'Nope,' Andy said. 'And that's not you, either. It's just the part of my mind that's cowardly. It's run me my whole life. It's how Big Jim got hold of me. It's how I got into this meth mess. I didn't need the money, I don't even understand that much money, I just didn't know how to say no. But I can say it this time. Nosir. I've got nothing left to live for, and I'm leaving. Got anything to say to that?'
It seemed that Lester Coggins did not. Andy finished reducing the pills to powder, then filled the glass with water. He brushed the pink dust into the glass using the side of his hand, then stirred with his finger. The only sounds were the fire and the dim shouts of the men fighting it and from above, the thump-thud-thump of other men walking around on his roof.
'Down the hatch,' he said… but didn't drink. His hand was on the glass, but that cowardly part of him—that part that didn't want to die even though any meaningful life was over—held it where it was.
'No, you don't win this time,' he said, but he let go of the glass so he could wipe his streaming face with the coverlet again. 'Not every time and not this time.'
He raised the glass to his lips. Sweet pink oblivion swam inside. But again he put it down on the bed table.
The cowardly part, still ruling him. God damn that cowardly part.
'Lord, send me a sign,' he whispered. 'Send me a sign that it's all right to drink this. If for no other reason than because it's the only way I can get out of this town.'
Next door, the roof of the Democrat went down in a stew of sparks. Above him, someone—it sounded like Romeo Burpee—shouted: 'Be ready, boys, be on the goddam ready!'
Be ready. That was the sign, surely. Andy Sanders lifted the glassful of death again, and this time the cowardly part didn't hold his arm down. The cowardly part seemed to have given up.
In his pocket, his cell phone played the opening phrases of 'You're Beautiful,' a sentimental piece of crap that had been Claudie's choice. For a moment he almost drank, anyway, but then a voice whispered that this could be a sign, too. He couldn't tell if that was the voice of the cowardly part, or of Coggins, or of his own true heart. And because he couldn't, he answered the phone.
'Mr Sanders?' A woman's voice, tired and unhappy and frightened. Andy could relate.'This isVirginiaTomlinson,up at the hospital?'
'Ginny, sure!' Sounding like his old cheery, helpful self. It was bizarre.
'We have a situation here, I'm afraid. Can you come?'
Light pierced the confused darkness in Andy's head. It filled him with amazement and gratitude. To have someone say Can you come. Had he forgotten how fine that felt? He supposed he had, although it w^s why he'd stood for Selectman in the first place. Not to wield power; that was Big Jim's thing. Only to lend a helping hand. That was how he'd started out; maybe it was how he could finish up.
'Mr Sanders? Are you there?'
'Yes. You hang in, Ginny I'll be right there.' He paused. 'And none of that Mr Sanders stuff. It's Andy We're all in this together, you know.'
He hung up, took the glass into the bathroom, and poured its pink contents into the commode. His good feeling—that feeling of light and amazement—lasted until he pushed the flush-lever. Then depression settled over him again like a smelly old coat. Needed? That was pretty funny. He was just stupid old Andy Sanders, the dunimy who sat on Big Jim's lap. The mouthpiece. The gabbler. The man who read Big Jim's motions and proposals as if they were his own. The man who came in handy every two years or so, electioneering and laying on the cornpone charm. Things of which Big Jim was I either incapable or unwilling.
There were more pills in the bottle. There was more Dasani in the cooler downstairs. But Andy didn't seriously consider these things; he had made Ginny Tomlinson a promise, and he was a man who kept his word. But suicide hadn't been rejected, only put on the back burner. Tabled, as they said in the smalltown political biz. And it would be good to get out of this bedroom, which had almost been his death chamber.
It was filling up with smoke.
11
The Bowes' mortuary workroom was belowground, and Linda felt safe enough turning on the lights. Rusty needed them for his examination.
'Look at this mess,' he said, waving an arm at the dirty, foot-tracked tile floor, the beer and soft drink cans on the counters, an open trashcan in one corner with a few flies buzzing over it. 'If the State Board of Funeral Service saw this—or the Department of Health—it'd be shut down in a New York minute.'
'We're not in New York,' Linda reminded him. She was looking at the stainless steel table in the center of the room. The surface was cloudy with substances probably best left unnamed, and there was a balled-up Snickers wrapper in one of the runoff gutters. 'We're not even in Maine anymore, I don't think. Hurry up, Eric, this place stinks.'
