The End in
Two Acts
He had been present at one death where a feisty dying woman toasted herself with a shot of Canadian Mist, another where the patient was the center of elaborate Native American rites.
At Allison’s, eight people sat in a circle on the floor, including David’s three daughters and his sister. Family had traveled from California, from Florida and from across town to be here. In the middle of the circle were objects Allison had gathered that were important to David: the eagle feather, the Leatherman tool he carried with him to fix and tinker, a battered stuffed animal he had when he was a child and sick with pneumonia, a pamphlet on birds of prey.
Around the circle, each person, in turn, picked up an object and talked about it. Everyone had a little story, an anecdote, a remembrance. Then they went around the circle again, this time each person holding David’s eagle feather and saying what they wanted to say, maybe a quotation or a piece of poetry. David had wanted someone to recite the strong, unsentimental poem that John Wayne had said at Howard Hawks’ funeral, “Do not stand at my grave and weep,” and so someone did.
Upstairs, David yawned. The Nembutal was beginning to take effect, and David knew it would be only a few minutes before he was asleep. He motioned Dr. Gideonse closer. He had one more thing to say. Dr. Gideonse wondered if it was a secret he’d been saving, or a piece of wisdom he wanted to pass along.
“You know,” David said quietly, “I’ve done a lot of things right.”