The Shadow Of Yesterday’s Triumph

A Short Story

He was in town for the rugby, mostly. But it was a rare visit where it was just him. Not mum. Down for the weekend – and my partner was away, so it was just me and him. I was in a small apartment at the time, one bedroom and so we had a late-night-laugh as we took turns blowing the airbed up; the vacuum could only suck, not blow. And after a few wines we were just stuffed. Breathless. Chests hurting with laughter and silliness and the task at hand.

And the task at hand the next day was to find a hat – for the rugby. It was cold. In Wellington. (“Bloody wind!”) And after several attempts we found the right beanie. One with no branding. Tough to find. Tougher still when you’re in the official All Black merchandise store…

I dropped him at the rugby. Went home. Watched one of those “unofficial” DVD documentaries about Pink Floyd. The making of Wish You Were Here. Had a couple of wines. And waited.

The game was good. Apparently. Not that I really cared. But it had been a ripper. And we had a nightcap. The beanie was taken off. Tossed in the corner of the apartment. (“You can have that mate. It’s done it’s job”).

The next morning we were up early, had the day together. First time that had happened – just the two of us – in a decade or more. And we had no huge plans. We would go for brunch, maybe a movie, a wee walk around the town. I was dropping him off at the airport late in the day. So we looked through the paper and found some war-related flick that neither of us was particularly interested in. But we went anyway. We’d talked quite a lot walking around town the previous day. It had been good. What more was there to really say?

“We’ll grab some brunch after the movie”, he said. Oddly, whispering that to me when the film had about 10 minutes to go. It could have waited.

And on the way out of the theatre we bumped into two old uni mates of mine. Good friends. He knew them too. So they joined us for lunch. And a beer.

When they left, he said “I do have something I want to talk to you about. But it can wait”.

And I worried that it was going to be another lecture about smoking. I’d squeezed three or four in the other night with the DVD. Had a shower, brushed teeth after, made out like I was just at home with a bottle of wine only. But I was ready for another. The day had been long.

We drove around the bays, to kill yet more time. Then home to grab his bag. We were out to the airport a bit early. And it was packed. There’d been a cancelled flight or something. Maybe more than just one. People were sleeping on roll-bags. Shuffling uncomfortably. We stepped over legs, aiming to find a spot of our own – a place to stand. To wait.

The call came for his flight. And he tapped me on the shoulder, “We’ll just go down here, come with me, I’ve got something I want to say just a bit out of the way of everyone else…”

And as we walked towards the airport toilets all I could think was ‘what have you done? What is it now?’ Had a debt collector called him, had he opened some of my mail, had he found ciggy butts somewhere he hoped he hadn’t, or more scratches on the car?

Then we stopped. In the middle of nowhere. A corridor in the airport. The nearest stranger about eight feet away.

“Look, there is something I wanted to say. But what with the movie and brunch and seeing your mates and the car-ride and this and that and the rugby…”

“Fuck! What is it? What have I done now?” I cut in.

“No, it’s not you. It’s been a nice weekend. Yesterday was nice. Look, I think it’s going to be okay. But I have to tell you something. I went to the doctor. And I have cancer”.

The airport announcement told him he was late, would be last to board.

“I think it’s going to be okay”, he said. “But I better go. We’ll talk more about it another time”. And he extended his arm. We shook. And my hand felt like it was on fire.

I drove home around the bays, lit a smoke. Sucked back hard.