Only Prompts - 4. The Last Leaf - O Henry Prompt #2

The Last Leaf

Bobby was worried.

He pulled his jacket tighter as he hurried back to the tiny flat he shared with his boyfriend, Damian. He’d spent his last ten dollars on a few skinny chicken drumsticks, celery and carrots he’d found on the reduced rack, and some egg noodles. Damian hadn’t been feeling well for much too long, and Bobby wanted to make some chicken soup for them both.

Bobby fed the key into the lock and turned it; he stepped through the doorway into the small space. “Hi, babe!”

Damian lay on their sofa covered with a washed-out-red blanket. “Hey sweetie. You’re a little late. Everything okay?”

After hanging up his jacket on the hook in the hall, Bobby replied, “Yeah Dae, it’s okay. I just went to the store to get stuff for chicken soup.”

“That should cure what ails me.” Damian smiled weakly as his lover approached, and then bent to kiss him. “Do you want me to give you a hand?”

“No babe, I got this this.” Bobby headed to the tiny galley kitchen with his bag of groceries. As he unpacked the food, he winced at the soft celery, and less-than-firm carrots. He scrounged in the little cupboard they used as a pantry for an onion and a clove of garlic.

The chicken was disappointing to say the least.

‘I don’t think these could hold up any self-respecting chicken,’ Bobby thought. He put the drumsticks in the oven to roast, wanting to get the most flavour out of them.

“Did you get out today, Dae?” Bobby asked as he sat on the floor in front of Damian, who reached out to touch his lover’s shoulder. They’d sold their armchair the previous month.

“I did. I made about $30 from the last of the rag rugs. They are somewhat popular, Lord only knows why. I need to get back my poetry and prose. I’m not a rug-maker.”

“I’ll do some more of those twelve inch paintings, people love those.”

Damian smiled at his long-time boyfriend. “They love your flowers, Bobby. There is an innocence in them, yet they are sophisticated at the same time.”

“Well at least they are easy to sell, Dae.”

Bobby laid his hand on the top of Dae’s. He turned around and felt Damian’s forehead. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, you know, not so bad.”

Bobby said nothing; he wanted Dae to go to the walk-in clinic and have some tests. He’d been ill for a few weeks.

He got up and went to the kitchen to finish the soup. Though they were weedy, the drumsticks smelled good. Bobby pulled the meat off and then put half the chopped veg and the bones and skin into the pot. He filled it with water and put it to boil to make a quick soup stock.

Bobby then returned to the living room. Damian seemed unaware he was being watched as he rubbed his forehead.

“Dae,” Bobby’s voice was plaintive. “Baby, please go to the doctor. Do you want me to go with you? I will. You’ve had this fever too long.”

“We can’t afford the doctor.”

“Dammit, we will somehow. Fuck, go to the hospital then.”

“Bobby—”

“No, Dae! Fuck no! You sound like you want to die, like you’re giving up.” He hung his head. “Like you want to leave me.”

“Bobby, sometimes you know….” Damian stroked his boyfriend’s cheek. “Okay, I promise I’ll go.”

Later they ate their meager soup, Bobby taking only a ladle-full to ensure there would be leftovers for Damian the following day.

Damian didn’t go to the doctor the next day, or in the days that followed; he wrote for several days but his fever got worse. Worried, Bobby called in a doctor. The physician complained bitterly of having to make a house call, but he did finally agree.

An hour before the doctor said he would attend, Bobby picked up Damian’s writing so the doctor would have room on the tiny square coffee table. As he put the papers on their little kitchen table he noticed a poem in progress, and read it.

The ivy spread along the brick
and crept around the corner
So alive, green and bright it was
but now it's getting older

My life blood is tied to these vines
it grows slowly along the walls
the plant is fading year by year
I am—till the last leaf falls

Bobby sat on the hard kitchen chair; he didn’t like how the poem made him feel. That was a lie, it scared him. What did it mean?

The doctor came into the kitchen and sat on the other chair. “Your … friend … needs to take this medicine.” He scrawled on a small pad of paper, and handed it to Bobby. “He needs decent food and to be kept warm.”

Bobby nodded. “Yes, Doctor.”

After seeing the doctor out, Bobby pulled on his coat, ready to walk to the corner drugstore to pick up the prescription. He paused before closing the door to look at Damian, who was asleep—Bobby felt afraid.

On his way down he ran into Mr. Behrman, their elderly upstairs neighbour, who like Bobby was a painter.

“Bobby!”

Behrman’s accent was German and Bobby liked to talk to him. Mainly they discussed painting, how to capture the light and shadows, and Behrman’s planned masterpiece.

“Mr. Behrman, how are you?”

“Well, thank you Bobby. Are you going out?”

“Yes, to the drug store. Do you want anything?”

“Do you mind, my boy?” Max Behrman rooted through his pockets for a $20 bill, which he handed to Bobby. “Just a small bottle of my medicine.”

Bobby accepted the money and smiled. “Sure Mr. B. I’ll get that for you. I’ll be back soon.”

“Thank you, my boy.”

It was colder than it had been in the previous days, Bobby noticed as he left the old walk-up. He opened the squealing broken gate at the end of the short path to the street, and turned left toward the drugstore. Bobby smiled as stopped to buy Behrman’s small bottle of medicine at Jackson’s Liquor Store.

“Hi, Mr. Jackson. Can I get Behrman’s special, please?”

“Ah, Barenjager coming up.” Jackson bent to look under the counter. “Mr. Behrman is the only one who ever asked for this. I have to order specially to keep it in for him.”

“I’m sure he appreciates it.”

Mr. Jackson bagged the bottle and Bobby handed over the twenty dollars. The young man pocketed the $1.00 and change.

“Thanks, Mr. Jackson!”

In the drugstore, Bobby picked up the prescriptions and he looked at the money he had left, “Damn, $13.15. I have to find a way to make some more cash.”

Stopping at the green grocers, Bobby bought three oranges and some broccoli and a pint of milk. Money now was low beyond the dangerous level.

He walked briskly to the local arts and crafts store. Bobby begged some supplies on trade.

“Bobby,” Mary Parsons said. “Take what you need and I’ll take two of your lily watercolours. Is that fair?”

“Yes, Mary. Thanks so much.”

“Listen, if you bring me whatever you have, I can sell your watercolours all day long, and for a good price. What do you think of a 70/30 split?”

“That’s generous. Thanks Mary. I’m so worried about Damian. He’s sick and I need to feed him better and try and keep the place warmer.”

Mary put her arms around Bobby’s slim—boney—shoulders. “Well, then I want to help however I can.”

Bobby lugged his purchases home and met Behrman—who had been listening for the door— on the landing. He dashed upstairs and gave him the booze and change.

Behrman, nodded and started to cough deeply from his chest. “I better take some medicine. Bring it in, Little Bobby.”

So Bobby took the packages into Behrman’s, politely turned down a glass of medicine, and then told the old man about the odd poem Damian had written.

“Oh, Bobby, you don’t think Damian is serious, do you? I mean about that leaf on the ivy being tied to his soul, his life?”

Bobby shrugged. “I don’t know, Mr. Behrman. But he’s been weird lately, so—maybe.”

The old painter showed his younger, downstairs neighbor his latest painting. Bobby was glad, as it gave him something to think about besides himself.

After leaving Behrman, Bobby slowly slid his key into the old brass lock, and pushed the door open quietly. After hanging up his coat he stood noiselessly watching Damian sleep. He put his painting supplies in the studio corner of the little living room. It was cramped, but the light was good there.

In the kitchen Bobby made a cup of cheap instant coffee and sat down at the kitchen table to sip it. ‘How am I supposed to stop the last leaf falling?’

With elbows on the table, Bobby held his head in his stained fingers and thought about what it all could mean. The tears came on their own, as did the sobs he could no longer contain, so deep were they they’d have rattled his bones.

Damian woke and heard his partner’s distress. He hauled himself off the couch and went to Bobby’s side. He dragged the other chair around and sat. Before Bobby could protest, Damian pulled him close and held him until he quieted.

“Shhhh, baby. It’s going to be okay. I’m starting to feel better thanks to your soup and the medicine.”

Bobby looked into his lover’s eyes. “There’s never enough though is there? We’re always hungry, tired or sick.”

“It will get better.” Damian closed his eyes, willing it to be the truth—but doubting it at the same time.

They sat together in silence for several minutes, until Bobby disentangled himself from Damian’s arms. He swallowed and sighed.

Damian knew something was on Bobby’s mind. “Babe, please. You’ve been keeping stuff from me. Probably because I’ve been sick but I’m much better, so tell me what’s wrong.”

“Dae—I, well, I read your poem.”

“Poem? Which one?” Damian looked perplexed.

“The one about you and—”

Bobby was interrupted by a loud knocking on the ceiling from upstairs; this was followed by a loud crash and a thump. The two men looked at each other and said, “Behrman” at the same time. Bobby jumped up from his chair, telling his partner to dial 911. Bobby ran upstairs while Damian made the call.

The old doorframe broke easily, even under Bobby’s thin frame. He reached Behrman and knelt beside the fallen man. Behrman coughed and held his hand out to Bobby, who took it without hesitation.

After the coughing stopped, Behrman pulled Bobby closer. “My boy, I’m an old man .…” Coughing interrupted the old man’s words, and sirens could be heard wailing in the distance.

“Shhhh, Mr. B., an ambulance will be here soon. They’ll help.”

Behrman said “No” vehemently and squeezed Bobby’s hand. “No, no boy. Here, this … this is for you. There’s nothing to be afraid of now.” Behrman handed Bobby a leaf of ivy.

It lay on his palm, deep green and sharp, and Bobby looked at the old man. “I don’t understand.”

Once his lungs were quiet, the old man said, “It’s the very last one. I plucked it this morning because it was time.” Then in a whisper, Bobby didn’t hear, “My time not Damian’s.”

Behrman smiled. “Don’t be afraid, Bobby. Things will be different … better now. You’ve been like a son … I never had the chance to have. Thank you.”

Then Mr. Behrman was quiet and still and Bobby held onto his hand. He held the leaf in the other.

The paramedics entered the room with Damian in tow. Damian pulled Bobby away. There was nothing to be done now for Mr. Behrman.

The family had remained distant and there’d been no chance to meet them at the tiny service. After the small funereal Bobby and Damian and other neighbours returned to their flats. Damian, who’d been getting stronger daily, brought Bobby tea and they sipped it together on the couch.

“Dae?”

“Mmmmm? What babe?”

“Your poem, the one about the ivy, why did you write it?” Bobby hadn’t mentioned the leaf Behrman gave him.

Damian sighed. “It was just something Behrman said to me one day. He was a little drunk and kept saying his life was tied to the ivy on the building. That when it finally died, or when the last leaf fell, his life would be over too.”

Bobby sat up straighter. “You wrote that because of him? Not you?”

“Me?” Damian chuckled. “No, Bobby I don’t believe in that kinda thing; curses and magic, come on.”

“Of course not.” Bobby snuggled into Damian’s shoulder. The relief fell from him like a waterfall. Bobby didn’t notice Damian swallow and wipe the sweat away that had beaded on his brow.

Several weeks later Bobby answered the knock on the door. A man stood there, he looked strangely like Behrman. “Guten Morgen.”

“Hi. How can I help you?”

“I am Oskar Behrman. You knew my father I think; you’re Bobby Dandridge, yes?”

“Yes that’s me. Father? Mr. Behrman said he had no son.”

“Ah, well I’m not surprised. He never accepted me as anyone but his daughter.”

Bobby blinked until the realization hit him. “Oooh! I see. Oh gosh, please come in.”

They sat in the small living room. Damian who had been in the kitchen, joined them. Oskar rose and handed a letter to Bobby and a large wrapped painting. Bobby opened the letter.

My dearest Bobby,

You have been an old man’s friend and kind servant for years—always traipsing to pick-up my medicine. My life was full, but I was ill at the end and it was time to pluck that last leaf. Not many can go at the time of their own choosing but I am ready.

Loyalty, friendship, honesty — you have given all of these to me, Bobby. I watched you struggle for the last few years and I leave you with my final painting and a small stipend to thank you for the joy you brought me.

Tell Damian not to waste time since he’s now well.

Bless you and Damian.

I’ll see you in heaven.

Max B.

Bobby folded the letter and looked at the cheque—made out to him for $100,000. Damian looked once he’d noticed Bobby’s mouth drop open.

Finally able to speak, Bobby looked at Oskar. “I never asked, or wanted. I mean I never knew.”

Oskar smiled. “Don’t worry. Papa knew what he was doing and believe me, there was plenty for all of us. I hope the money will help you, and his canvas will bring you joy. Now I must be off. It was lovely to meet you both.”

Damian closed the door behind Oskar and returned to the living room. Bobby had pulled the wrapper off the painting. It was a self-portrait in oils of Behrman in front of their walk-up. The ivy vine was dead except for the last leaf, which Behrman held in his left hand.