Bill Lenoir

The old man focused on his breathing.

In. Out.

Timed to the beat of one of the many machines in his room.

In. Out.

He could hear what they said when they thought he was asleep: He's suffered enough; He's lived a full life; and -- his least favorite -- He'll be passing soon. This man will not pass. He will die, but not yet. He has one more thing to do, if only he could remember what it was.

In. Out.

But he will sleep for now.

#

The old man awoke to the priest thumbing his forehead with oil, mumbling the words absolving him of sins. Hours? Days? He knew not how long he slept.

He coughed.

"Good afternoon, Bill. I'm glad you're awake."

The old man nodded. The priest was his only regular visitor. His wife died decades ago and he'd outlasted all his friends, even his children.

"Maddie gave birth to a son this morning, in this very hospital. You're a great-great-grand father now. How about that?"

He grunted, but his mind shot elsewhere. He remembered now. The boy, if he lasts as long, will easily make it to the 22nd century. This is it. He gathered his breath and let loose a whisper:

"Bring the boy to me."

"Of course, Bill, of course. I don't expect it will be anytime soon, but I will make sure he visits."

The old man was surprised by the relief he felt. He closed his eyes.

The priest blessed him one more time.

"Bill, offer up your suffering to The Lord. You shine a beacon for us all."

"Bugger that," the old man thought, thankful he couldn't speak it aloud, and he drifted off to sleep again.

#

"PaPa?"

He swam up, reluctantly, from a good dream: the house by the lake, a cool October morning, sipping a cup of coffee with Kate.

"Go, Bill. I'll wait for you."

"PaPa, look who's here."

The old man opened his eyes, but could only see a football-sized roll of blankets in his grandson's arms.

"They named him after you. William. Billy."

"That's your name, too," he rasped.

"Convenient, isn't it? He looks like you." The younger old man tilted the bundle up.

No, not like me, the old man thought, but he does have Kate's eyes.

He lifted his hand up to the boy, touching his little palm, tiny fingers wrapping around his. The connection was made. No, the boy won't remember, but that's OK.

"Thank you," the old man said in a surprisingly powerful voice.

Maddie coming into view -- "PaPa, how are you?" -- but he didn't take his eyes off the boy.

"Fine, just fine." He lowered his arm, spending more energy just now than he has in months. "You done good, girl."

He closed his eyes.

"Let's go, he needs his sleep."

#

He died that night, but it really was more of a passing.

He picked up his still warm cup of coffee.

"You should have seen him, Kate..."

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