Paul was one of Dave’s childhood friends. As sometimes happens to those friendships, when they grew up they grew apart. Dave became the cynical, sarcastic agitator we all know and love, and Paul became a “jock of all trades,” playing nearly every sport our high school had to offer. Like Coach Steener, Paul tried in vain to get Dave to rejoin the football team—something Dave still had zero interest in—but other than those rather one-sided conversations, the two of them orbited different worlds now and hardly ever spoke. Despite the disconnect, Dave would still speak fondly of Paul in a past tense sort of way whenever we discussed our childhoods, which was more often than you might think.
One day Dave came to the cafe looking dire, and he hardly said a word as he returned to our table with his lunch.
Onion gave him the once-over. “So. You want to tell us what’s wrong or do we have to drag it out of you?”
He didn’t smile or laugh. “I got some bad news this morning.”
Both Onion and I became motionless. “About what?” Onion asked. “You okay?”
Dave nodded. “I’m fine. It’s not about me. It’s Paul.”
Neither of us could remember for a few seconds who Paul was. Then Onion came to the rescue.
“Oh, sure. Paul. Your old jock pal from grade school. What about him?”
Dave hesitated. “He has cancer.” His expression grew pained. “It’s on his face. It started in his mouth and spread fast. There’s no stopping it. I wondered why I didn’t see his name on the football roster. Now I know.”
“You mean he’s going to—”
“Yeah, I mean he’s going to die,” Dave said abruptly. He finally began to eat, ignoring us.
“Oh, no,” was all Onion said.
I wish I had known Paul better so I could share in some small way with Dave’s grief, but I didn’t. And neither did Onion.
Dave washed down a big bite of food with his drink. “It’s okay. You guys didn’t really know him. Why should you care, right?”
“Hey,” Onion said, sounding genuinely irritated. “That’s not nice. Play fair with us, buddy.”
Dave grimaced. “Sorry. I’m just lashing out about it and you’re the only ones here. I know there’s nothing you can do.”
Onion nodded her understanding, her irritation vanishing.
I had an idea.
“Maybe there is something we can do. Would he like a few visitors? We could go see him, cheer him up a bit.”
Dave gave me an appreciative look.
“Yeah, that’s a great idea,” Onion said. “Find out and we’ll all go.”
Dave looked thoughtful. “All right. I’ll let you know.”
After that and for the rest of the day, Dave seemed more like his normal self.
Paul’s house was a small brick ranch where he lived with his mom. His parents had divorced when Paul was twelve, Dave told us, nearly the same age Onion was when her dad walked out of her life. Dave had lived a few houses down the block back then and didn’t move away until sixth grade. He said he still considered this his “true” neighborhood, not the upscale one he lived in now. I think Dave would have moved back to his old neighborhood in a heartbeat if he could. He sure seemed sorry that he had ever left as we drove through it, what with him slowing down to stare wistfully at some familiar landmark from his youth.
Mrs. Humphries met us at the door. There weren’t any decorations on the walls, and the home furnishings were old and pretty sparse, but the place looked really clean. Mrs. Humphries looked awful in a “hadn’t slept in weeks” sort of way, yet she still managed a wide smile when she let us in.
“Paul’s in his bedroom.” Her tired eyes flashed a warning. “Just be aware he’s not like you remember him a few months ago. You’re going to see what chewing tobacco can do to you, even someone as young as Paul.”
With that warning, the three of us stiffened at the thought of what we were about to encounter.
Onion led the way down the hall. She knocked softly on Paul’s door.
“Paul? It’s Nancy, David, and George. Can we come in?”
That was one of the few times I heard Onion refer to herself by her real name and say “David” rather than “Dave” without being mad at him for some reason.
We heard Paul moving around in the room for a few seconds before he answered. “All right.”
The words were spoken low, almost as if it weren’t really all right.
Onion opened the door slowly. It creaked like we were entering one of those carnival rooms of terror or something. It didn’t help that the lights were down low and the window shades drawn.
“Paul?”
We entered cautiously. Paul was sitting on a chair by the bed, facing away from us.
Dave forced his way ahead, as if deciding he should take the lead. “Hey, Paul. It’s Dave. How’ve you been, man? We’ve all missed you at school.” His voice was solid and full of assurance.
Paul didn’t answer. Instead, he slowly turned toward us, revealing in increments what the cancer had done to him, as if a slow exposure would be easier to take than a sudden revelation.
I felt my heart pounding as I tried to act as if everything was fine, just fine, when in reality Paul had no nose to speak of and barely any upper lip, the cancer having eaten its way up his face and around under his left eye, which seemed to hang out in space with so much flesh missing underneath.
“So how does it look like I’ve been doing?” he asked, the words slurred. His mouth hung slightly open, revealing a blackened mass where most of his teeth and pink tissue should be.
We said nothing for what seemed like ages.
“Honestly, not too goo—” Onion began, but didn’t get to finish.
She didn’t get to finish because Dave—big, strong, brave Dave—wavered a moment and then went crashing to the floor, the loud impact shaking the entire room. If Onion or I had fallen like that, we wouldn’t have made half the noise.
Alarmed, Paul struggled to his feet just as Mrs. Humphries burst into the room.
“Paul!” she yelled, her voice sheer panic. “Paul?” she said again when she saw Paul standing there.
“It’s Dave,” said Onion. “I think he fainted.”
Mrs. Humphries looked both relieved and worried at the same time.
“Should I call nine-one-one?” she asked, half turning to hurry to the phone.
“Wait. Let’s see if he’s okay. Dave would be really upset if we called an ambulance for him for nothing.”
Dave was lying on his side. Onion tried to roll him over on his back, but he was too heavy for her to budge.
She looked up at me with impatience. “Give me a hand, will you? Just don’t stand there.”
Together we were able to roll him.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Anybody have any smelling salts?” Paul asked thickly. He tried to grin as best he could, but he didn’t have enough mouth left to really make it work.
Mrs. Humphries laughed loudly, then covered her mouth as if ashamed of herself.
With that, I felt much better about the situation, except for the whole Dave passed out on the floor and possibly injured thing.
Onion tried tapping Dave’s face, lightly at first, then harder when he didn’t respond. “Dave! Dave! Wake up!”
Dave moaned low and his head went from side to side as if he were having a bad dream. Then his eyes sprang open, and with a gasp he sat straight up.
“What? What happened?”
“You fainted, you big doofus,” Onion explained.
Dave looked bewildered. “I did? Really? I’ve never fainted before.”
“First time for everything,” Paul said before I could.
We all laughed, except Dave.
Dave struggled to his feet, refusing our help.
“Anything bruised or broken?” I asked.
Dave rubbed his neck. “Just my big ego.” He looked sheepishly at Paul. “Sorry about that, man. Didn’t mean to scare you or anything.”
“Actually, I think I scared you, didn’t I?” Paul lowered his gaze. “I have that effect on people now.”
No one responded. Mrs. Humphries turned and left the room as if she had heard enough.
Paul gingerly sat back down, and I realized the cancer must have spread beyond just what was visible on his face.
Our conversation was more normal after that, with Dave and Paul doing most of the talking and me and Onion mostly there to provide a laugh track as they cracked jokes and reminisced about their shared childhood.
After about half an hour I saw Paul slump a bit, and his speech became even more slurred than it already was.
Dave—now fully animated with his head nodding left and right as he spoke rapid fire—didn’t seem to notice.
“Paul,” I interrupted. “You seem tired. You okay?’
He seemed relieved that I had noticed.
“Yeah. I get tired real quick now, that’s all.” He paused to catch his breath. “I think maybe I should rest.”
“All right,” I said, tapping on Dave’s shoulder to signal him that we should leave.
Dave didn’t budge or shut up.
I persisted for Paul’s sake. “We better go now and let Paul rest. Right, Onion?”
“Right,” she said, her answer directed straight at Dave.
Dave finally took the hint. “Sure. We’re going. But we’ll be back soon. Okay?”
Paul tried to smile again. “That’s fine. Thanks for stopping by, guys. You’re the first visitors I’ve had in months.”
Dave’s face reddened as he slowly rose to his feet, drawing himself up to his full height. “You mean no one from the football team . . . and you were the co-captain . . . none of the players, none of the coaches—”
“It’s all right,” Paul said, waving Dave’s anger down. “Relax, Dave. Relax.”
Dave slumped and immediately fell silent.
Onion and I could never have gotten Dave to calm down so quickly, and I realized how close Dave and Paul must have been at one time.
I shook Paul’s hand. So did Onion. We both looked at Dave to see how he would say goodbye.
Dave hesitated in front of Paul, as if debating whether or not it was safe to throw his arms around him. Paul took the initiative and grasped Dave’s hand with both of his.
“Thanks, Dave. It was good to have a few laughs again.”
Then Paul leaned forward and whispered something in Dave’s ear. Dave nodded once, swallowed hard, and then turned and strode from the room as if instantly dismissed.
Caught off guard, I watched Dave go, and then looked back at Paul in surprise. It looked like Paul was trying to smile again.
Onion grabbed me by the shirttail and pulled me backward out the door.
Paul waved a faint farewell.
Mrs. Humphries thanked the three of us again for stopping by and soon we were back out in the bright sunlight. We piled into Dave’s car.
“I’m really glad we saw him,” Onion said.
“Me too,” I agreed. “Who knows if . . .” I let the rest go unsaid, more than a little sorry I even began to say it.
Dave pushed his key into the ignition, let go of it, and then lowered his forehead onto the steering wheel. He sat there motionless.
“Dave? Are you all right?” Onion asked.
Dave shook his head no, and then he started to sob—big, shoulder-shaking sobs that rocked the car up and down.
“Dave! What is it?” Onion asked.
The sobs quieted down and Dave sat back up.
“Paul and I . . . we used to play army guys when we were five or six. We would run through the neighborhood here after school, shooting terrorists everywhere with our toy guns and stuff. After each battle, before we’d go home to dinner, Paul would always say, ‘We live to fight another day!’”
“Is that what he whispered to you?” I asked.
Dave nodded. “I hadn’t heard that in years. Not in years. And he told me to stay brave.”
Onion and I said nothing.
Dave wiped his nose with the back of his hand, started the car, and drove us home in silence.
Paul died later that month, before we could see him again. The funeral was family only, but on the day it was held, Dave didn’t show up at school. I would like to think he had been secretly invited, although it’s just as likely he found his own way and place to grieve. We never asked him where he went that day and he never told us.
Now, whenever I pass through Dave and Paul’s old neighborhood, I find it comforting to know it’s free of imaginary terrorists thanks to two brave boys who fought them off together so many years ago.