Our Country Friends(91)
“He came here to die,” Senderovsky finally said. “He told me as much when he came here. He figured his chances out. That’s why he always had those papers with him.”
“That was then,” Masha said. “But his life his changed. He’s in love now. He should be able to fight for—” Now she was falling into cliché. The idea of fighting an illness or fighting for love was just American militarism run amok. You could do a few things to better your chances against something like this virus, but if you were to die, you were to die. Maybe that was the gist of Vinod’s stack of papers.
“I think he knows that after the early stages of love with me it’s all going to go downhill,” Karen said.
“That’s just your depression talking,” Masha said.
Karen shuffled through the papers again and read randomly from the portions Vinod had highlighted. “?‘A forty-eight-year life span seems short, but only a century ago…If you look at the peer-reviewed extract labeled…Over eighty percent of intubated patients…For many of those who did survive, long-term effects included paranoia, “brain fog,”…A living death.’?”
“Those statistics are changing now,” Masha said. “There are effective new treatments coming online, especially for people with compromised immune systems.”
“Can you administer them as a doctor?” Karen said.
“I’m not a pulmonologist.”
“Lots of doctors without relevant experience were pressed into service.”
“Under the direction of those who know what they’re doing. In a hospital setting. Someone should be taking oxygen levels constantly. There needs to be IV access. A pulse ox. A monitor. Steroids, if it comes to that.”
“So,” Karen said, “you think he should be in a hospital?”
“Jesus Christ, yes!” Masha shouted. “Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you people?” Senderovsky coughed into his hand. “And you”—spoken to Karen—“shouldn’t be around other people, even outdoors. I have a little child. Have you forgotten her? Aren’t you worried for her?”
“He goes into a hospital, we’ll never see him again,” Senderovsky said.
“You don’t know that,” Masha said.
“What’s the last thing he wrote,” Senderovsky said to Karen. “Read it.”
“We’ve all read it already,” Masha said. “Stop being melodramatic.”
Karen examined the Levin-Senderovskys with sadness. In the end, she thought, they’ll make up, and they’ll go to bed together, and they’ll have each other. And I’ll go back to how things were before I came down that driveway. Back to the loft on White Street and the morning and evening whir of solar blinds ascending and descending and the alabaster mirror in the foyer in which I can practice saying hello and goodbye.
“?‘You’re both people who relish control,’?” Karen read from Vinod’s final entreaty to her and Senderovsky, “?‘so why take that very same control away from me? Why not give me a final dignity? I just don’t want to die alone in the end. I just want to be with my friends.’?”
“Well, we all die alone,” Masha said. “It’s tragic. The greatest tragedy of our lives, other than being born in the first place. By the way, how often did either of you see Vinod before all this happened? How often did you check in with him? Other than offering him money you knew he would never take. To make yourself feel better.”
“What do you know?” Karen said to Masha. “You’ll never experience anything like our friendship.”
“And you’ll never be a real mother,” Masha said.
“Neither will you,” Karen said.
Senderovsky reached over to comfort his wife. The unhappy voices echoed off his magnificent porch, the conversation never ending, like that of his parents, who could battle into the morning off a thimble of vodka and a few cups of tea. He was still thinking of his friend’s death and his own. They were all supposed to be getting used to this, to the new science of it all, but this wanton destruction still did not make sense to him. He was a decent man, a convivial host, and a self-ordained ordoliberal. Four months ago, under the cover of spring, he had welcomed five guests of exceptional quality to his colony.
How did it get to this? How?
6
“Getting married is memorable time.” A Russian-accented voice. “Extra memorable with Senderovsky Superior Wedding Album System.” Vinod walked toward the voice in the dim haze of the airless warehouse, his Teva sandals slapping at the gray, dusty floors. “But first let me tell you about good screw! It is special reinforced stainless-steel screw which postbinding allows the pages of your wedding album to lie flat. Hello? Meesees Fernandes? Hello?”
Mr. Senderovsky looked at the receiver in incomprehension, its twentieth-century dial tone issuing from it in one long flat line. Vinod realized that something was terribly wrong. He hadn’t done his job properly. He brought his hand up to his mouth to check for the tube. “Fucking sheet,” Mr. Senderovsky said, brushing back the last strand of hair over the olive pit of his head. “Sasha tell me this was good lead. Mother of college classmate remarrying oilman. Fernandes is not Spanish, but Filipino.”