A Life and Death Promise
At his funeral back in 2010, I made a quiet promise to Joe that I would read his favorite book, The Count of Monte Cristo. After he had been diagnosed with bone cancer, in the occasional conversation over the years of his fight, we would enjoy a predictable repartee about that book.
“Why do you have to love a book that’s so old/so awfully awfully long/so obsessed with vengeance/so French?” I’d ask.
Whatever my little less-than-clever comment, which varied, his reply was a steady variation on a theme: “Just read it and find out.”
Joe was 21 when he died. He spent almost a fifth of his life with cancer.
Two years after his funeral, I saw that Monte Cristo was available for free for my newly-purchased Kindle. I thought of my promise, added it, and began to read.
Some people hate Kindles, and I get it. There’s something about the heft and dimensionality of a book that adds meaning for them. The feel of the pulp matters. For me, a Kindle is the Mystique — nerdy X-Men reference — of books, the ultimate doppelganger, and it’s especially wonderful when impersonating epic novels of great length. If I ever in my life commit to a Dostoyevsky novel, I can guarandamntee you it will be on a Kindle. Same with Infinite Jest, which sits waiting patiently for me (or I guess it’s mocking me forever).
Anyway, on my first try, I got to the 5 percent mark — Chapter 6, I think — and put it down. About three years ago, I picked it back up and got to Chapter 26 and put it back down. I decided to pick it up again last weekend and am on Chapter 32 (or, as we Kindle devotees say, “27%”).
The first time, I wasn’t sure I understood what about the book made Joe love it. The second time, I was pretty sure I did. Both felt at the time like reasons to stop reading for a while.
He’s not around to confirm, but there must have been some kind of comfort in the story for a young man unjustly imprisoned by an uncaring yet cruel enemy called Terminal Cancer. There must have been some escapist solace in a story about patience, the chance to break free of unjust shackles. Joe struggled with religion and never could quite accept the notion of a higher power being involved in his live or the world, but he did believe in the powers of benevolence, rewards for good deeds and decency, and vengeance. He struggled to come to terms with the anger he felt about the hand he’d been dealt, but he was always crystal clear about the importance of support and love.
The reason I know I won’t finish the book this time around is that I’ve started to imbue the novel and my promise to Joe with powers they don’t deserve. I’ve started to think maybe I can’t die until I finish the book. As in, maybe if I string along the reading of it gradually, a hundred or so pages at a time, I’ll extend my own lifespan. It’s one of those silly ways we attempt to impose the illusion of order on our out-of-control existences.
The other equally important reason is that everytime I have an excuse to return to reading this book, I have an excuse to keep his memory alive. Will I ever forget Joe? Of course not. We don’t often forget loved ones who die. But it’s beyond possible to Not Forget someone yet still also not think on them as much as we should, or as much as we believe they deserve to be thought of. Unfortunately, that’s kind of my default setting. I’m less than great at thinking about loved ones, alive or dead, as much as they deserve.
So, what does all of this — The Count of Monte Cristo, death, cancer, friendship, the need to remember — have to do with a song called “The War” by Bob Mould? Why do I love a song that’s all crunchy and loud, sung by a dude whose voice is less than beautiful, and whose albums tend to carry a certain sameness from track to track?
Just listen. Find out. It won’t take nearly as long as reading The Count of Monte Cristo. And Bob Mould ain’t French.
