“They decamped for Hell,” Wei said.
La assumed that this meant that they were back in their hometown, but didn’t feel like engaging with Wei’s word games. That they weren’t here was sufficient enough without the additional exertion of picking at movie quotations, callbacks to half-remembered conversations from years past, or just aggressive indifference to simple answers. “Do you know when they’ll return?” she asked instead.
Wei shrugged, leaned back in his chair and looked over her right shoulder. She watched as his eyes started idly revolving clockwise, and she subconsciously glanced backward to see the cause. A wind chime hung from the corner of the metal frame of the awning, and the October wind had its purple scoops and green gills fluttering.
He’d seemingly picked up on her disinterest in circular conversation and had shut down. She started to say something biting but decided not to. She stepped over a six-pack worth of crumpled cans on the walkway as she headed back to the sidewalk and down the street.
And that was the last time that she saw Wei.
* * * * *
The therapist sits back in her chair. She reads the clipboard in front of her and some unknowable expression passes over her face. “Would you say that you think about death a lot?”
Messina hesitates. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Are you thinking about it right now?”
He looks away, then shrugs.
“In what way? Are you thinking about my death?”
“Somewhat.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not ideating or fantasizing about death. It just feels everpresent. There’s not enough time. For any of us.”
She leans forward. “Elaborate.”
“You’re fortyish, right?”
She squints, nods.
“So with average genes and some good fortune, that is thirty more years. With very good genes, fifty years. With crummy genes, death within the decade from a myriad of possible inherited sources. With tragedy, maybe it’s this week or later this year. But death is always there.“
She lifts her arm, elbow bent, points halfheartedly at the window. Through the blinds, the sun shines brightly, reflecting off of cars in the parking lot and the small fountain at the center of the plaza. “That is no way to go through life, though. A preoccupation with any idea can prevent a person from enjoying the time that they have. It is a nice day today, isn’t it?”
“But what about one’s calling? Doesn’t that dominate one’s life? Is a priest’s dedication to a god preventing them from enjoying their time?”
“You’re dissembling. Death isn’t your calling.”
Messina scratches at the stubble on his neck, unconvinced. “Yeah, I guess not.”
* * * * *
La had called while he was in therapy. Messina listened to the voicemail and thought that, had she called even 20 minutes earlier, this would have been a much better rebuttal to his therapist’s calls for embracing life.
He stood for a moment and stared at the fountain, tried to remember if he’d ever walked by it with Wei and La or anyone else back when people still walked to things. He dried his wet cheek on his flannel shirt. That also made him think about Wei and a conversation about wearing flannel in the summertime.
Messina sat in his car for some time before leaving the plaza and heading home. Get there first, take off your shoes, take out the dogs, then you can engage with this. Wei won’t be any more or less dead in 20 minutes than he is now, Messina thought. It’s better to get your shit in order and then start making the calls rather than be weeping and gnashing your teeth but still have to sit in traffic.
Matthew A. Roberson, 5/14/2021