Medicine Walk
“HE SAID. “But I gotta know what the deal is.”
His father sat on the edge of the bed, half dressed and the bony feet of him stuck out between cast-off clothing and junk, stark and pale as dead fish. He was smoking and he held it between the tips of fingers that were yellow brown and quivering. Deirdre sat beside him.
“What deal?” his father asked.
“How do you know you’re getting ready to die?”
“The liver,” he said. “She’s shot. All kinds of crap making its way into my body now.”
“From drinking, I suppose.”
“Yeah.”
He looked at his father sombrely and felt his anger rise. “But you don’t know it’s the end.”
“I feel it coming on now. Some days I’m good for nothing. Today’s one of the good ones. I shake a lot. Sweat then cold. Sometimes both at the same time.”
His father reached under the bed and pulled out a bottle and twisted the cap off and drank. He closed his eyes and breathed out heavy and lay back on the mattress with his head against Deirdre’s thigh.
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