we quickly realize that we’ve just in-
creased our risk of death—because trees
seem to seek people out in these kinds
of situations—we move over to an open
parking space, with nothing threaten-
ing above us.
“Fuck that tree,” I say. “Way to try
to hide your intentions.”
We put our seats all the way back
and James pulls out a bar of chocolate
from the go bag. I want to rub it all
over my face.
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God. You are
a genius,” I say. “Certifiable.”
“I like to think that I have an elu-
sive, almost unknowable sort of
intelligence.”
“What else is in there?” Now I’m
excited.
James peers deep into the bag, rum-
maging around with his hand. “That’s
the end of it,” he says. “The rest is just
sadness. Sadness and real life.”
This is my sweet man. So weird
sometimes. So uncommon. And he
steered us here, to safety, where we can
eat our sweets and surrender to the night
and everything will be so goddam swell
in the morning. Even as the rain seems
to be crushing the car, one hard bead
at a time. Not the rain. Boris. Boris is
doing this to us, the motherfucker.
The seats are a little bit divine when
you tilt them all the way back. A little
bit like first class on an airplane, which
we experienced only once, and by ac-
cident, because of a mistake by the
sweethearts at the gate. It remains a
sort of benchmark for comfort outside
the home.
“I’m sorry you don’t feel well,” I say.
“Is it related to.. .”
“What?”
“I mean, is it related to anything? I
know you went to the doctor.”
“I did go to the doctor.”
“And?”
“It was really interesting. Really sur-
prising. I found out that he thinks I’m
still alive.”
“He sounds like a smart man. I
would like to meet him. Maybe shake
his hand.”
James is quiet, and I’m not sure I
really like it. I listen to his breath
and it sounds all right. But then he
coughs, and it’s such a feeble cough, as
if he barely had the energy for it. I don’t
like it.
“But now?” I ask. “Are you still not
feeling so.. .”
James laughs softly. “Oh, now. I’d
like to say that I’m fine now.”
“Well, don’t hold back, mister. Say
that. Make it so.” I take his hand.
“I’m fine,” he whispers. “I feel won-
derful. Better than I’ve felt in a long time.”
His voice is too weak for me. The
fight has gone out of him.
“Well, don’t go and die on me tonight,”
I say, and I kind of want to punch him.
“O.K.”
“You know that’s what everyone’s
thinking, right? Everyone who’s watch-
ing this at home? That the couple
who’ve been bickering all day will start
to get along, but it will be too late, and
then the man will die. That’s such a
classic plot.”
“Oh, is that what they’re thinking?”
“That’s what all the betting sites say.
That’s where the odds are.”
“Does the woman ever die?”
“In situations like this?”
“Are there any other kinds of
situations?”
We settle in, and I guess we are
maybe trying to fall asleep, but I feel
too vigilant. James’s hand is warm in
mine. It doesn’t feel like the hand of a
man about to die. It is big and soft and
I pull it over to me, get it in close against
my chest.
“I can’t see you, James. What is thelook on your face? What are you
thinking?”
“No one is watching this but you,
Alice. You’re the only one here. No one
knows about us. People can’t really
know.”
“Sweetheart, are you O.K.? Should
I be calling someone?”
“I guess I’m a little more tired than
I thought I was.”
“You must be. You’ve done all the
driving. You got us out of there. You
saved us.”
He must think I’m joking with him.I wish I knew how to say it better. How
come so many things can sound mean
and nice at the same time?
“Could we lie together?” he asks.
I crawl over the seat, wrapping up
against him. “Yes, of course. Let me
settle in here with you for a bit. Why
not?”
It feels good to snuggle him. Warm
and just right. James is thinner than I
remember. I can feel his bones.
“Why don’t we do this more often?”
I say, nuzzling against him.
“Because we haven’t wanted to?”
James says. He’s drifting of. I can hear
his voice grow thin. I’m not ready to
sleep. Not ready to be alone.
“Hey,” I say to him.
“Yeah?”
“Stay awake with me for a little bit.”
“O.K.”
“Breast Cancer.”
“What?”
“Breast Cancer is picking up speed.
Landfall is expected at twenty-one hun-
dred hours.”
“Oh. Ha. Yeah. I almost forgot about
that. Boris. So weird. Boris.”
When James is silent for a while I
nudge him. “Your turn,” I say.
“O.K. It’s so hard to think.” His voice
trails of and I nudge him again. Then
he says, “Maybe we’ve thought of the
best ones already.”
“No, we haven’t, we haven’t. I swear.
There are so many more.”
“O.K.,” he says. “But this one isn’t
so great. Are you ready?”
I say that I am. I lean in close.
“Balls.”
I squeeze his hand. “There you go.”
“Balls is blowing at seventy-five
miles per hour.”
“They sure is,” I say. “Hurricane Balls
rolled in this morning and people are
afraid to leave their homes.”
James doesn’t laugh. I need to leave
him alone. He needs his space.
“Beloved,” James whispers, and it’s
the last thing I hear him say to me be-
fore he falls asleep.
“Beloved is coming,” I say to no
one, listening for his breath. “Close
your windows. Go down into the base-
ment and don’t come out until she’s
gone.” ♦NEWYORKER.COM
Ben Marcus on weather, drama, and misanthropy.