I had come to watch him die.

His head sank into the center of the pillow, his face an ominous yellow, paper-thin eyelids closed. IV lines and a heart monitor were wired to his frail body, the veins on each arm were a thick purple. A thin blue sheet covered his chest; long hands, more bone than skin, rested flat across its top. He took in slow breaths, gurgles working their way from throat to nose, the rank odor of death floating through the room like seaside fog.

I pushed an ugly metal chair against the side of a cold radiator and sat down, my back to the dark city sky. It was late, well past visiting hours, but the duty nurses let me stay, waving aside the rules for the dying man in Room 617B, adopting the indifferent manner he had used to ignore society’s demands for the bulk of his life. They walked in at regular intervals, easing their way past the two guards who sat erect just outside the door, their starched whites stretched by slightly expanding waistlines. They checked his blood pressure, monitored the IV’s and pumped in extra doses of painkiller with thin needles hidden in the front pockets of their uniforms.

He had been in the hospital for four weeks and a priest had twice been called to administer last rites.

“If he pulls through and you need me again, just call the parish,” The priest said in a raspy voice that sounded more than eager to do god’s work.

“It’s just down the street.”

“You’ve been here twice,” I said as gently as I could.

“That’s more than enough.”

“He needs to die in a state of grace.”

The priest looked across the bed, his liver-patched fingers shaking as they folded a purple vestment.

“He would want that.”

“No,” I told him, my eyes fixed on the dying man.

“I don’t think he would.”

. . . . . .

I went to the hospital every night, leaving work just after six, dropping by my apartment to shower and change before walking the ten blocks north, stopping only to pick up a large salad and two cups of coffee at a Greek diner across from the emergency room. I sat by his bed, the light from the soundless television above us flickering across our faces, the city sounds from the streets below merging with the beeps and buzzes of the monitors attached to his body. Some nights I would feel tears streak down my cheeks, as I saw the life depart from his once strong frame. Other nights would bring waves of anger, tense reminders of the evils he had heaped on those who dared to defy him.

As far as I knew, I was the only one who cared whether he lived or died. He lay in that bed suffering from one of fate’s cruelest blows: he had outlived both his enemies and his friends. His children would visit on occasion, concerned more about a future cash windfall than his final days. Each eyed me with distrust, suspicious of my bond with their father, envious of our time together, wondering why he had chosen me to share his secrets. There were two daughters and a son, all grown and with their own families. They had been raised without the burden of financial worry, but their father’s steady hand and love had long ago been supplanted by suburban comfort, private school educations, trips to Europe and hefty allowances. There were few shared memories to unit them now and there was little else for them to do during these last moments than sit, stare and glances, never words, our common ground asleep in the bed that separated us. It was a space that seemed as wide and cold as a river, for we had each been exposed to completely different variations of the same man. I wondered what it would be like to be them, to know what they knew and feel what they were feeling. They were afraid to touch or hug him, incapable of shedding a tear at his impending death. It seemed a harsh way to wade through life and the strain of it showed on their faces as they sat still as stones around a father they were never given the opportunity to love.

For them, his death could not come fast enough.

It was toward the end of the fourth week. I was walking down the hospital corridor, a hot cup of coffee in my right hand, the now familiar sounds of the floor blending like white noise into the night. Behind me, I heard the elevator bell ring. I turned and saw David, the old man’s son, rush out, his neck and shoulders wet from a heavy rain outside.

“I figured you’d still be here,” he said in a soft, pale voice, poles apart from his father’s deep tones.

He was forty-two and a junior partner in a downtown accounting firm, having done all he could to distance his name from that of the man down the hall. He was several inches shorter and twenty pounds heavier then his father had been at the same age, and he always seemed to have a cold.

I sipped my coffee and nodded.

“My sisters and I were talking about it this afternoon,” he said, standing close enough for me to smell the Geoffrey Beene cologne lingering on his face.

“Talking about What?”

“About whether we should even bother coming.”

He looked over his shoulders, making sure none of the nurses overheard.

I shrugged.

“Do what makes you comfortable.”

“I mean, look, who’s kidding who? It’s not like he’d even want us around. If he could talk, he’d tell us to get the hell out of his sight. With you it’s…well, it’s different. It’s always been different. There’s no reason for it to change now.”

“You don’t need to clear anything with me. The way he is now, he won’t know who’s here or who’s not.”

“He knows you’re here,” David said, his voice taking a step toward hard.

“I’ll have somebody call you when he’s dead,” I told him and turned away.

“You’re just like him,” David said, as I made my way back to his father’s room. “Maybe that’s why he cared for you like he did. You’re both heartless bastards.”