“When I knew I was terminal, I told Sophie the only thing I wanted before I died, if it were somehow possible, was to meet Death and ask Him questions. Phil did that for me. I don’t know if he is Death, but he’s close enough. He obviously speaks for his Boss.” I smiled while Jesse shook his head disgustedly and mimicked the word boss.

“But what does it do for you, Wyatt? Give you the ability to recognize bodies in a graveyard? So what? Does that give you new insight into the way God works? Huh? Is that helpful?”

“It might save your life for now.”

He put a hand on my shoulder. “I know that. Please know I’m grateful. But I’m thinking of you now. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Thank you, but it already has—I’ve been dying for a while. That’s a big difference between us.”

“He can stop it!”

I shook my head. “Maybe, but you’ve got to realize that there’s another big difference. You and McGann both have partners who love you very much. You also have Sophie. I don’t. I’m alone and have been dying alone a long time. I don’t love anyone the way you love your wife. I wish I did. That’s the heart of the matter. Since there’s no one to love, I’ve got to love myself the best way I know how.

“Listen, when my father died a few years ago he went out in the worst possible way. No heroics, no last-minute grace. Just pain and suffering all the way down to the end. Worst of all, he made those of us who loved him suffer too.

“One day toward the end, when he was still coherent, I sat with him and said, ‘Dad, even with the agony, you’re still much luckier than most people. Mom and I are here and we love you, there’s enough money in the bank to pay for your care, and you’ve lived a wonderfully long and full life.’ I know it’s easy to say those things when you’re not in another person’s skin, but it was the truth. I really believed that if he could somehow turn his mind’s eye toward that truth, it would be easier for him to let go. You know what he said? ‘Wait’ll you’re where I am, buddy boy; then let’s hear you talk about a good life.’

“Well, here I am, Pop, right behind you on the oblivion express. On my way to knowing exactly what it’s like to be there. But you know what? My opinion hasn’t changed, and I’m dying a lot younger than my father. He had a great life, so he felt cheated by what was happening to him at the end. How dare things go bad! They had a deal: he’d live, and life would be good to him. How dare his health fail and all those strengths and fail-safe systems stop? He’d always ignored final things because he had no use for them, and when they started arriving, he only knew how to be bitter and confused. Not me. Not if I can help it.

“If you have someone loving you, then it’s different. That gives you all sorts of real reasons to go on living, but I don’t. I don’t want to die, but when Strayhorn offered the choice between possible understanding and survival, I thought, What’s surviving if you don’t understand anything? Better to know something about it. Isn’t that what religion teaches? Christ was at peace and so were Muhammed and Buddha, the saints… That peace can come only from understanding, not from living another ten years. If I can learn something from these dreams, then I’ll be all right, no matter what happens. Maybe it would be different if I had a great love like you, but I don’t. Whether it’s now or later, I would love to learn enough so that when I saw Death coming, my only reaction would be to say, ‘Okay.’ ”

“No one does that! Forget the saints. No one ever reaches that kind of final peace. It’s not peace when people give up because their bodies are exhausted and anything has to be better than all that fucking pain and fear!”

“A week ago I would have agreed with you, Jesse, but today I’m not so sure.”

“But you can’t trust these dreams!”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s Death talking. Death’s the enemy, Wyatt. Why should He make deals, give you a peek into the cosmic consciousness, when He holds all the cards? You can’t trust Him.”

“I agree, but maybe I can find enough so that I only have to trust myself, and that’ll be plenty.”

There are times, maybe once a month, when my mind goes absolutely blank. For several seconds I truly do not know who I am, where I am—anything. When I was younger, these forced visits to the outer limits scared me, because I thought I was going mad. But over the years I’ve learned almost to enjoy them. Before, when the spells came, I would become petrified and think as hard as I could: Who am I? What’s happening? Find the thread, damn it, find the thread! Now that I’m older I know my mind is only taking its foot off the gas and coasting. It’ll start again in a minute, so I don’t worry.

The first time I saw Emmy Marhoun in Vienna, I had just emerged from one of these lapses and my head was readjusting to the world. Jesse and I had left the cemetery after arguing some more about what to do with the powers my dreams gave me. I had no idea what else I was capable of now, but we both stuck to our beliefs, and the discussion degenerated into his anger and my stubbornness. We drove back to the city, with him doing most of the muttering. Back at the hotel, I didn’t want to see Sophie yet and have to explain where we’d been, so I waited till Jesse pulled away and then I went for a walk.

There was a small pastry shop across the street from the Opera House and the aroma drifting out of it was so delicious that I went right in. The place was jammed but luckily one small table in a corner was free. I ordered my cake and coffee and sat down, feeling happy for the first time that day. No desire to think about anything. I wanted only to be in that hot little shop full of ambrosial smells, surrounded by chattering old women, and eat an echt piece of Viennese torte. Afterward I’d… I know someone who signs all his letters After Words. That’s exactly how it would be now. I was past words and wanted to let my tongue and senses have rein for a little while.

As if in agreement, my mind went into a full-fledged zone-out and I was suddenly nowhere in particular. It lasted long enough for the waitress to bring my order. Coming back to earth, I blinked a few times at the black cake on the table. Then while my head continued to clear, I looked at the people standing at the counter. Up there waiting for an order was Emmy Marhoun.

But that was impossible. Emmy Marhoun had been dead for at least three years. I knew her when she worked as an editor at a New York publishing house. My television show was at the height of its popularity then, and we met when she wrote to ask if I’d be interested in doing a book for her company. We had dinner a few times and I liked her. She was smart, witty, and the kind of aggressive, enterprising woman who usually gets what she wants. It didn’t hurt that she was also quite beautiful. If I were straight, I’d probably have fallen in love with her. As it was, I did fall in love to a certain harmless degree, and that was why we continued seeing each other after I said no to the project.

One day someone told me she had died. Fallen off a horse and been kicked in the head. There are many strange ways to die. As we grow older we become accustomed to bizarre accounts of how So-and-So went. Still, there are times when you hear something like Emmy’s story and your only reaction is “What do you mean, kicked by a horse?” I didn’t mourn because we hadn’t been close, and it was a long time since we’d seen each other. But I had loved her a little, and it was surprising how much I thought about her after hearing the news.

Today she stood ten feet away and even touched her hair in that showy pat-pat way I remembered. I got up and went over, but she didn’t see me until the last moment. Then she turned away from the counter, and we were face to face.