Right to Die

can do.”
    Bacall sat forward. “John, let me be perfectly frank here. Inés and I both have a bad feeling about this. I can’t tell you it’s completely rational, because feelings aren’t rational to start with. But we both believe someone should be looking into this, and I agree that you can’t do much without Maisy’s cooperation. However, that’s why you are the perfect person to help us.”
    “I don’t see it.”
    “Maisy is terribly concerned about appearing invincible to the public. Hence our concern about confidentiality with Tommy and with you.”
    Bacall dropped both the tone and the pace of his voice. “And there is another factor too. Some time ago, Tommy told me about your wife, John. It’s precisely because of your experience that Maisy might let you look into this for her.”
    I shifted in my chair. “Spell it out.”
    As Bacall hesitated, Roja said, “Mr. Cuddy, we respect your decision in your own life. What Alec means is that the professor would not speak to most investigators we could find, but she would be... interested in you.”
    “Because she’d see me as a whipping boy for her own views?”
    “No,” said Bacall. “Because she’d see you as someone who understood her views but hadn’t embraced them. She’d find that... interesting, as Inés said.”
    “And if I don’t especially feel like being a convert-in-waiting?”
    Bacall sat up straighter. “I imagine that you often have to pose as someone other than who you are. We aren’t asking that here. We’re simply asking that you be yourself, the man Tommy described to me, so that Maisy will receive the professional help she requires despite herself.”
    There was a certain dignity in the way Bacall made his argument. He seemed to care as much about stating his position accurately as about ultimately persuading me of it.
    Roja said, “Please, Mr. Cuddy?”
    “Okay, I’ll meet with her. Then it’s her decision and my decision from there.”
    Bacall said he’d call me at home that night with details. Roja just said thank you.

= 4 =

    Monday morning the clock radio woke me up at six-thirty. I had stayed at the office for a while Sunday afternoon, then walked home via Newbury Street to do some window shopping toward Nancy ’s Christmas. By the time I’d gotten back to the condo, Alec Bacall had left a message on my telephone tape machine, telling me to come to the law school by ten-thirty a.m. Monday and ask the security guard for Inés Roja. The four hours gave me plenty of time.
    After using the bathroom, I heeded the weather forecast by pulling on a T-shirt and Puma shorts under an outer layer of sweatshirt and sweat pants with elastic cuffs. I laced up the running shoes I’d broken in over the prior few months and contemplated my first training run toward the marathon.
    The longest distance I’d ever done before was a little under six miles, but that was in the summer, when I carried less weight. I figured the seven or so miles to Harvard Square and back would be just the ticket for burning off the extra pounds from Thanksgiving.
    I figured wrong.
    The condo I rented was in the rear of a brownstone on the corner of Beacon and Fairfield . Coming out the front door of my building, I could just about see the pedestrian ramp rising above Storrow Drive to the running and biking paths along the Charles River .
    The wind was blowing fifteen miles an hour from a northeastern sky that understudied snow, the temperature in the high twenties. As I approached the ramp, a homeless man sat against the foundation of the expensive high-rise catercorner from my brownstone. He was wearing a bunch of tatty sweaters under a brown tweed sport jacket. The jacket’s seams burst across the shoulders, a wilted red carnation in the lapel. His soiled Washington Redskins watch cap was pulled over the ears, his eyeglasses taped at the nose and both temples. He waved to me as I passed him on the other side of the street. I waved back, crossed over Storrow on the ramp, and started west.
    Halfway to Harvard Square , I’d already perspired through the T-shirt and into the sweats. At the Larz Anderson bridge, I decided to turn around instead of going uphill into the square itself. Even so, as soon as I reversed direction, I was running into the teeth of the wind. Soaking wet.
    My hands got cold first.
    My feet got cold next.
    My legs chimed in third.
    By the time I reached the Boston University bridge, maybe a mile and a half to go, my head