The State of the Novel (5)

The Novel Calls in Sick

The Novel swam in the river too early in the season and developed a chest cold.

Honestly, he said, it wasn’t a true swim. More of a dip. A plunge. A thorough splashing and wetting down.

I rubbed a mentholated cream over his chest.

I’m thinking, he said, of Aldous Huxley and a scene with a bathtub.

I suppose you would, I said.

People don’t think about Huxley anymore, he said. Did you know he died the same day they shot Kennedy? Or thereabouts. I have to fudge these things sometimes.

Fudging can be risky, I said.

I shouldn’t be able to get along without it, he said.

I made him a hot drink and sat at his bedside holding his hand. Just as he was drifting off I said I had to leave for a bit but that I would return.

What if I die while you’re gone? he said.

Then I guess you’ll be here when I get back, I said.

That’s a good one, he said. May I have it?

It’s on the house, I said.

Once he fell asleep I went downstairs to the sitting room. My husband was pouring a drink and weeping.

It’s a damn shame, he said.

He’s not dying, I said. He thinks he’s dying, but he’s not dying.

He poured me a small drink and we stayed up past midnight, playing Scrabble and discussing the children.