THE DISCUS THROWER

Richard Selzer

12      A second aide arrives, brings a second breakfast tray, puts it on the nightstand, out of his reach. She looks over at me shaking her head and making her mouth go. I see that we are to be accomplices.

13      “I’ve got to feed you,” she says to the man.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” the man says.

“Oh, yes, I do,” the aide says, “after the way you just did. Nurse says so.”

“Get me my shoes,” the man says.

“Here’s the oatmeal,” the aide says. “Open.” And she touches the spoon to his lower lip.

“I ordered scrambled eggs,” says the man.

“That’s right,” the aide says.

I step forward.

“Is there anything I can do?” I say.

“Who are you?” the man asks.

14      In the evening I go once more to that ward to make my rounds. The head nurse reports to me that Room 542 is deceased. She has discovered this by accident, she says. No, there had been no sound. Nothing. It’s a blessing, she says.

15      I go into his room, a spy looking for secrets. He is still there in his bed. His face is relaxed, grave, dignified. After a while, I turn to leave. My gaze sweeps the wall at the foot of the bed, and I see the place where it has been repeatedly washed, where the wall looks very clean and white.