Date: Mon, 7 Apr 2014 08:05:08 -0700 (PDT)
From: z119z 2000 <z119z2000@yahoo.com>
Subject: You just gotta keep on dancin'

You just gotta keep on dancin'

z119z (z119z2000@yahoo.com)

© 2014 by the author

"I found some things I think Daniel brought from home. I thought you might
want to look them over to see if there's anything you want to keep."

Mr. Abernathy looked at the box Will had set on the coffee table. He
listlessly prodded the top item, pushing it to one side. Deep cracks broke
the skin of his fingers. The tips of the fingers were scarred and rough,
the thick nails chipped and soiled with dirt and cigarette stains. His
hands, like his face, were dark and weathered from years of work
outside—hard work from the looks of it. Will had little idea of what
daily life on a farm was like. Daniel had told him a few stories, but
mostly he had joked about how lucky he had been to get away.

In fact, Will had learned that Daniel's father had a dairy farm only
because once in the supermarket Daniel had picked up a block of Cabot
Cheddar cheese and remarked that it probably contained milk from the
Abernathy family farm in Vermont. When Will had raised an eyebrow to query
his meaning, Daniel said, "My family's run a dairy farm for over two
centuries. We were one of the families that founded the Cabot cooperative
in 1919." For a second he looked proud.

When Will replied, "That's the first time I've ever heard you brag about
your family," Daniel had shrugged. He put the package of cheese back in the
cooler case. "Yeah, well, now you know. I come from a family of cheese
makers." He never mentioned the subject again.

Mr. Abernathy peered into the box and then shook his head. His perfunctory
glance at the contents of the box had been more an act of politeness than
of interest. "No. There's nothing here I want. If I took it back with me,
it would just be more junk for someone else to throw away when I die. Just
put it with the stuff you're giving to Goodwill." He pushed the box an inch
closer to Will and then leaned back. He slowly looked around the living
room of the condo Will and Daniel had bought after they got married.

Will had hoped for so much when Mr. Abernathy had called the day before and
asked if he could see him. He had been looking forward to talking about
Daniel. But it was proving to be an ordeal to have Daniel's father there,
and Will was beginning to wish that he had seen the last of Mr. Abernathy
at the funeral three days earlier. He was the only one from Daniel's family
who had been present. Daniel's mother was dead, but Will knew there were
aunts and uncles and cousins. He wondered if Daniel's father had even
bothered to tell them of Daniel's accident and then his death. Maybe
not. Daniel rarely spoke of his father, just enough so that Will knew the
father didn't approve of Daniel and what Daniel referred to with a grim
smile as "our lifestyle."

When Will called to tell Mr. Abernathy about the accident, he had stumbled
at first. He hadn't known how to introduce himself. Finally he hadn't
bothered and had settled for, "Mr. Abernathy, I'm calling about Daniel.
He's been in an accident. He was struck by a car coming home from work.
He's in the hospital in a coma now."

No sound came from the phone.

"Mr. Abernathy? . . ."

"I'm here. Who'd you say you were again?" He sounded suspicious, as if he
thought the call was a ploy to sell him something or to get him to
contribute to a charity."

"This is Will Moyner. Uh, I don't if Daniel told me about us, but . . ."

"I know who you are."

There was another long pause. Will decided to wait this one out. He wasn't
about to apologize to Daniel's father for being Daniel's husband.

A sound of a throat being cleared came over the phone and then, "What do
the doctors say?"

"Well, as I said, Daniel's in a coma. He was crossing the street after work
to get to the T—the subway—and some stupid driver ran a red light and
hit him. He was thrown into the path of a car coming from the other
direction, and that car hit him on the head. He's got a tube in his head to
drain off the fluids on his brain. They're trying to stabilize his
condition so that he can have surgery. He's in ICU at Mass General—do
you know where that is? I can text you a map. I think you'd better come,
Mr. Abernathy. It doesn't look good."

Will had to choke back his tears. That was the first time he had spoken
about Daniel's condition aloud. Just hearing the words made the situation
more real. He had been trying so hard not to cry. Tears would be an
admission that Daniel's situation was hopeless. And he didn't want to cry
in front of Daniel's father. From the little Daniel had said about his
father, Will suspected that Mr. Abernathy would regard tears and emotions
as signs of weakness and effeminacy.

"I can't get texts. I don't got one of those new phones. I can find the
hospital. But I don't know if I can get away tonight. I have to find
someone to look after my herd. I have a dairy farm. Cows don't look after
themselves."

There was a loud click as Mr. Abernathy severed the connection. Will was
just as happy the conversation was over, not that it had been much of a
talk. Mr. Abernathy had sounded more annoyed at the news than distressed or
concerned. Anyway, he had done his duty and notified Daniel's family. He
didn't have to speak to Daniel's father again. Mr. Abernathy could do what
he wanted.

The doctor and a nurse emerged from Daniel's room. The doctor avoided Will
and scurried away without speaking. The nurse motioned Will over. There was
no change in Daniel's condition, she said; he could wait with Daniel if he
wished. Sometime it helped to talk to patient in a coma. They could still
hear. Will should let Daniel know that he was there "for him." She patted
him on the forearm and smiled at him encouragingly. Will took a deep breath
and walked into the room. He put on a cheery grin before he realized Daniel
wouldn't see it. His jaw hurt from the effort of controlling his face.

Will was half-asleep when Mr. Abernathy arrived around 2:00 in the morning.
Will had followed the nurse's recommendations and talked to Daniel. But
after an hour, he found the one-sided conversation more and more difficult.
It would have been easier if he were talking to a stranger. He settled for
holding Daniel's right hand between both of his and gently stroking it. He
was sitting with his back to the door and thought at first the click of the
latch opening heralded another visit by a doctor or nurse to check on
Daniel. It took him a few seconds to guess the identity of the man who
walked around the foot of the bed and stood opposite him.

"I can't stay long" were the first words Mr. Abernathy spoke. He cleared
his throat nervously. "I have to get back to take care of things." He gazed
around the room, taking in all the machines crowding the room. Will felt
Mr. Abernathy's attention shift around him, avoiding a direct look. He
glanced at his son's bruised and bandaged face for a second and then looked
away. The shunt for the IV drip taped to Daniel's left arm seemed to absorb
his attention. His eyes drifted down Daniel's arm until they came to his
hand. He touched Daniel's wedding ring with the tip of an outstretched
index finger and then looked at the identical ring on Will's left hand. He
didn't say anything. He frowned and pressed his lips together into a thin
line.

A nurse came in. Mr. Abernathy greeted her with relief. "Morning, miss. I'm
Dan's father." He pointed at Daniel's body. "What can you tell me about
him?"

"We're trying to stabilize your son's condition. Doctor Patel will look in
on him when he arrives to prep for surgery around 6:00. The accident
fractured your son's cranium—about here." The nurse pointed to an area
on the left side of Daniel's temple. "And there are bone fragments lodged
in the brain. If Doctor Patel thinks Daniel's condition has improved
enough, then he will operate to relieve the pressure on the brain and to
remove the fragments."

Mr. Abernathy and the nurse went on chatting cheerfully while she checked
Daniel. She quickly elicited the information that it was a three-hour drive
from the Abernathy farm in Calais, Vermont, to Boston, but there hadn't
been any traffic and he had made good time. He found out that she came from
Providence, Rhode Island, and that her family ran a bakery there. It struck
Will that the two of them were almost glad to have someone other than
himself to talk to. As the nurse was leaving, Mr. Abernathy asked her where
he could find the men's room. When she left, he turned to Will and said,
"I've got to get back. You let me know if anything changes." He didn't wait
for Will to respond.

A few hours later, Doctor Patel decided Daniel was too weak to undergo
surgery. Late that same morning, two doctors came into the room and asked
Will to step outside while they examined Daniel. When they emerged, they
drew Will into the small office behind the nurses' station. He was never
able to reconstruct the conversation later. There had been such a ringing
in his ears. He could hear the three nurses in the outer room
clearly—they were talking about one of the nurse's child and some cute
thing she had said—but he couldn't make sense of what the doctors in the
room with him were saying. The words came to him in snatches of phrases in
a sea of medical technobabble. "Inoperable condition." "No brain activity."
"Can't survive without life support." "Satisfies all definitions of
clinically dead." They couldn't tell Will what to do, but they couldn't
honestly offer him any hope that Daniel would recover. There was no sense
in prolonging Daniel's pain.

Will had nodded. Papers were put in front of him; he signed them as
Daniel's spouse and next-of-kin. Someone asked if he "would like to say
goodbye." He went back into Daniel's room and held his hand. The room
suddenly filled by doctors and nurses. Someone announced in a very formal
voice that "all life support on Daniel Abernathy" was being terminated and
then stated the time and date. There was a click of a switch. For the first
time since Will had arrived at the hospital and been permitted to see
Daniel, the noise of the respirator stopped.

Daniel's hand felt so cold. And lifeless. There was no response to Will's
touch. The blips on the machine recording Daniel's heartbeat slowed and
then ceased. A doctor bent over Daniel and applied a stethoscope to his
chest. It struck Will as a theatrical gesture. The heart monitor had
already told that story. The doctor nodded and then pronounced Daniel dead
and again stated the date and time. A nurse wrote something on a
chart. Another nurse began detaching Daniel's body from the
machines. Daniel stepped back into a corner.

Suddenly there was noise again. It was as if all activity outside the room
had ceased for a few minutes and was now resuming. The corridor was filled
with people chatting as they rushed past. As soon as one of the doctors
stepped out of Daniel's room, a nurse claimed his attention for another
patient, a living patient.

A nurse guided him out of the room by the elbow and asked him to "attend to
a few details." Within a half-hour Will found himself standing at the
Charles /MGH stop on the T.  The barnlike sides of the elevated stop
channeled the wind off the river. The hospital had given him a plastic
carrier bag with Daniel's personal belongings, and the wind twisted the bag
in his hand. He had to tighten his grip to prevent it from being blown
away. Somewhere he had a card with a phone number at the hospital; he was
supposed to give it to the funeral home so that they could make
"arrangements." He shuffled onto the Red Line train when it came and
changed to the Green C Line at Park Street for the trip out to
Brookline. It was still early, and he was able to get a seat. When he sat
down, he clutched the bag in his lap. He could feel Daniel's cell-phone
through the plastic. He grasped at it and pressed it into his palm. It was
so hard and real. Unlike Daniel, who was slipping away. Will didn't realize
he was crying until a woman sitting beside him offered him a packet of
Kleenex.

He was still crying when he called Daniel's father. He didn't know why he
felt the need to apologize, but he said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Abernathy. Daniel
died at 11:30. He didn't come out of the coma." He thought about explaining
his part in the decision to turn the life support off. He needed to tell
somebody about it and be reassured that Daniel's death wasn't really his
fault.

But before he could begin, Mr. Abernathy said, "You gonna take care of the
funeral arrangements? You give me a call when everything's ready. I'll try
to come down. It's best for me if it's mid-day, early afternoon." And then
he hung up.

Will decided on cremation and the scattering of the ashes over the
ocean. He and Daniel's friends arranged a memorial service two weeks after
Daniel's death. He phoned Mr. Abernathy several times to tell him, but no
one answered. The man didn't even have an answering machine. In the end, he
wrote a note and included a map with directions.

By the day of the service, Will had regained enough control of his emotions
that he could speak about Daniel and deliver a eulogy. It was only when he
stepped up to the lectern and faced the room that he realized that Daniel's
father was sitting in the back row of chairs. He had forgotten all about
Mr. Abernathy. The man looked out of place. The memorial service and
Daniel's friends and colleagues appeared to make him uneasy. He kept
looking around at the mourners and shifting about in his chair to put as
much space as possible between himself and the others. After the service,
Daniel tried to find him and invite him attend the brunch Chrissie and
Linda had put together, but he had disappeared.

Two days later Mr. Abernathy called and asked if he could see Will the next
morning. Will had said yes and then given him directions. He anticipated a
conversation about Daniel—after all they were his two closest
relations. He expected it to be difficult, but perhaps it would help both
of them.

The doorbell had buzzed at 11:00, exactly the time agreed for the
meeting. Mr. Abernathy refused Will's offer of coffee and announced that he
wouldn't be "staying long."

Mr. Abernathy pushed the box of Daniel's things away and cleared his
throat. "I wanted to ask a favor."

"Sure, anything."

"You know that wall of pictures at the funeral. Those pictures of Dan and
. . . you. Other people."

"Yes. One of our friends put that together. Her name's Chrissie,
She's. . . ."

"I'd like one of them."

Will nodded. "I can give you copies of all of them."

"No. There's just one I want. It's a picture of Dan. I think he's at a
party. He's got a drink in his hand, and he's talking to someone. I don't
see it here." He gestured at the row of framed pictures atop the
mantelpiece.

Will knew the picture Mr. Abernathy was talking about. "I haven't had a
chance to put it back in the frame yet. Just a second. I'll get it for
you."

Will brought the folder containing the photographs back to the living room
and began leafing through them. "Here. Is this the one you meant? I took it
a birthday party for one of our friends."

"Yeah, that's the one. Are you sure this is okay? I don't want to take it
if it's the only copy you got."

"No. It's fine. I've got the original on my phone. I can make another
copy."

Mr. Abernathy nodded as if unfamiliar with the notion of pictures on
phones. He put the picture into his shirt pocket.

"Why that particular picture?" Will hoped the remark would spark a story
about Will, some revelation of a good time that Mr. Abernathy remembered.

"Because he's smiling. Dan never smiled much. I'd like to remember him as
happy. It may not be the way he was, but then not much in his life was the
way I want to remember it."

"Is that so? I always found him such a happy person, always smiling and
laughing and joking." Will felt a sudden need to be cruel, to remind
Mr. Abernathy that his son had been happy with him. He was welcome to take
that memory away with him and chew on it the rest of his miserable
life. "Did living at home make Daniel sad?" As soon as he spoke, he felt
ashamed of his petty outburst. Mr. Abernathy must be grieving too, he
reminded himself. He just had a different way of showing it.

Daniel's father considered the notion for a moment. If he noticed the anger
behind Will's question, he chose to ignore it. "More like serious. He was
always a serious kid. Maybe more sad when he was in high school. I don't
know. It was hard to tell with him. He didn't fit in. Maybe he already knew
he was different. He didn't smile much."

"He never talked much about those years. Can you tell me about him? I'd
like to know." Something to hold on to, anything would do. A story he could
keep. Anything.

"I don't know as how I've got much to tell. He was always a quiet kid. Kept
to himself. He was good that way. Never bothered anyone. We never talked
very much. He talked more with his mom, and with this grandma. His mother's
mother, not my mother. She lived with us for a few years before she died.
You know that thing you said he was always saying. In your eulogy at the
service. That thing about dancing. You mentioned it, and everybody laughed
like they had all heard it before."

"You mean `You just gotta keep on dancin'? He was always saying that. It's
one of the things I thought about when I was putting my speech together. I
figured it was one of the things other people would know about, and it
would give them something happy to remember about him."

"Yeah, he must have got that from her. I never heard her say it, but she
was always saying things like that. She was kinda a silly woman. Maybe she
was the one that put ideas in his head. Anyway, I gotta go. Thanks for the
picture."

Mr. Abernathy was at the door before Will could respond. He didn't look
back.