The Price We Pay Page 2

  Joe thumbed through the documents inside until he found what he was looking for and handed it to Clark. "Here. All yours."

  Clark read the words three times before they finally sunk in.

  I, Joe O'Donnell, do hereby bequeath my entire estate to Clark Jones.

  Further down the page, after a lot of words about being of sound mind and body and the legal requirements of the state, he saw two numbers: 225 social credits and $2,454,364.22.

  Clark stared at the second number.

  $2,454,364.22.

  He reread the document. Two more times. Just to be sure.

  The next paragraph spelled it out. Two million, four hundred fifty-four thousand, three hundred sixty-four dollars and twenty-two cents.

  "Joe …" Clark didn't know what to say. Thank you seemed so inadequate.

  It was enough to pay for treatments for a decade, maybe more.

  Enough to change his life. To change Molly’s life.

  Joe was staring at the ceiling again, but a tear slid down his cheek and to the pillow. "It’s from Celeste's life insurance settlement. I couldn’t bring myself to touch it.” He smiled at Clark, his eyes moist with sorrow. “Use it wisely, my friend. Take that beautiful wife of yours to the mountains. Fish with your boy. Play chess with your girl. Maybe even go back to school."

  Clark crumpled the paper in his fist as a mixture of gratitude, shame, hatred, and love coursed through his veins. Hatred for a system that made his dying friend’s sacrifice mean so much. Love for a man who was too good for this world.

  "Thank you," he whispered. "But couldn't you …"

  "No. I chose this. I'm ready."

  Clark wanted to argue, but he nodded. He owed Joe the right to make this choice. He smoothed the paper out on his knee, too overcome to look at Joe again. "I'll come back each day until…until the end."

  "No." Joe's voice was sharp and hard. "You don't need to see this."

  "But I can’t leave you here alone like this…To…"

  "Go, Clark. Live your life."

  Clark reached for the faded leather briefcase at his feet. "One last game of chess before I do?"

  "Sure." Joe sat up straighter. "But if I win I'm taking that back …"

  He said it with a smile to show he was kidding, but Clark clutched the paper to his chest. No. He wouldn’t give it back.

  Slowly, he relaxed his grip on the document and shoved it into the briefcase, removing the worn wooden chessboard that had once belonged to his dad.

  He forced a smile. "Good thing I'm going to win then, isn't it?" he managed to say. All the while his heart was racing, pounding in his chest.

  He knew Joe didn’t mean it. But still. To come so close to finally being able to provide for his family…

  He couldn’t lose. Not now.

  * * *

  Two hours later, Clark sat across the street from the hospital in a bar with a neon sign above the door with half the letters missing so it looked like that place was called “in’s vern”.

  The place was empty except for a too-cozy couple sitting in the back corner by the lone pool table.

  He’d taken a seat at the far end of the bar from them and sat staring at the bowl of potato chips the bartended had plopped down in front of him. Had Joe indulged in all the foods he wasn’t supposed to eat after he’d made his choice? Spent the last week at home in one long binge fest of french fries, bananas, and orange juice? Or better yet, bacon potato skins smothered in cheese and sour cream.

  And salt. Salt on everything.

  "What'll you have?" The bartender, a big burly guy with faded green tattoos on his forearms, braced his hands on the counter and glared at Clark. No freeloaders allowed, it seemed.

  "Whatever you have on tap." Clark winced as the man turned away. His body would punish him for having it, but sometimes he just wanted to be normal.

  A little hard to do with his fistula throbbing with every beat of his heart. He moved his hand to his lap to hide it.

  What was he doing here? Why hadn't he gone home to Molly? Why hadn’t he told her the good news as soon as he left Joe’s hospital room?

  She’d be worried, wondering where he was.

  He never stayed out late. Never missed a meal with his family to hang with the guys. Time with Molly and the kids was too precious to squander on conversations about shitty bosses and sports teams.

  Yet here he was.

  Alone in a bar.

  Thinking.

  He stared once more at the piece of paper Joe had given him. It was a wrinkled mess.

  Joe had assured him it was a copy, but Clark carefully smoothed it out. He’d won three games to two at the end, but just barely, and probably more because Joe took pity on him. He’d been too nervous to think, the number repeating over and over again in his head with each move.

  $2,454,364.22.

  It was going to change their lives.

  He could quit his job and go back to school. Take Molly on the honeymoon she'd always wanted. Fly the kids to Space Center and let them ride the zero gravity plane.

  He imagined how different their lives would be, how much better they’d be now.

  The bartender slammed the beer down and it sloshed onto the bar, almost spilling on the paper. Clark jerked it away.

  Maybe he should save the money. Keep it for days when it all became too much and he just wanted to call in sick to work and stay in bed making love to his wife. Or ditch out early to watch his son's basketball game.

  As he took a sip of the beer, grimacing at the strong yeasty taste of it—he hadn’t had a beer in close to a decade—he realized something.

  He could fail now. He could fail and his family would still be okay. The money would protect them.

  They didn’t need him anymore.

  As a matter of fact, with the money, they’d probably be better off without him. One little heart infection and there it would go. They'd be right back where they'd started.

  He flinched away from the imagined disappointment in Molly’s eyes. From having to tell her that they needed to use the money for yet another surgery, yet another hospital stay. That she couldn’t have the beautiful dress or those heart-shaped earrings he’d always wanted to buy her.

  He pushed the beer away as an even worse thought occurred to him.

  What if Molly left him? She'd wanted to the year before. The only reason she hadn’t was because they hadn't had the money for her to actually move out.

  But now…

  Now she could take the money and the kids and leave him. She could start a new life. With someone healthy and happy. With a man who could give her everything she deserved.

  He crumpled the paper. He didn't want to lose Molly. Or his kids. And he wasn’t sure he could keep going, keep fighting, if he didn’t actually have to.

  But it was only a matter of time, wasn’t it?

  No matter what he did, no matter how much money had had, Death wasn’t going to leave him be. The hourglass of his life was running low, the sands falling through faster and faster with each passing day.

  He stared into the beer until it was warm and the couple had left, thinking.

  Always thinking.

  * * *

  Molly was already in bed when Clark finally came home. He stumbled in the dark, trying to undress without waking her.

  "How was Joe?" Her voice was deeper than normal as she reached out to where he sat on the edge of the bed.

  He choked back the tears. "Bad."

  "You weren't there this whole time were you?"

  He crawled under the covers and turned to face her, their bodies curved towards one another; light from the streetlamp outside drawing stripes across her skin.

  "No. I went to a bar. I needed to think."

  "Oh."

  One word, but a world of hurt in it. The hurt of a woman who'd been by his side through so much and who he shut away without even thinking about it. No matter how many times she told him he didn't need to protect her, that she wasn't some
fragile creature who needed to be sheltered, he always tried to keep her from the worst of it.

  "I love you so much." He pulled her close and buried his head against her neck, inhaling the spicy cinnamon scent of her skin.

  She tensed, but didn’t pull away from him. He kissed her neck and caressed her body until she finally melted under his touch, finally let him pull her close and make love to her with a desperate need and tenderness.

  These moments, alone with her, in the darkness of night, were what sustained him. He'd never experienced pure joy the way he had when she was in his arms, moving with him, chasing new heights of passion. She was his core, the source of his strength.

  He needed her.

  After, they lay entwined, her head pillowed on his chest as she drifted to sleep.

  Clark lay awake staring at the ceiling, watching the lights shift as an occasional car passed by outside.

  There was so much he wanted to give his family, but some days he had so little left to give them.

  He pictured Joe, alone in a hospital bed. All that money and he’d just quit. Handed the keys to the Reaper and walked out the door with a "try not to destroy the place" called over his shoulder.

  He hadn't been able to hold on. Hadn't wanted to hold on. Not alone and sick like he was.

  Clark clenched his fists. He’d never do that. Never just quit.

  Would he?

  He shivered. He'd been pulling so hard for so long just to keep from falling, he didn't know how else to live.

  And now all the resistance was gone.

  He didn't have to get out of bed in the morning. He didn’t have to get out of bed ever again.

  He stared at the ceiling, thinking, always thinking, until dawn arrived.

  * * *

  Clark lay in bed, eyes squeezed tight, knowing it was time to get up and start another day.

  So much had changed in twenty-four hours. The fear that had driven him was gone.

  No more worrying that today he wouldn't have enough credits to dialyze. No more needing to swallow his pride to keep his job or ask for assistance when he fell short.

  He could finally be his own man.

  And yet, nothing had really changed, had it?

  He'd agreed to go three out of five against the Reaper and it was the endgame of the last match. No amount of passion, desire, or love could stop the play clock from ticking down.

  The Reaper sat there, waiting.

  It was Clark’s move.

  He could tip his king to the side and say, "your game." Let it end for once and for all. Molly and the kids would be taken care of now. They didn’t need him.

  Or he could open his eyes and face another day. Keep playing until he was down to his last pawn.

  It was his move.

  Clark slowly levered himself out of bed and shuffled towards the bathroom, wincing at the pain in his shoulder.

  "Clark," Molly called. "Not yet. Come back to bed. Just a few minutes."

  He turned to stare at her—at the soft curve of her hip under the sheet, her alabaster skin, her sleepy smile. He wanted more than anything to walk back to that bed, to burrow under the covers with her and forget that the world existed for just a while.

  But he couldn't. Because he knew now that if he stopped, even for a moment, even long enough to kiss her, he'd never find the strength to keep going. To keep fighting the Reaper day after day after day when he knew it was a losing battle.

  He turned away. "Sorry. Not today. I'm already late," he mumbled, hating himself for keeping her in the dark and denying her what she wanted most, but knowing he had to. She was his world; he couldn’t go on without her or risk losing her.

  As he stared into the mirror, he knew she was going to hate him when she finally found out about the money, but that was okay. Because by then he'd be gone.

  And he could stand her hating him for eternity as long as she loved him for the rest of his life.

  Squaring his shoulders, he prepared to face another day.

  * * *

  If you liked this story, you might also like the essay and short story collection, A World Dark and Cold.

  About the Author

  You can reach M.H. Lee at mhleewriter@gmail.com

  * * *

  For a list of available stories from M.H. Lee go to mhlee.me

  Copyright

  Text copyright ©2013-2017 M.L. Humphrey

  All Rights Reserved