It was cold and damp as I walked up the steps to Morrie's house. I took in little details, things I hadn't noticed for all the times I'd visited. The cut of the hill. The stone facade2 of the house. The pachysandra plants, the low shrubs3. I walked slowly, taking my time, stepping on dead wet leaves that flattened4 beneath my feet.
Charlotte had called the day before to tell me Morrie was not doing well." This was her way of saying the final days had arrived. Morrie had canceled all of his appointments and had been sleeping much of the time, which was unlike him. He never cared for sleeping, not when there were people he could talk with.
"He wants you to come visit," Charlotte said, "but, Mitch . . ."
Yes?
"He's very weak."
The porch steps. The glass in the front door. I absorbed these things in a slow, observant manner, as if seeing them for the first time. I felt the tape recorder in the bag on my shoulder, and I unzipped it to make sure I had tapes. I don't know why. I always had tapes.
Connie answered the bell. Normally buoyant, she had a drawn6 look on her face. Her hello was softly spoken.
"How's he doing?" I said.
"Not so good." She bit her lower lip. "I don't like to think about it. He's such a sweet man, you know?"
I knew.
"This is such a shame."
Charlotte came down the hall and hugged me. She said that Morrie was still sleeping, even though it was 10 A.M. We went into the kitchen. I helped her straighten up, noticing all the bottles of pills, lined up on the table, a small army of brown plastic soldiers with white caps. My old professor was taking morphine now to ease his breathing.
I put the food I had brought with me into the refrigerator-soup, vegetable cakes, tuna salad. I apologized to Charlotte for bringing it. Morrie hadn't chewed food like this in months, we both knew that, but it had become a small tradition. Sometimes, when you're losing someone, you hang on to whatever tradition you can.
I waited in the living room, where Morrie and Ted1 Koppel had done their first interview. I read the newspaper that was lying on the table. Two Minnesota children had shot each other playing with their fathers' guns. A baby had been found buried in a garbage can in an alley8 in Los Angeles.
I put down the paper and stared into the empty fireplace. I tapped my shoe lightly on the hardwood floor. Eventually, I heard a door open and close, then Charlotte's footsteps coming toward me.
"All right," she said softly. "He's ready for you."
I rose and I turned toward our familiar spot, then saw a strange woman sitting at the end of the hall in a folding chair, her eyes on a book, her legs crossed. This was a hospice nurse, part of the twenty-four-hour watch.
Morrie's study was empty. I was confused. Then I turned back hesitantly to the bedroom, and there he was, lying in bed, under the sheet. I had seen him like this only one other time-when he was getting massaged-and the echo of his aphorism9 "When you're in bed, you're dead" began anew inside my head.
I entered, pushing a smile onto my face. He wore a yellow pajama-like top, and a blanket covered him from the chest down. The lump of his form was so withered10 that I almost thought there was something missing. He was as small as a child.
Morrie's mouth was open, and his skin was pale and tight against his cheekbones. When his eyes rolled toward me, he tried to speak, but I heard only a soft grunt11.
There he is, I said, mustering12 all the excitement I could find in my empty till.
He exhaled13, shut his eyes, then smiled, the very effort seeming to tire him.
"My . . . dear friend . . ." he finally said.
I am your friend, I said.
"I'm not . . . so good today . . ." Tomorrow will be better.
He pushed out another breath and forced a nod. He was struggling with something beneath the sheets, and I realized he was trying to move his hands toward the opening.
"Hold . . ." he said.
I pulled the covers down and grasped his fingers. They disappeared inside my own. I leaned in close, a few inches from his face. It was the first time I had seen him unshaven, the small white whiskers looking so out of place, as if someone had shaken salt neatly14 across his cheeks and chin. How could there be new life in his beard when it was draining everywhere else?
Morrie, I said softly. "Coach," he corrected.
Coach, I said. I felt a shiver. He spoke7 in short bursts, inhaling15 air, exhaling16 words. His voice was thin and raspy. He smelled of ointment5.
"You . . . are a good soul." A good soul.
"Touched me . . ." he whispered. He moved my hands to his heart. "Here."
It felt as if I had a pit in my throat. Coach?
"Ahh?"
I don't know how to say good-bye.
He patted my hand weakly, keeping it on his chest.
"This . . . is how we say . . . good-bye . . ."
He breathed softly, in and out, I could feel his ribcage rise and fall. Then he looked right at me.
"Love . . . you," he rasped.
I love you, too, Coach.
"Know you do . . . know . . . something else..."
What else do you know?
"You . . . always have . . .
His eyes got small, and then he cried, his face contorting like a baby who hasn't figured how his tear ducts work. I held him close for several minutes. I rubbed his loose skin. I stroked his hair. I put a palm against his face and felt the bones close to the flesh and the tiny wet tears, as if squeezed from a dropper.
When his breathing approached normal again, I cleared my throat and said I knew he was tired, so I would be back next Tuesday, and I expected him to be a little more alert, thank you. He snorted lightly, as close as he could come to a laugh. It was a sad sound just the same.
I picked up the unopened bag with the tape recorder. Why had I even brought this? I knew we would never use it. I leaned in and kissed him closely, my face against his, whiskers on whiskers, skin on skin, holding it there, longer than normal, in case it gave him even a split second of pleasure.
Okay, then? I said, pulling away.
I blinked back the tears, and he smacked17 his lips together and raised his eyebrows18 at the sight of my face. I like to think it was a fleeting19 moment of satisfaction for my dear old professor: he had finally made me cry.
"Okay, then," he whispered.
气候又冷又湿，我踏上了莫里家的台阶。我注意到一些细小的东西，那是我以前从未留意的。山体的形状。房子的石墙。富贵草属长青地被植物。低矮的灌木丛。我慢慢地走着，踩着潮湿的枯叶朝上面走去。
夏洛特前一天给我打了电话，告诉我说莫里"不太好"。这是她的表达方式，意思他快不行了。莫里已经取消了所有的约会，大部分时间是睡觉。这对他来说是很不寻常的。他从来不喜欢睡觉，尤其是当有人能跟他说话时。
"他要你来，"夏洛特在电话里说，"可是米奇……"
嗯？
"他非常的虚弱。"
门廊的台阶。大门上的玻璃。我慢慢地、仔细地打量着这一切，似乎我是第一次看见它们。我感觉到了背包里的录音机，我拉开包的拉链想证实一下磁带是否也在包里。我不知道为什么要这么做。我总是磁带不离身的。
是康尼来开的门。她平时很欢快的脸此时显得有些憔悴。她轻轻地问了一声好。
"他怎么样？"我问。
"不太好，"她咬着嘴唇说。"我可不愿去想，他是那么的可爱，你知道。"
我知道。
"真是太叫人难过了。"
夏洛特来到客厅和我拥抱了一下。她说莫里还睡着，虽然已经是上午十点了。我们来到厨房。我帮她收拾了一下，桌上放着一长排的药瓶，犹如一排戴白帽的褐色塑料士兵。我的老教授现在靠服用咖啡来缓气了。
我把带来的食品放进冰箱--汤，蔬菜饼，金枪鱼色拉。我向夏洛特表示了歉意。这样的食品莫里已经有几个月没碰了。尽管我们都知道，但这已经成了一个小小的传统。有时，当你即将失去某个人时，你就尽量想保持这份传统。
我等在起居室里，莫里和特德•科佩尔就是在这间屋子里进行第一次采访的。我拿起了放在桌上的报纸。在明尼苏达，两个儿童在玩他们父亲的枪时被打死。在洛杉矶，一条街上的垃圾箱里发现了一个死婴。
我放下报纸，望着空荡荡的壁炉。我的脚轻轻敲打着硬木地板。终于，我听见了开门和关门的声音，接着夏洛特走了过来。
"行了，"她轻声说。"他在等你。"
我起身朝我熟悉的地方走去。这时我看见有个陌生的女人坐在客厅另一头的一张折椅上，她交叉着双腿在看一本书。这是值二十四小时班的专门护理晚期病人的护士。
莫里的书房空无一人。我有些困惑。随后我犹犹豫豫地转身来到卧室，他在那里，躺在床上，身上盖着毯子。我以前只有一次看见他是躺在床上的--他在接受按摩--我立刻想到了他的那句格言："当你躺在床上时，你就是死人。"
我走了进去，脸上硬挤出一丝笑容。他穿一件黄色的睡衣，胸口以下盖着毯子。他的身体萎缩得这般厉害，我一时觉得他好像缺少了哪个部位。他小得如同一个孩子。
莫里的嘴巴张开着，脸上的皮紧贴在颧骨上，没一点血色，当他的眼睛转向我时，他想说什么，但我只听见他的喉咙动了一下。
你在这儿，我鼓起身上所有的劲说。
他呼了口气，闭上眼睛，然后笑了，这点努力看来也使他疲惫不堪了。
"我……亲爱的朋友……"他最后说。
我是你的朋友，我说。
"我今天……不太好……"
明天会好些的。
他又吐出一口气，使劲地点点头。他在毯子下面费劲地动弹，我意识到他是想把手伸出来。
"握住……"他说。
我移开毯子，握住了他的手指。他的手握进了我的手掌里。我尽量靠近他，离他的脸只有几英寸的距离。这是我第一次看见他没有刮胡子，细小的白胡须显眼地扎在外面，好像有人在他的脸颊和下巴上均匀地洒了一层盐似的。当他身体的各个部位都在衰竭时，他的胡子却依然有着生命力。
莫里，我轻声叫道。
"叫教练，"他纠正了我。
教练，我说。我打了个寒颤。他的说话非常短促：吸进氧气，呼出词语。他的声音既尖细又刺耳。他身上有一股药膏味。
"你……是个好人。"
好人。
"摸摸我……"他低语道。他把我的手移向胸口。"这儿。"
我觉得喉咙里被什么东西卡住了。
教练？
"嗯？"
我不知道怎么说再见。
他无力地拍拍我的手，仍把它按在胸口上。
"这……就是在说……再见……"
他的呼吸很微弱，吸进，呼出，我能感觉到他的胸腔在上下起伏。他这时正眼望着我。
"爱……你，"他说。
我也爱你，教练。
"知道你……还……"
知道什么？
"你总是……"
他的眼睛眯缝起来，然后他哭了。他的脸就像一个泪腺还没有发育的婴儿一样扭曲着。我紧紧地拥抱了他几分钟。我抚摸着他松弛的肌肤，揉着他的头发。我把手掌贴在他的脸上，感觉到了绷紧的肌肤和像是从滴管里挤出来的晶莹的泪水。
等他的呼吸趋于平稳后，我清了清嗓子说，我知道他累了，我下个星期二再来，到时希望他有好的状态。谢谢，他轻轻地哼了一声，很像是笑的声音，但听来仍让人觉得悲伤。
我拎起了装有录音机的包。为什么还要带这玩意？我知道我们再也不会使用它了。我凑过去吻他，脸贴着脸，胡子贴着胡子，肌肤贴着肌肤，久久没有松开，比平时都要长，我只希望能多给他哪怕是一秒钟的快乐。
行了？我缩回身子说。
我眨眨眼睛忍住了泪水，他看见后咂了咂嘴唇，扬起了眉毛。我希望这是老教授心满意足的开心一刻：他最终还是叫我哭了。
"行了，"他低声说。
收听单词发音 |
1
ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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7
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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aphorism
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| n.格言，警语 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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11
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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12
mustering
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的现在分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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13
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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15
inhaling
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| v.吸入( inhale的现在分词 ) | |
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exhaling
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的现在分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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17
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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