The Book of Joe

internal motor is shutting down, which of course it is. With considerable effort, he manages to achieve eye contact with me for a few seconds before his lids collapse again. “Joe,” he whispers, and his voice sounds distant and muted, as if I’m hearing it straight from his throat without its passing through his mouth.
    “Wayne,” I say. “We’re here.”
    He nods, and I think I can see his blood through his skin, slowing to a crawl in the veins of his forehead, barely propelled by the waning pump of his heart. “I think it’s time,” he says after a minute. Something thick and wet has entered his voice, drowning out the very end of each syllable. “It’s so strange. I thought I’d be more afraid.”
    We have entered a movie, the death scene. He will reveal a secret, a long-kept indiscretion, a buried treasure, a child given up for adoption at birth, the name of the murderer, a clue to be followed up on. Carly reaches forward and runs her fingers lightly over his brow, wiping away the droplets of sweat that have begun to trickle down his face. He opens his eyes again and focuses briefly on her. “Tell the truth,” he whispers. “You guys got it on tonight, didn’t you?”
    Carly smiles, even as her eyes begin to fill with tears, and nods. “We did,” she says softly.
    Wayne smiles. “Thank god.” Reaching out with a shaky arm, he gently brushes his fingers against the dampness of her face, then brings them to his parched tongue, closing his eyes as he tastes her tears. For a few minutes he just lies there, his chest moving in small increments as the frequency of his shallow breaths increases. I can tell that the simple act of breathing is becoming difficult for him. He opens his mouth to say something else, but this time all that comes out is an unintelligible wet noise, and the effort seems to further weaken him.
    “It’s okay,” I say, my voice high and wavering. “Just try to relax.” I feel my own chest heave in a short series of autonomic convulsions, then feel Carly’s steadying hand on my shoulder.
    “It’s okay, Wayne,” I say again.
    After another minute or so, he opens his eyes again. “You’ll dedicate your book to me.” It’s a question, but he lacks the vocal power to raise it at the end.
    “Of course.”
    “Make me sound noble.”
    “I will.”
    “But not uncool.”
    “Noble and cool. You got it.”
    Carly leans forward and kisses his forehead. A moment later I do the same, his skin hot and salty against my lips. By the time I sit back up, his eyes are closed again, but his lips have formed a weak smile. His mouth moves once or twice after that, but no sounds come out.
    Death starts at his face and works its way down, like someone closing up shop, turning off the lights as he goes through the building. First Wayne’s eyes stop flickering, and then his mouth closes, his lips coming together in a mild frown. His chest continues to rise and fall lightly for another half hour or so, the movement becoming increasingly harder to detect until it becomes clear that it’s stopped. During this time, Carly and I sit in silence on either side of him, gently rubbing his arms to keep him company. At the very end, Wayne’s legs lock together in a quick, surprising spasm, and Carly lets out a small shriek in spite of herself, quickly bringing her hand up to her mouth the way a little kid will when she’s said something she knows she shouldn’t have.

Thirty-Six
    You can have all the sex you want, make declarations of love until you’re hoarse, but all it really takes to feel like a couple is arriving together to a formal function, dressed appropriately, walking in step. I take an extra second to revel in this feeling as Carly and I ascend the stone steps of Saint Michael’s Church for Wayne’s funeral, to breathe it in and exhale it through my pores, knowing that such consciousness is fleeting and that it inevitably gets processed in the same thoughtless manner as oxygen.
    The sky is a violent, ominous gray, the air humid and thick with the threat of an approaching storm. It’s perfect funeral weather, and I know it would have appealed to Wayne’s sense of drama. “I don’t get this at all,” Carly says as we approach the tall, forbidding doors of Saint Mike’s. “Why would Wayne ask for a traditional funeral mass? He hates the Church.”
    “I don’t think it has anything to do with the Church,” I say, pulling on the wrought iron door handle and entering the