom and their rug rats will use this place. We had some good times up here, didn’t we?”

I remember how proud Bobby was when he caught a big one for the first time. How scared we were when we were out fishing and then that thunderstorm hit – boom!– right over us. The lightning was something else. The time we looked outside and saw a black bear foraging around and we ran around shutting windows and laughing. That time we saw the double rainbow in the late afternoon mist.

Bobby nodded. “Yeah, Dad. Good times … for sure.”

“Or sell the place. Do whatever the hell you wanna do with it. After I’m gone, it’ll go to you to the both of yuz. Burn it down, for all I care.” Damn it. Sometimes I get that way in a heartbeat – frustrated, pissed off, negative … the feeling of who shit a fuck, anyway.

I walked back to the car, opened the rear hatch, and pulled out a long light-green cloth bag. Bobby knew what was in it. We’d gone to buy it together. He’d helped me take the original stock off the Mossberg 12-gauge and replace it with a pistol grip. That way, it would be more maneuverable in a home invasion. Or if ISIS or the neo-Nazis were threatening. Or if zombies came looking for a meal at the end of days.

“Dad … what the fuck is that for? What are you gonna do?”

“Well, you’re gonna stay here on the porch, Bobby, and finish your beer while I take a walk up into the woods. I’ve always felt alive up here, and here’s where I want to, you know, take care of my final business.”

“But Dad …”

“Listen, Bobby. I can’t argue with you about this. I don’t have the strength. But look at me. I’m stage fucking 4, and it’s metastasized. It’s all over. Look how much weight I’ve lost. Look how my clothes don’t fit. It’s the kind of diet I never wanted to go on.

“I’m wasting away. And the pain is so bad sometimes I wanna goddamn scream and cry at the same time. I don’t wanna go back into the hospital. I don’t wanna be hooked up to machines again. I don’t want any more chemo, not that it’ll do much good anyway. It’s not gonna get any better. I’m never gonna get any better.

“And you know how I’ve always said that I want to determine how I want to go. There’s none of that assisted dying shit here in New York. And I don’t … goddamn it! …don’t want to wait until I’m a shell of myself, continually in pain. When I can’t do a goddamn thing but lie there and suffer, pressing a goddamn button over and over for more and more morphine that I know will eventually stop cutting through the pain.”

We stared at each other for a few moments. I felt another cough coming, and pulled out my streaked handkerchief. “You see this? You see this shit?

“So Bobby, I want you to get the cooler from the back of the van, take out the six-pack of Coronas and the opener, and come sit with me on the front porch while we have a beer or two or five – but only one for you, Bobby, ’cause you’re driving – and then I’m gonna take a slow walk with my leetle friend up into the woods.”

His eyes are tearing though he chuckles at the line from Scarface. I know … what is there to say?

“Listen, Bobby … you don’t have to know nothing. It’s called plausible deniability. You can tell them something like ‘we came up here to check out the place, had a couple of beers, then my father said he wanted to take a walk. I offered to go but he said he wanted to be by himself for a bit. You know how he is. I didn’t know what the fuck he was going to do until I heard the shot.’”

He came over and hugged me. I let him hug me hard, even though it hurt so much. I knew he didn’t want to let me go. And I didn’t want to let him – and all of this – go.

When I finished my third beer, I nodded to Bobby, got up, and picked up the cloth bag.

Then I headed into the woods.

Rev 10 / February 4, 2020 .. Rev 9 / May 25, 2018

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February 4, 2020 … Copyright © 2020, Lloyd B. Abrams