You talk too much, you old fool, Nana scolded, Now shut up and take the damn medicine.
It don't agree with me, Alice! he protested.
Not half as much as I'll disagree with you if'n you don't! she warned.
Sparrow sighed heavily, stuck the handful of pills in his mouth and washed them down with water. Even I knew he didn't look well - his skin was grayish and cold looking, his hands shook even when still - the medicine clouded his mind, made him short tempered and forgetful and as my grandmother liked to remind him, ungrateful. She navigated his old wooden wheelchair into the sunlight, covered his lap with an afghan, slid a pillow behind his head. His old tomcat watched from the railing - soon Sparrow's lap would become more than he could resist and he would jump with a casual, agile leap into it - Nana would disapprove and fuss but not chase him off. If it was a good afternoon, both might soon nod off. If not, the new, fresh faced young resident doctor and his magic morphine were not far off. Ol' Man Death wasn't on the veranda that summer afternoon, although I sensed his presence. Watching from a distance, I thought, watching and waiting, in no particular hurry. Other business to be tended to before he headed our way. Other stops to make. Might be he'd be distracted all summer long.
I didn't say any of these things, a course, just inched a little closer to my grandmother. I could hear her knitting needles clacking steadily, just as if nothing in the world could be wrong or out of place.
Nana, I whispered, Is he gon' die?
Before she could answer, there was a rumble from Sparrow's wheelchair and a small meow of protest from the cat.
Not today, missy! the old man snapped and gave a harsh laugh.
I jumped so fiercely I tumbled over backwards and slammed my elbow into the door post, giving a howl of pain and feeling my heart miss a beat. Nana didn't laugh but I could see she wanted to. Sparrow breathed a little raggedly, coughed, then settled back down, one blue-veined old hand resting lightly on the cat's back. A thin trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth and my grandmother set her knitting down, reached for her handkerchief and gently wiped it away.
It's all happenchance, he muttered, Ever' thing between gettin' borned and dyin', just happenchance. Man cain't even die in his own time. What in the name of all that's holy is the point.
Fetch me a glass of sugar water and a straw, Nana told me briskly, Damn fool's tryin' to talk hisself into his grave.
Sparrow balked, growling that whiskey'd do a damn sight more good than her blasted sugar water but Nana ignored him.
Reckon you kin drink it, she told him flatly, Or I kin pour it down your gullet.
She'd mixed a packet of white powder into it and he drank, not willingly, but he drank. It wasn't too long before his watery old eyes closed and his chin fell to his chest. He slept, more or less peacefully, and after giving my elbow a cursory look, Nana pronounced me unhurt and returned to her knitting. The boats came in,
unloaded their catches, washed down their decks and moored in the calm water. Several of the fishermen stopped by the old house, visited briefly, and then began the walk home. The sun set over Brier Island and turned the clouds pink and blue and amber and glorious. And Sparrow didn't die that afternoon.
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