By Mary Cantrell
First, the backache, a strange pain that Brenda blames on tomatoes—the Better Boys, the beefsteaks, the plums and cherries. All weekend she planted them, along with cucumbers and watermelon, beanstalks, a couple of jalapeño plants. Bill teased her. “It’s enough to feed a small army!” And it’s true: she always plants too much, more than two retired teachers can eat. But she loves the red fruit gleaming along the fence line, the profusion of cucumbers, big as baguettes, the gentle thump of a ripe watermelon. A deeply satisfying abundance, from late June until the first frost.
But the crushing exhaustion—where did that come from? True, temperatures have already swelled into triple digits, with elevated pollen counts, dangerously high UV indexes, weathermen warning of dehydration and heat stroke, pleading with everyone to remain inside. She can barely sit through her granddaughter’s fifth-grade graduation ceremony. In the stifling auditorium, for over an hour, parents and grandparents sit shoulder-to-shoulder on metal folding chairs, fanning themselves with programs. “Ridiculous,” Brenda whispers to Bill. “Pomp and circumstance for fifth graders!” But the warbling violins and cellos as the children meander down the aisle, her too-earnest son-in-law with his fancy camera, her granddaughter decked out in a flowery dress, waving frantically at Brenda, smiling a beautiful, clueless smile—she wouldn’t miss it for the world.
***
Before the tomatoes can ripen, a drought is declared. Along the fence, bean pods shrivel. Melons emerge misshapen. The cucumbers are too bitter, good only for mulch. Even the jalapeño blossoms rot. TV stations report heat-related deaths. People dying from the heat! In this day and age! To be safe, Brenda and Bill skip the fireworks show, but Brenda still wakes before dawn for her daily walk, until one day, she notices a pink tinge in her urine and feels a sudden, terrifying certainty. She is not well.
MD Anderson, friends advise. Several have been there, or know someone who has—survivors, beaters of the odds. It means driving south, into Texas, into more heat, through the concrete labyrinth of Dallas, her least favorite city, where they stop to see her niece, Lucy, who has just turned forty. Forty! How could that be? Lucy’s three-year-old daughter approaches her solemnly, offers a hug. “I’m sorry you’re sick,” the girl says—a rehearsed line. Brenda squeezes the tiny body, so compact, so solid with life. The family will be in Disney World when she and Bill drive back. It’s possible she will never see this child again.
***
In Houston, news anchors warn of power outages. Thermostats are to be turned up in the afternoons. But in the cancer complex, there is valet parking, a hospitality center, complimentary shampoos and haircuts at the beauty parlor, healthy food in the cafes. In the frigid air-conditioning, in a too-big gown, Brenda shivers as someone delivers her from room to room, cool hands positioning her this way and that, the buzz and flash of machines, the steady looks on strangers’ faces. When it’s over, she lets Bill ask the questions, his voice officious as he scribbles notes on his legal pad. She barely listens, focuses instead on the doctor’s tasteful family photograph, wondering, bitterly, if the woman next to him is his first wife.
The cancer has spread beyond the pancreas, so any treatment—surgery to remove the tumor, radiation—will be palliative. Palliative, from the Latin verb, palliare, to cloak. How many future doctors took her Latin classes all those years ago, Brenda wonders. How many SAT scores did she help bolster? She thinks of her old classroom, its chalkboard smell, the students clamoring at their lockers in the mornings, waiting for the bell. Bill speaks her name. “Are you listening?” The bright lights of the exam room spotlight a shaving nick the size of a pea, just beneath his left jawline, dried brown in the crevices of his skin. She imagines his hands trembling as he shaved, his face an abstraction in the hotel mirror. She touches his elbow. “Let’s go home.”
***
They purchase a big flat screen, and their son, newly divorced and without children, flies in from Santa Fe, spends the week desperately trying to teach them to use the remote. Their daughter, always such a talented chef, brings chilled salmon and goat cheese, arugula pasta with capers, key lime pie, gooey cinnamon rolls. Brenda eats what she can, struggles to stay awake in front of the TV. There are greeting cards and phone calls, visits from friends, former students posting on her Facebook page. But what comforts her most is showing Bill how to balance the checkbook, using her teacher voice, patient and confident.
Finally, in mid-September, a thunderstorm rumbles in, lightning throbbing in the night sky, rain smacking the dry, cracked dirt, pummeling the brown stalks of her tomato plants, the fruitless watermelon vines. In the morning, she awakes to a slight chill in the air, the cruel promise of autumn.
~~~
Mary V. Cantrell is a full professor of English at Tulsa Community College, where she has taught for 35 years. Her writing consists primarily of feedback to students, but her short story, “Gifts,” was published in Big Muddy: A Journal of The Mississippi River Valley. She also has several non-fiction publications, including, “Theories of Creativity and Creative Writing Pedagogy” (co-authors Mary Swander and Anna Leahy) in The Handbook of Creative Writing, and “Assessment as Empowerment: Grading Entry-Level Creative Writing,” in Teaching Creative Writing.