Right to Die

amplifier. Some “older” men were fiddling with a tall microphone on the patio under the tree. Then a male voice came over the public address system. “On behalf of the Prudential Center , I would like to welcome you to—”
    The rest of his comments were drowned out by the swelling cheer of the crowd.
    Over the roar I said into Nancy ’s ear, “Now it’s down the street a couple of blocks.”
    “What?”
    “I said, now it’s down—”
    “What is?”
    “The finish line of the marathon. It used to be just about where we’re standing. But when Prudential decided to scale back its operations here, the John Hancock agreed to sponsor the race and moved the finish line down almost to the Tower.” I pointed to the Hancock, a Boston landmark of aquamarine glass now known more for its sky deck than for the four-by-ten windows that kept sproinging out and hurtling earthward just after it was built.
    Nancy didn’t turn her head. “Fascinating. And still stupid.”
    At the mike a priest delivered a longish invocation. I let my eyes drift over to the Empire Insurance building. My former employer. I don’t think Empire ever sponsored so much as a Little League team.
    The priest was followed by our Mayor Flynn, who was blessedly brief in his remarks. Then the premier of Nova Scotia began an interminable speech that I couldn’t follow. Nancy huddled back against me.
    About ten feet from us, four guys wearing Boston College varsity jackets started a chant. “Light the fuckin’ tree, light the fuckin’ tree.”
    I laughed. Nancy muttered, “You’re contemptible.” Finally, Harry Ellis Dickson, the conductor emeritus of the Boston Pops Orchestra, had his turn. He introduced Santa to much squealing and wriggling among the kids, many of whom were hoisted by dads and moms onto shoulders. Then Harry led the crowd through several carols. “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” “Joy to the World,” “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.” Everybody knew the first few lines, most of us dah-dah-ing the rest.
    Between carols Nancy sighed. “We’ve become a one-stanza society.”
    Two slim figures in oddly modified Santa outfits danced up the steps of the patio.
    Nancy said, “Who are they supposed to be?”
    “Santa’s eunuchs.”
    Again she shrugged off my arms. “I take it back. You’re beneath contempt.”
    After a few more carols the star on top of the tree was lit, setting off a reaction in the crowd like the first firecracker on the Fourth of July. The long vertical strips of lights came on next. Then, beginning at the top, sequential clumps mixing red, blue, green, and yellow flashed to life, more a shimmer than individual bulbs, until the magic had hopped down the entire tree.
    We finished with a universal “Silent Night,” the crowd breaking up while the last notes echoed off the buildings.

    “Maybe a half each left?”
    Nancy shook her head as I held the bottle of Petite Sirah poised over her glass. She had traded the sweater and long johns for a puffy print blouse that brought out the color of her eyes. We were sitting at the dining table of the condo I rented from a doctor doing a program in Chicago . Only a couple of blocks north of the Pru, it was a short but cold walk from the tree-lighting ceremony.
    Cold in more ways than one.
    Nancy said, “I cooked, so you clean.”
    I corked the wine and cleared the table of the remains of a pretty good meal of lamb chops with mushroom-and-sausage rice. My praising the food, even its color and arrangement on the plate, hadn’t done much to warm Nancy up.
    From the kitchen I said, “We can talk about it, or we can brood about it.”
    No reply.
    I loaded the dishwasher and sponged down the sink and counter.
    Back in the living room, Nancy was sitting stiffly on the burlappy sofa, using her index finger to swipe tears angrily from the sides of her eyes.
    “ Nancy —”
    “Just shut up, okay?”
    I stopped dead.
    She said, “I hate to cry.”
    I believed that. As an assistant district attorney, Nancy had seen an awful lot. A person who cried easily wouldn’t get through one of her typical days, much less the couple of years she’d put in.
    I said, “Is it one of your cases?”
    Shake of the head.
    “Medical? Physical?”
    “No, dammit, it’s you.”
    “Me?”
    “Yes.”
    “My face? My breath? My—”
    “Goddammit, John. It’s...”
    I walked toward her. Not told to stop, I sat next to her. Nancy turned sideways to me, took a breath. “Look, it’s