Cancer

Chapter Four

Wednesday

“Here's your mail, Miz Day.”

“Why, thank you, Tom.”

Mrs. Wilbur Day flipped through the Sunset House Catalogue, a letter from her daughter in Louisiana, the Reader's Digest, a church bulletin, and a letter from an incumbent political candidate seeking support, as she walked toward the elevator. A practical sized blue imitation leather handbag swung from her left arm, which was also supporting a grocery bag filled with potato chips, peanuts, Debby cakes, and a pound of bacon. Her graying head nodded gently to McDougherty's lisped greeting. He was digging through the sand of the ashtrays for smokable stogies in the dusk of the midmorning lamplight emanating from the cozy corner in front of the elevators.

Mrs. Wilbur Day was not a particularly cheerful woman, nor would anyone venture to say that she had any reason to be. The somber simplicity with which she dressed in navy blue and white bespoke an even temperament balancing life's small pleasures and silent agonies.

After pushing the up button of the elevator, her eye fell on the last piece of correspondence. Dr. Rashid Shevera, MCV Oncology Dept. A small internal gasp accompanied the ringing of the elevator bell, and the doors opened onto Miz Tolliver’s genteel stoop and braceleted arm.

“Good Mawnin', Miz Day.”

“Hello, Miz Tolliver.”

The chunk of Sadie Tolliver’s sandal clacked against the worn surface of the lilac lobby floor, as Miz Day's crepe soles cushed into the elevator’s dirty carpet. The doors closed.

Dr. Rashid Shevera, MCV Oncology Dept. Another small internal gasp grasped at Aggie Day's ribcage under her shoulder blades. She submitted to it this time, and then quickly shifted her load and tossed the other letters into the grocery bag, one hand clutching Dr. Rashid Shevera MCV Oncology Dept., while the other dug deep into the bottom of her bag for her room key. She took a deep breath and the doors opened onto the third floor Second Empire settee and silver painted mirror. Miz Day saw the imperceptible twitch of anguish in her left eyebrow, hung her head for a moment, and then straightened up as she walked to her room.

The doors of the rooms emptied onto their grimy hall while maids in white dumped dirty sheets and towels into an even dirtier canvas bag. They nodded at Miz Day in passing and then disappeared into the rooms to be cleaned, shaking their heads at her situation and clicking their tongues against their teeth.

“Poe ole woman. Aww huh tribulations and miseries. Poe ole thang.”

“Now, doan' you worry none 'bout Miz Agnes Day. She is de one white woman I know what'z gonta be at de Judgment Day widout no nuffin' botherin' her consciousness. Now get on to room 334. De sheets in dat room needs to be changed every day.”

The key turned in the door to room 320 and Miz Day set her things down on the marred surface of a shoddily inlaid commode. The cobalt blue dried flowers shedding onto the TV, the water-stained silk couch, and the framed photographs of her father and mother, all pointed to one thing: Dr. Rashid Shevera, MCV Oncology Dept.

Aggie put it out of her mind, or tried to, while she put the groceries away, and then glanced into the bedroom. Wilbur had taken a mid-morning nap, she could tell that much from the wrinkles in the bedspread, and then peeking into the bathroom she saw that she needed to clean up after him. Poor thing; he just couldn't get used to not moving around in complete freedom anymore. And he was getting low on rubber bands. She walked back into the kitchenette of their two room suite and wrote “rubber bands” on the small blackboard. Rubber bands. they were always breaking or getting old. Paper clips were so much more practical.

“What foolishness! I'd better get to the mending.”

She opened the closet door and pulled out five pairs of Wilbur's summer pants, went into the living room, sat down in an easy chair, and draped four of the pants on the sofa. She reached forward and cut on the TV set to watch Hollywood Squares and then settled back into the chair. She opened her sewing kit and fished out the seam ripper.

Rose Marie gave out a vulgar laugh as Agnes Day ripped out the right side of Wilbur's pants from the waist to below the hip. She had finally stopped thinking. She just threaded the needle, knotted the thread and started at the seam that needed to be let out. She ripped out a few more stitches, pinned down the seam and started to sew.

Charley Weaver's mustache ruffled into a smile, the audience giggled, and Aggie glanced up at the TV set, without noticing the actions and without seeing the wedding photograph propped up next to the desiccated flowers. Wilbur was wearing his dress blues from the Navy, and she, a simple long white dress with a high collar, long sleeves and a veil tossed up over her curling black locks. A peaches and cream complexion framed two brilliantly innocent eyes and a simple smile flashed the joy which a correct answer to a long division calculation gives to the child scholar attempting such a problem for the fourth time, and finally getting it right.

Oh, she had been happy on her wedding day. She had had few pretensions for a sixteen-year-old war bride. Perhaps she had been in love and maybe she even thought so. She certainly would have waited a little longer to get married, but Wilbur had been in too much of a hurry to tie the knot as soon as possible. It was the thing to do at the time, and she did it. They'd had to wait an extra week for the license, the lab had done something strange to Wilbur’s blood test, and they had to repeat his analysis again so that it came back clean. School was out and she didn't have anything in particular to do except maybe go to the movies and learn how to cook a little better, so she was in no rush.

Agnes never had pondered life very much, not did she let things bother her more than a certain amount. Her parents' attitude had been relief at marrying off their eldest daughter as soon as possible. No one seemed to know enough about it to worry over the fact that Wilbur and Agnes could not get married because Wilbur had contracted syphilis from a deaf prostitute in Tokyo. The whole idea of Agnes' matrimony rumbled through her parents' minds as if it were the breakfast dishes that needed to be washed, sitting in the kitchen sink.

As soon as it was done, it was done. Wilbur couldn't have been happier. He got a homeowner's loan from the Fed which he immediately invested in a house on the Rappahannock where he could go fishing on weekends and during vacations. It had already been decided that they would live permanently in the hotels in which Wilbur worked.

Aggie finished the first pair of pants, and reached for the second, but when she turned them to rip out the seam, there - yes right there: there on the fly was a smudge, not very big but extremely red.

Wilbur is betraying me again. Infidelity. Adultery.

Aggie stopped. She rubbed her cheek and scratched her neck.

“Well! This time I'm going to say something to him. This is it. I have had it. I had hoped, oh, I'd hoped his operation and all the suffering I’ve gone through would stop his womanizing. I'd thought that this was finally God's way of telling him, of warning him that he'd best mend his evil ways. I'd believed, I believe, oh but no longer in him. I'd hoped and prayed and thought that my prayers had been...”

She burst into tears when she realized she had been delighting in another's misfortunes, and that was a sin. But then it came to her who he had been with.

“It's horribly disgusting, unnatural. And the Lord only knows what diseases he might have gotten! And my love? My devotion and faithfulness, what good are they to anyone? Why do I continue to be good? Only so I can suffer? I must believe. I just have to believe in myself, and in my actions. And I can't expect Wilbur to be like me. But, do I still love him? Should I still love him? What ought I to do, knowing what is waiting for me in the years that we have left together?”

Working in hotels, in fairly good hotels had always given Wilbur Day more than an ignorant redneck with a head for figures and the obsequious manners of a genuine Southern cracker, could ever have dreamed of. He'd lived in clean, air conditioned, and heated rooms with his wife who was just as pleased, and had managed to bring up his daughter amongst ladies and gentlemen. And he hadn't had to pay one red cent. He'd never had to fork out cash for food, since he'd almost always managed to get the whole family to eat in the restaurants of the hotels as part of his fringe benefits. And he'd eaten well to boot. He didn't have any laundry bills. Or electricity bills, or water bills or gas bills. Instead, they paid him.

Oh, Wilbur had always worked all hours of course, but that didn't bother him none; he could keep track of the activities of all the guests, and in particular those lonely females with gentleman callers, usually three to seven a night that came and went while he did the audit. By keeping his eye on them, well, he knew just how to protect them from the evil tongues of the other personnel in the hotel. Then, he always managed to find some irrelevant excuse to stop and have a little visit with those young ladies  for ten or so minutes at the front desk, if that was the case. And, if no one was around, well, he'd come right out and invite them back into the switchboard room for a little early morning chat. Well, and that was all fine and good too, as long as they showed him all due respect. And half the times they offered him money for being such a good Joe. But no ma'am, he wasn't interested in that; the hotel already paid him more than he could spend, seeing as almost all his animal comforts were taken care of. “Almost all.” The working girls caught on real fast.

Wilbur Day was in pig heaven.

It took Agnes years before she even started to be suspicious of the early morning goings on. Agnes had blind faith in her husband. Since she believed in truth and honesty and God the Father, well, whatever her husband said had to be so. She obeyed without questioning and suffered without whining.

Then one night while Wilbur was working the graveyard shift, Amy's fever leapt from 100 degrees to 104, and Agnes decided that it was best to take her to the hospital. She'd called down to the front desk but there'd been no answer.

“He's probably gone to the little boy's room.”

Aggie bundled up her daughter, slung her purse on her arm, and tied a scarf around her head. Wilbur had the car keys, and she'd go ahead and drive Amy to the emergency room. When the elevator bell rang, the working girl straightened up, Wilbur put his forefinger to his mouth and pulled up his britches. He was just buckling his belt when Agnes opened the door to the switchboard room.

“Honey, I'm just beside myself with...”

The hooker was straightening up her dress.

“What's the matter honey?”

“Give me the car keys!” Agnes immediately understood what had transpired behind the front desk in the preceding five minutes. Amy lifted her head.

“Hush shugah, we're going to see the doctor. The car keys, Wilbur. My daughter is very S-I-C-K and I'm taking her to the H-O-S-P-I-T-A-L.”

Amy slipped and the working girl made to catch her.

“DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH MY DAUGHTER. NOW GIVE ME THE CAR KEYS THIS INSTANT!”

Wilbur dug down into his pocket and pulled out the car keys. Agnes snatched them out of his hand without saying a word and, head held high, marched out of the switchboard room.

Wilbur broke into tears. Amy got well. Agnes began to carry a lump of sorrow and pain in her breast. But she never said word one to Wilbur.

“But I love him. The father of my daughter. And he's been good to me, fed me and clothed me and kept me warm. Now he lies to me, and I can see, yes now I can see the dishonor he brings upon me, and the evil and the pain. And I, what can I do, apart from being good and loving? Haven't I always been good and loving? Haven't I been a good wife and mother? Haven't I always obeyed and cherished, and gone to church and prayed and been kind to people? Should I leave him? And my promise at marriage? Oh, what should I do? Oh Lord, please show me the way! Let my love for Wilbur strengthen him, and keep him from evil. I cannot punish. I cannot hate. Or can I? Should I just become hardened and mean? I don't want other men. I don't want anything except justice, and I don't really want that so much as I want Wilbur to come back to me and mend his evil ways.”

Thus Miz Day agonized day in, day out for twenty years, always smiling, always courteous and kind to other people, but never confiding in anyone. She twisted her knot of despair and helplessness deeper and deeper into her innards so that no one would ever say anything to her, and she would never reveal anything to anyone. Her cross to bear was too exquisite, too private for others' eyes or shoulders, and it served only to strengthen her faith in her God and herself. It took her away from the rest of the world, which was no great loss to anyone since she'd never had more to offer than an occasional dollar for the baby heathens of Sumatra. Even that meager gift only made her feel good for the period of time from when she lifted the solitary bill from her purse until it fell onto the velvet lined collection plate. Wilbur would then add his bill, and give Amy a quarter to drop in as well.

Wilbur never had an inkling of his wife's suffering. Wilbur cared not for Agnes's God the Father, but for the simple gentle comfort of the Holy Spirit, the easy-going God that forgave and spread love through the peoples of the earth. Wilbur did not ask to be forgiven; he couldn't care less as long as he could have his good time. He did.

The Days moved from hotel room to hotel room, Wilbur from front desk to back office and managerial positions, and Agnes quietly packed their clothing and made sure that the TV worked in their new rooms. A new city meant new adventures. Wilbur never fell in love with any of the women he preyed upon, and he didn't even feel any affection or compassion for any of them, ever. They rarely spoke to him, and when they did, they learned that he was incapable of discussing anything at length. He was interested only in his comforts, and hopefully a new female orifice lined in mucus for his own pleasure, as long as he didn't have to pay anything for it. No one ever liked him, no one ever hated him: everyone just thought he was a slimy little man who would do his job and keep the rest for himself.

Wilbur couldn't have cared less. As for Agnes, he had no thoughts for her unless she were ill or couldn't have supper with him, since no one else ever thought of sitting with him at table. He didn't really need her apart from appearances, always confiding to himself that he treated her well enough: she had food and a roof over her head, and he kept her warm on occasional cold nights. She'd refused to do it with him after the little working girl incident in the switchboard room: said she was afraid of getting some disease or other, and that was fine with him. He had a continual supply as it was and certainly didn't have to rely on her for his entertainment. His tears the night she found out weren't shed for the fact that he had hurt her or even that he'd not been being a good father; he was only frustrated at his little scheme, so perfectly satisfying, getting found out. He didn't like his dishonesty exposed.

Agnes looked down at the red stain on the fly and furiously ripped out the seam in the right side of his pants. Paul Lynde snickered.

“Here I sit, letting out his pants for him. All those therapy sessions I sat through with him, after his operation. The nights I spent awake waiting for him to get well in the hospital, and his operations and tests and rehabilitation; and the embarrassment. The shame at having to tell people that they removed the last thirty inches of his intestines. And now he has to carry that little bag around with him.”

“I never asked for much. I never wanted much. A husband that was loyal and faithful to me, well, I thought I had that, and I had hoped that this operation, after all that Wilbur has said and done, would be a test, a proof, a bearing of witness to Wilbur that I really do love him, and could forget the past. I thought it had. The nights, the mornings that he would climb into bed and I could smell another woman. Oh God, help me to be strong and forgiving, and do the right thing. I will talk to him about this stain.”

Agnes' s glance lifted after finishing the second pair of pants and fell onto the letter: Dr. Rashid Shevera, MCV Oncology Dept. She shuddered despite the warmth of early June, as she thought of what awaited her in the coming six months. After years of bearing the hardened knot of sorrow and pain and betrayal within her breast, Agnes had found in its place a physical lump to add to her torment. She already knew it was malignant; the doctor had already told her of the biopsy results which she hadn't mentioned to Wilbur. Could he even want her now? Could he want a woman that was not complete and whole? A woman tainted by cancer, with an enormous scar where he should lay his head.

Agnes sat there and suffered in the raucous silence of Hollywood Squares, while she let out the third and fourth pair of pants. She couldn't decide how to break the news to Wilbur, and then she tried to imagine what his reaction would be. She abandoned the idea of confronting him with the red stain on the fly of his beige pants. She could risk losing too much. It was going to be bad enough having to go through the operation, and then therapy all by herself, since Wilbur probably couldn't be bothered to accompany her. But, but  to return to an unhappy two-room suite with an unhappy and unfaithful husband, or worse yet alone: now that was more than Agnes could bear. That would be the end of the world. Suicide flitted across her mind like a moth disturbed in the daylight and disappeared as soon as it made its entrance. She would just tell him and ask for his help. She would throw herself at the mercy of his untrue heart. There was nothing else that she could conceivably do, and not risk losing everything.

The doorknob turned and Wilbur walked into the room, making a beeline for the bathroom. When he came back, Agnes turned to him and smiled.

“Here honey, these pants are all let out for you.”

“Thanks Aggie, and here's a kiss for you.”

“Wilbur, I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Well, what is it?”

“I’ve got a lump in my breast.”

“What did you say, Aggie?”

“I said, I’ve got a lump in my breast. And the doctor says it has to be operated.”

“Do you mean that...”

“Yes, Wilbur, it's going to be removed.”

“Cancer?”

“Yes honey. Oh Wilbur, I'm so scared.”

Agnes started to weep without making a sound, her head held high, her eyes looking for comfort in Wilbur. Wilbur moved toward her, took her head in his hands, and pressed it into his paunch. He grabbed her by the ear.

“Everything'll be all right. Don't worry none. Everything'll be all right. I'll still love you just as I always have.”

Thus Agnes Day found comfort at the hands of the man who had made her suffer her entire adult life, and would continue to love her, just as he always had. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

The two maids eavesdropping at the door rolled their eyes into the backs of their heads and slung the dust rags onto their shoulders as they walked around the corner so they could cluck their tongues and gossip.

“Poe thang.”

“Poe thang, you am right Maisie, but poe us. Do you know what dis mean?”

“I sho' do. It mean dat you and I gwine to work real close together. Soon as his wife in de hospital, dat sweaty old white man gwine to try and mess 'roun' in our businesses, and him wid dat nasty bag hanging off his side.”

“Poe us and dat poe woman. Aww she bin through, and now day's goin' to cut a piece off her too. Dey just ain't no justice for all her sacrifice.”

“Oh dey's justice all right. Dey's a plenty, but it not us what be de judge. She hab her mansion in de sky one day.”

“ ‘Cept we ain’t gwine be dere to clean it up!”

Maisie and her friend laughed a little too loud and then pushed the cart of dirty linens to the elevator so they could start in on the fourth floor.