Cagney stood staring in the bathroom mirror, waiting for the water to run hot. Cale lay in the other room, comatose now for nearly 36 hours, unlikely to ever again regain consciousness. Cagney hardly recognized the image that stared back at him from the other side of the looking glass. April had told him not long ago that he’d grown more handsome with age, the etchings of lines at the corners of eyes and mouth, the graying of hair; but all Cagney saw was the stress of waiting for his father’s death mingled with the ugliness of his sin—guilt and something else. It was that something else, which he couldn’t quite define but understood, from which he shied.

Freyja had required little more from him during their affair than his presence in her bed. He didn’t want to believe Charlie’s charge that Freyja had all along faked her pleasure with him. Their trysts had been nothing more than physical, so Cagney believed, or wanted to believe, that she found his love-making pleasurable, desirable, even if she had faked it 60 percent of the time, as Charlie claimed most women did. He couldn’t believe that any woman would continue an affair with a lousy lover just to control him, a show of her power, to get back at an abusive father, a hatred of men, whatever her reasons.

Even though Freyja hadn’t called since the affair ended, there were times when Cagney found he still desired her body. Particularly troubling for him was that his desire for Freyja seemed to grow in direct proportion with his bonding with April. April offered everything he ever desired in a relationship but never found with Charlie—the friendship, companionship, comfort and intimacy he’d always thought a marriage should be. All the things he suspected neither of his parents ever enjoyed once the novelty of sex wore off. Cagney couldn’t recall ever seeing his father romance his mother; and his mother—well, apparently she never learned the art of manipulation that many women of her generation had employed in order to get what they desired by making their husbands think it had been his idea all along. All the things he never got from Freyja; but like Ron, it was a bargain he was happy to accept because there was safety in it. No commitment.

Cagney sighed and filled the bowl with hot water, then held his father’s badger hair shaving brush under the hot water before lathering up the soap, in its mug.

It was Saturday morning and the nurse’s aide assigned to Cale was tending another patient whose pending death required more immediate care. She suggested to Cagney that he shave Cale. Cagney consented; it was the least, if not the last thing, he could do for his father.

Cagney set the mug, with the brush inside it, alongside the bowl of water on the table that straddled Cale’s midsection; he set a towel on his father’s shoulder. Although his color was ashen, he looked to Cagney as if he were in deep slumber, the rise and fall of his chest slow and steady.

Cagney took up the mug, sat on the edge of the bed, and stirred the brush again to lather the soap; then he set about applying the soap to his father’s face. He expected the touch of the brush against his face would stir Cale from his sleep. When it didn’t, wanting to believe that some part of Cale was cognizant of the shrinking world he still inhabited, Cagney said, “It’s okay, Dad. It’s me. Your aide is busy, so you’re stuck with me to shave you today.”

Cagney reached for the double-edge razor in the bowl of water and proceeded to scrape the soap from Cale’s neck; he heard the soft scratch of blade against stubble.

“Thanks,” Cagney said, “for sticking up for me last week, when Charlie came to visit. I know you don’t approve of what I did to her, but …” Cagney didn’t know how to finish his sentiment, so he changed direction: “Freyja—the other woman—she was Swedish. You know my type has always been Mediterranean—dark, swarthy. Freyja’s name is from Old Norse, meaning lady, which she most definitely was not. It also means mistress.” Cagney allowed himself a chuckle. “Ironic, that, eh? Anyway, Freyja was blond and fair, but she had a great pair of gams.” Cagney paused a moment to dab dry a trickle of water from Cale’s neck.

“Do you recall the discussion we had years ago while we watched The Millionairess on Turner Classics? I told you I thought Sophia Loren was beautiful and that her legs were to die for.” Cagney chuckled at the memory and added, “When Charlie found out Freyja was Swedish, she set about hating all Swedes. I could understand the wrath she directed my way, with enough left over to rain down on Freyja, but an entire nation? Nicholas Lidstrom, Johan Franzen, Henrik Zetterberg, Tomas Holmstrom, all of them became detestable to her and so she stopped watching hockey.”

Cagney dipped the razor into the water, gave it a swirl, and set about shaving a cheek.

“Why she didn’t set about hating all women is beyond me. But Swedes suddenly became the lowlifes of the earth. It was shortly thereafter that she had me move out.” Cagney listened to the clink of the razor in the bowl and felt his eyes tear up. “I guess her respect for me, having consorted with such a lowlife, finally ran out.” A moment later he set about scraping clean of soap Cale’s other cheek.

“You were right, Dad, about Charlie forgiving me. Before I moved out, she used to delight in setting me up for failure. She once asked me if I thought Gwyneth Paltrow was beautiful. Like I’m going to disagree with millions of people around the world. Like casting directors cast her because she’s repulsive to look at. Southern California girl. I figured she was far enough away from Sweden to be safe. But no. Maybe it was because she was a blonde.” Cagney ran the razor along Cale’s chin. “Charlie used to knock me for being judgmental of women’s looks, but you know what? I’ve never known a woman who thought ugly some of the most beautiful women in the world.” Cagney sighed. “Saying you forgive someone means nothing unless you show them you have, and Dad? She says she’s no longer angry, but the things she says tell me otherwise. Maybe she doesn’t want to let go of her anger.”

Cagney sat staring at Cale, wondering if any of his words registered on what might’ve been left of his rotting brain. “I wish you’d been more nurturing to me, Dad. But I guess you gave what you could. Maybe you just didn’t know how any more than I know how. I just wish … I just wish I knew you better. Maybe then I’d better understand who I am, why I behave the way I do.”

Cagney dropped the razor into the bowl and proceeded to wipe the remnants of soap from Cale’s face. “There, finished, and without so much as a nick.” Cagney gathered his father’s shave accoutrements, stood and turned to head for the bathroom to find April leaning against the doorway to the room.

“Hi,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to worry about waking him,” Cagney said with a grin. And then, “How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long.”

Cagney recalled the day his father made the same claim, during a conversation he was having with April. From the discussion that ensued, Cagney knew his father had been awake far longer than he confessed, and so he only wondered how much of his soliloquy she’d overheard.

“Come on in and sit down,” Cagney said, and left for the bathroom.

When he returned he found April standing in front of one of the room’s chairs, her arms outstretched. He stepped to her and felt her arms go around him as he wrapped his own around her. A moment later he kissed her, conscious of his father’s presence, and they sat.

“I suspect you heard more than you let on.”

“I did,” April said, somewhat uncomfortably.

“Then why did you lie?”

“I didn’t lie, Cagney. I just … I don’t know. I didn’t want you to feel I’d intruded on a private moment.”

“I’m sorry,” Cagney said. “I didn’t mean to accuse you.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” Cagney cringed at the accusatory tone of his question.

“I understand you have trust issues.”

“I don’t want you to make allowances for me.”

“I’m not making allowances, Cagney.”

“Oh, but aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not. I know some of what Charlie’s told you, which has left you questioning anything I say. Is it right that you distrust me? No. I’ve always trusted until someone proves untrustworthy. But I understand the why behind your distrust. In time, I hope you’ll be able to let that go.”

Cagney sighed. “I appreciate your patience.”

“It’s nice to know my Italian heritage fits with your type.”

“As do your legs,” Cagney said with a glance at April’s crossed legs. He felt his pupils dilate as they welcomed the image.

“Physical attraction has never been a problem for us,” April said, glancing at Cale, perhaps fearing she might find his eyes open. Cagney felt shame wash over him, that he’d spoken of his desire in the presence of his dying father, wondering whether their conversation might register in his cancer-riddled brain, no doubt frustrated by his inability to participate.

“Physical attraction got me into a loveless marriage and was also the basis for an affair that was equally lacking.”

“Which might be a fear of intimacy, the result of a father who wasn’t very nurturing as well as the role models you had as a boy. But that doesn’t mean you can’t learn. I think you’re more nurturing than you think. You’ve always been nurturing to me, even before you encouraged me to leave Ron.”

“I hope that was the right thing.”

“I know you fear I left him for you, but you gave me the courage to do something I should’ve done long ago.”

“Maybe, but I wonder if my motives were so pure.”

“If they weren’t, don’t you think we’d have consummated a physical relationship by now? That I have hope for a future with you brings me comfort, but believe me when I say you were not the reason I left Ron.”

Cagney said nothing; April continued: “I know you don’t want to hurt me any more than I want to hurt you. Nor do I want to be hurt. But there are no guarantees in life. At some point we have to risk—whether the risk is to change jobs, to self-publish to further a literary career, or to love.”

“My father’s life is filled with regrets, even if he hasn’t told me any of them.”

“And I understand your regret over the affair, and also your angst over future regret, but you can’t go through life avoiding risk because that will lead to much greater regret later. Who wants to end up in a hospice bed wondering what if, or I wish I had done this or that when I had the chance?”

“I know that, logically, in my head. But I’m stuck in this place, and I can’t keep from looking back over my shoulder, at the past.”

“And you can’t go forward without an occasional glance at the past. But the danger is in staring. That’s something I did far too long with Ron. I read in an article about a 91-year-old woman that she didn’t want to think about yesterday. She wanted to think about today, and what she was going to do tomorrow. She defined the moment when a man or a woman begins to grow old—when they find their thoughts turning more to the past than to the future.”

“Is it any wonder I’m feeling old?” Cagney said, grinning.

“And who wants to feel old?”

“But I am old.”

“You’re not old, Cagney, not at 52. Fifty-two is just a number.”

“Yeah, and I have more numbers behind me than I do ahead of me.”

“Even if that’s true, it’s defeatist thinking. You need to start living for today, as if it’s the first day of your life, and for tomorrow. Otherwise you’ll end up on your deathbed regretting that you left most of your life unlived.”

“If I’d asked you, six months ago, to have an affair, would you have agreed?”

“No, but not because I doubted my feelings for you. I understand, from what I’ve read and from my marriage, that men are capable of sex without love. I don’t pretend to understand why that is, but I know I would not have gotten from you what I want, even if you’d given me what I need.”

“Is there a difference, between want and need?”

“A world of difference, Cagney. A need can be easily satisfied, if only temporarily, which is perhaps why men more easily act on their need. Whereas a want is more difficult to obtain.”

Cagney thought about what he wanted, hoped to have, with April, why he feared he might not ever be able to have it. In marrying Charlie, he’d given in to need, as he had when he’d responded to Freyja’s initial flirtation. But neither of them had been able to provide for his wants.

“I’m not even sure what it is that I want.”

“I think you do, Cagney. You’re very introspective. You’ve told me what it was that was lacking in your marriage and the affair. I think what you’re unsure of is that having what you want might not bring you happiness.”

April followed Cagney’s gaze, to where his father lay.

“That was a wonderful thing you did, even nurturing, shaving him,” April said. “I’m sure at some level he was aware of it, was appreciative. Even if he couldn’t let you know.”

“Thank you. I needed to hear that.”

“What was so funny about you telling him that Sophia Loren’s legs were to die for?”

Cagney laughed. “He told me he couldn’t understand the allure legs held for some men, that you only end up pushing them out of the way.”

April laughed and Cagney found himself taken by the sound as well as by the brightness of her smile. He never would’ve guessed at the hurt Ron had inflicted on her heart.

When her laughter ebbed, he asked, “You believe in the theory about paying it forward?”

“I do. It’s easy to maintain the status quo, to take what was given you and pass it along to the next person. It takes great courage to break the chain, to unlearn those old debilitating lessons, to go forward with a renewed sense of employing something newly learned. It may be difficult, but it’s ever so much more rewarding. It’s contagious, self-perpetuating, and I think it can bring happiness, too.”

Cagney only looked at April, to acknowledge to himself her beauty as well as her wisdom, which, to his surprise, only made her all the more desirable.