Margaret

When Margaret Hughes found out she had a brain tumor, she stared at the black-and-white images illuminated on the screen behind her physician's desk — "slices," he called them. She was surprised to see that her brain looked like two halves of a desiccated walnut.

Her physician spoke of cisterns, vessels, ventricles, a star. Of cells that had forgotten how to die. It was so complicated, so difficult to understand, but in all fairness she had no one to blame but herself. She was the one who'd insisted on seeing the images, made him promise that he'd be straightforward, tell her the names of things, explain why she'd been experiencing these headaches, these slips of the tongue, errors in cognition, apparitions. The fact that he continually referred to the images as "slices" only made matters worse; Margaret had already been so flustered before her appointment that she'd left home without finishing breakfast.

Dr. Leising pointed out the mass effect of the enhancing something-or-other as seen on Coronal Slice #16. Margaret's stomach rumbled.

I can't believe it, she thought. I forgot to eat my jelly toast.

Her physician concluded his speech and asked Margaret how she wished to proceed, what interventional options she wanted to pursue, and was there anyone she'd like to call. "Stephen perhaps?" he suggested, rather too lightly. "Mightn't he want to know?"

Well, of course her ex-husband would want to know. Couples don't go through what she and Stephen had without forging some kind of enduring connection — even (although few people understood this) a complicated, battle-comrade kind of love.

But there was something irritating in Dr. Leising's tone — as if he didn't think she should hear his prognosis in the absence of a male shoulder to weep on. As if she couldn't handle things without the benefit of counsel by some father-by-proxy. Margaret had managed her own affairs nicely for most of her life. She wouldn't be railroaded, pitied, or bamboozled now. I might look like a nice, diffident old lady, she thought, but I'm not about to be treated like one.

She asked a few pointed questions. Dr. Leising gave answers which she considered unacceptable, evasive, patronizing, and then launched into yet another discussion of her "slices." Would it never end?

Margaret couldn't listen anymore, so she excused herself to the rest room, took the elevator down to the street, and walked until she came upon a café with the words "Desserts, Etcetera" painted on the windows. She deliberated. On the rare occasions when she had to leave the house, she made sure to have as little contact as possible with other people; on the other hand, she was so hungry that she felt nauseous. Peeking through the window, Margaret saw that the café was open but empty of customers. This was satisfactory, so she went in.

Inside was a display case filled with artfully presented pies, cakes, cookies, and an assortment of French pastries. Margaret whispered their names: Génoise à l'orange. Mousse au chocolat. Crème Brûlée. Roulade à la confiture. She felt better already. Hanging over the counter was a menu written on a large chalkboard which included sandwiches and soups as well as desserts.

An anorexic-looking girl with short blue-black hair and black lipstick was talking into a telephone behind the counter. "I don't give a shit, Jimmy," she was saying, her voice tense and hissing, "You CANNOT use the juicer at three o'clock in the morning, I don't care HOW aggravated your 'vata' is!" Margaret waved to get the girl's attention. "Gotta go. Bye."

The girl hung up and loped to the counter. "Yes," she enunciated through clenched teeth. "What can I get for you?"

"It all looks so good," Margaret said. On closer inspection of the girl's face, Margaret was alarmed to see that she was wearing a gold ring through her right nostril. She tried not to stare at it. "What is your soup of the day?"

"Split pea," the girl said, and sniffed.

God, Margaret thought, I hope she doesn't have a cold.

"Well, in that case ... I'll take a slice of raspberry cheesecake, a slice of pear ganache, the crème brûlée, and the caramel flan."

"For here?"

"Yes, please."

Nose Ring began punching the buttons of a small calculator. Her fingernails were painted dark blue and sprinkled with glitter. They looked like miniature galaxies. "Do you want whipped cream on your flan?"

"Excuse me?" Margaret said. "Whipped what?"

"Cream. On the flan."

"No, thank you," Margaret said without thinking, but then, "I mean yes! Why not? Whipped cream!"

"Will that be all?"

"Tea, perhaps. Do you have peppermint tea?"

"Have a seat," Nose Ring said. "I'll bring it out when it's ready."

Margaret awaited her desserts. On the café walls there were several black-and-white photographs of empty buildings, streets, docks, parks. Margaret didn't much care for them. There were no people in the photographs, and something about the time of day the photographer chose or the angle at which he took the photos gave even the most benign landmarks — the Seattle-to-Bainbridge ferry, the pergola in Pioneer Square, the Smith Tower — a menacing, doomsday appearance. They made Seattle look like a ghost town, and they reminded Margaret of an old movie. ... What was it? It took place in New York City; it was about the end of the world. ... She had found the movie very disturbing, although she couldn't say why. She couldn't for the life of her remember the name of it.

"The World, the Flesh, and the Devil," said Nose Ring as she arrived at Margaret's table.

"What?"

"That old black-and-white movie about the end of the world. You were saying that you couldn't remember the name of it."

"I was?"

"Uh-huh." Nose Ring began unloading dishes and tea things from a large tray. "Harry Belafonte, Inger Stevens, and Mel Ferrer. The World, the Flesh, and the Devil."

"Oh. Yes."

"Unless you mean On the Beach."

"I don't think so."

"Gregory Peck, Ava Gardner, and Fred Astaire? Directed by Stanley Kramer."

"No ... I would've remembered Fred Astaire."

"Or you could be thinking of Fail Safe. With Henry Fonda as the president."

"I think you were right the first time."

Nose Ring stood up straight and announced, "I'm a film student."

"I see." Margaret smiled and nodded. She made another effort not to look at Nose Ring's nose ring. "Well, that must be very interesting!"

Nose Ring sighed. "Do you have everything you need?"

"Yes! Thank you! It looks lovely."

Nose Ring resumed her place behind the counter.

Margaret took a small, yellowed photograph out of her wallet; it was a school picture of Daniel, taken when he was eight. She stared at it.

The whole thing was quite simple, really.

According to Robert Leising, MD, and the various other neurology, oncology, and so-on-colleagues with whom he had consulted, Margaret had a very common type of malignant brain tumor: an "astrocytoma." A slow-growing star. The traditional treatment was surgery followed by radiation.

"What's the prognosis?" she had asked.

"Well," and here Dr. Leising had pulled one of six sheets of film off the light board and scrutinized it, "your age is — ?"

As if he doesn't know, Margaret...