He was unconscious in the hospital in Vermont, after the airplane crashed on Sugarbush Mountain, and Valencia, having heard about the crash, was driving from Ilium to the hospital in the family Cadillac El Dorado Coupe de Ville. Valencia was hysterical, because she had been told frankly that Billy might die, or that, if he lived, he might be a vegetable.
Valencia adored Billy. She was crying and yelping so hard as she drove that she missed the correct turnoff from the throughway. She applied her power brakes, and a Mercedes slammed into her from behind. Nobody was hurt, thank God, because both drivers were wearing seat belts. Thank God, thank God. The Mercedes lost only a headlight. But the rear end of the Cadillac was a body-and-fender man's wet dream. The trunk and fenders were collapsed. The gaping trunk looked like the mouth of a village idiot who was explaining the he didn't know anything about anything. The fenders shrugged. The bumper was at a high port arms. "Reagan for President!" a sticker on the bumper said. The back window was veined with cracks. The exhaust system rested on the pavement.
The driver of the Mercedes got out and went to Valencia, to find out if she was all right. She blabbed hysterically about Billy and the airplane crash, and then she put her car in gear and crossed the median divider, leaning her exhaust system behind.
When she arrived at the hospital, people rushed to the windows to see what all the noise was. The Cadillac, with both mufflers gone, sounded like a heavy bomber coming in on a wing and a prayer. Valencia turned off the engine, but then she slumped against the steering wheel, and the horn brayed steadily. A doctor and a nurse ran out to find out what the trouble was. Poor Valencia was unconscious, overcome by carbon monoxide. She was a heavenly azure.
One hour later she was dead. So it goes.
In a very short period of time in Billy's life, he gets in a near-fatal airplane crash, and his wife dies. Of course, Billy has known for quite some time that his plane would smash into Sugarbush Mountain and that Valencia would turn a heavenly, carbon-monoxide azure. For Billy, these are just two of the puzzle pieces of his life that he can return to again and again. Death isn't an end. More like a nap at the end of a long day.
I suppose that's a healthy way of thinking about death. It takes away death's attendant fears. Everyone enjoys a good nap. As a Christian, I'm not really supposed to be anxious about the afterlife. I'm actually supposed to look forward to it. As an old saying goes, death is the price we pay for life.
I have witnessed one death in my lifetime. My sister's. The thing that I remember most about that morning is her struggle for breath. I'd always heard the term "death rattle," but, until then, I'd never heard it. My sister looked like she was starved for air. Her chest rose and fell like ocean swells. I knew she wasn't in pain, that it was all part of the process of dying. Yet, I still wanted to somehow ease her struggle. Thinking this, I almost missed the moment she stopped breathing.
I heard her take a big watery gulp and let go of it. Then there was silence. At that moment, her face, which had been lined with effort, smoothed, almost like a lake after a storm. It was beautiful and terrible to see. The color in her cheeks leeched away. She looked peaceful, happy. After two years of hospitals and operations and nursing homes, she was gone, and her body reflected some kind of homecoming. As if she had found car keys or a photograph that had been lost for a very long time.
So it goes.
Saint Marty is thankful to his sister for teaching him that death isn't terrifying. It's just a door to walk through.
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