Chapter Text
My darling, if you are not well when I come back I will get a good room or two in some quiet place, and we will live together and devote ourselves altogether to the job of curing you, and making you stronger and healthier than ever.
- Walt Whitman, from a letter written to his lover Peter Doyle, August 21 1869
Your turn to chop.
My turn to cook.
Your turn to die for love.
My turn to resurrect.
– Leonard Cohen, "To a Young Nun"
–
Paul didn't cry until he walked into John's hospital room and saw him lying in the bed, white as the sheets, and so thin that Paul thought he could see the shape of his skull under his skin. He didn't cry when he got the phone call from his manager, when he told Linda, as he threw together a suitcase, on the flight from Sussex to New York City, in the car from the airport to Roosevelt Hospital, sitting in the private waiting room surrounded by security, or when he saw Yoko, dressed all in black and looking very fragile, in the corridor outside. He walked into the room, saw John near death and so frail that he looked like he might blow away in a stiff breeze, and, for just a moment, cried. He hadn't let himself think it could be so bad.
John looked so lost in the bed, surrounded by machines, tubes running in and out of him. He looked small, something Paul had never considered before. Under the bandages Paul could see his bare chest - Jesus, he could see the bones under John's skin, ribs prominent enough that Paul could fit his fingers in the gaps between them, jaw sharp enough to cut him. John always had substance; he was solid, and strong, naturally broad and muscular. Paul remembered all too well the feel of John's biceps tensing under his hands, the way John's strong, thick thighs tightened as he straddled him, how his back arched and twisted as he came. That was a long time ago. Time and distance had come between them. He hadn't properly seen John in years. Now John was barely alive.
Paul took a deep, shuddering breath and wiped his eyes. A nurse came in and ushered him out of the room. He walked down the hall to the payphone and rang home. "How is he?" Linda asked.
"Alive, still. But, Lin - he looks awful. Worse than I thought. I know he was shot but - Jesus Christ, he's a skeleton. I know he's been on and off those diets but I didn't know it was this bad. What's she thinking? It can't be healthy."
"He was always thin."
"Not always." Linda first met John when he was on heroin and rail thin, all straight lines and hard angles. "He was never, you know, heavy, but still. George was the skinny one, always has been."
"Well, he's being taken care of. Roosevelt is a good hospital. I'm sure they'll get him where he needs to be."
"Yeah," Paul said. "Yeah. How are the kids?"
They caught up about the children for a few minutes. Mary and Stella were eager for him to come home and help them with their garden. It was Linda's idea to have them grow seedlings in the kitchen and plant them outside in the spring, so they would learn how their food grew from tiny seeds. They had lined up their little pots in the bay window in the kitchen, where the sun poured in: tomatoes, courgettes, cauliflower, spring onion, and runner beans to start. When spring came they'd make a bed in the garden and plant them outside. "When do you think you'll be home?" Linda asked.
"Not sure. If he wakes up and tells me to fuck off, I'll be on the next flight home. But until then I'll stay."
They ended the call after exchanging I love yous and Linda telling Paul to give everyone her best. Paul promised he would and set the phone back in the cradle before walking back down the hall. He felt like he was sleepwalking. There he was, in a hospital in New York City, press swarming outside, fans weeping on the pavement, while his best friend, former partner, and ex-lover lay a hair's breadth from dying in a clean white room, hooked up to machines, so thin that it was amazing he hadn't dropped dead already. That morning Paul had woken up at home, completely at ease, enjoying his coffee while Linda took the children to school. The world slanted under his feet when he got the phone call with the news. No matter how it turned out things were never going to be the same.
The door to John's room was closed, so Paul walked past, back to the waiting room cordoned off by security. He wasn't exactly surprised to see Yoko but he wondered what she was doing if she wasn't talking to the press. "They told me he was dead when we arrived," she said without preamble, as Paul sat down. "But the surgeon brought him back. They had to give him five pints of blood."
"Do they know when he'll wake up?"
"No. If he wakes up. They still don't know." She fixed him with a piercing look. "He would want you here."
"I came as soon as I could."
"He would appreciate that, if he knew."
Paul had never found it easy to talk to Yoko but now it was even worse, without John or Linda to buffer them. He wondered what she knew about him and John, if John had ever told her or if she'd worked it out herself. She wasn't stupid or oblivious but, like John, she had the talent of only seeing what she wanted to see. Linda was the opposite. She knew before Paul could say anything. He tried to explain one night, drunk and depressed as the band was falling apart, and all she'd said was "I know. It's okay. I know."
"How's Sean doing?" Paul asked.
"I told him that John had an accident and has to stay in hospital to get better."
"Are you going to bring him over?"
"I haven't decided yet. I don't want to frighten him."
"I think it would be worse if he didn't come and see for himself." Paul thought of John's little sisters, packed off to their aunt and not knowing that their mother was dead for months. "Just in case."
"I'll speak to the doctors later. The nanny can bring him. I have to manage this. The press, and the family."
John had said once that Yoko spent most of her time in her office, on the phone, managing everything. He sounded like he didn't care to know what exactly she was managing, like he was fine with letting her control it all. His business, his life. "Of course."
Visiting hours ended at six. Paul was staying at the Plaza on Central Park South, less than ten minutes from the hospital, but he began to fidget and worry his hangnails as the car drove him away from the hospital. In his room, he had a scotch and soda set up, and stood at the window overlooking the courtyard with the glass in his hand. After he finished it he tried to get some rest but hardly slept that night. When he closed his eyes he saw John in the bed, tubes and wires running in and out, pale as death, painfully thin. He thought about all the afternoons they'd cut class, John at art college and Paul at the Institute, and gone to Paul's house to smoke and write. Paul fried the eggs, spread butter and jam on toast, made tea with milk and sugar, raided the pantry for anything that looked good. They would meet at the bus shelter on Penny Lane and go to the chippy for bags of hot, salty chips, and a piece of fish to split if they had the money or Liverpool scallops - potatoes thinly sliced, battered and fried - if they didn't. John always shared his sweets, even the good ones like a Cadbury Dairy Milk bar, giving Paul half of one when they barely knew each other. Later, when they were scraping by in Hamburg, they would stumble out of the Indra or the Top Ten to the nearest café for a meal after eight hours on stage, going for the cheapest pieces of meat and sharing mealy potatoes, never talking about the times they went to bed together because they just couldn't then. In Paris, John paid for countless banana milkshakes, and Paul's birthday present for him was a hamburger and a Coke, a real Coke in a glass bottle shaped like the women they fantasized about, and there was no panic when they realized that they had to sleep in the same bed. On tour, if they got to the hotel after the kitchen closed, they would have cornflakes for dinner in their suite. Restaurants were too happy to welcome them. Paul's housekeeper at Cavendish was a fantastic cook, and so was John's at Kenwood. Paul got skinny the summer he started doing cocaine with Groovy Bob but he never stopped eating regularly. At some point John replaced food with drugs, and Yoko, and time passed, and now he was so thin.
Paul opened his eyes in the morning feeling like he hadn't slept at all. He drank three cups of hot, bitter coffee at breakfast and was too jittery to do more than pick at his scrambled eggs and toast. The car drove him through a misty rain back to the hospital, past the frantic masses and police barricade around the entrance. Ringo was waiting for him. "When did you get in?" Paul asked, giving him a hug, grateful for how solid he felt.
"Early, before sun-up. I thought about ringing but I didn't want to disturb you."
They sat in the corner, huddling together just like they'd done in hotel bathrooms. A whole floor to themselves and they always ended up hiding in the smallest space possible. "Have you seen him?" Paul said.
"Not yet. Yoko has to give the go ahead for visitors and she's not here yet."
"He looks like hell. I couldn't believe it."
"He did almost die."
"Well, yeah." Paul was uncomfortably reminded that Ringo had nearly died himself, multiple times: peritonitis, tuberculosis, losing several feet of bowel just a year before. "But it's not just that. He's so thin. I could see his ribs. I think I could put both hands around his waist and be able to touch my fingertips together."
"I know. I just saw him last month."
"Did you say anything?"
"What could I say? He's a grown man. He wouldn't listen to me."
They didn't see Yoko that afternoon. The nanny came with Sean, and she didn't stop to talk, walking past Paul and Ringo with him in tow. Paul got a look at him as they went through the door into the corridor that led to John's room. In his last Christmas card, John had included a scribbled family portrait, drawing Sean with a dark bowl cut and two big black dots for eyes. It wasn't an inaccurate rendering. Paul instantly recognized him as his father's son. "Did you ever meet Sean?" Ringo asked, when the door was closed. "He's a lovely boy. Reminds me of mine when they were that age."
"Once, when he was a baby. John wouldn't let me hold him."
"Why not?"
Paul shrugged. "You know how he gets."
Ringo nodded. "If we all live to be a hundred there's things I still won't understand about him."
He remembered that moment, when John mantled over his baby like a bird of prey over its chicks and refused to hand him over. He was jealous, pure and uncomplicated. Jealous that Paul always had an easier time with kids, that he could play with Julian without feeling self-conscious, that he had something all for his own and he didn't want to share it with someone who, he had convinced himself, could take it away. He wasn't going to tell Ringo. He didn't have the energy to explain.
The nanny came back through with Sean a little while later. He looked fine, for a child who'd just seen his father in such a state. Maybe he was too young to understand what really happened. "Mrs. Lennon gave you permission for you to see him," she said. "I'm taking Sean home. She'll be back later."
"Where is Mrs. Lennon?" Ringo asked.
"Dealing with the press. Managing the situation. I'm sure you understand she's very busy."
Paul went with Ringo to look in on John. "Oh, God," Ringo breathed as he walked into the room. Paul's hand went up to his shoulder and gripped him tightly. "I don't believe it. It's worse than I thought."
They sat and watched John. A machine breathed for him. The IV dripped medicine and morphine into his veins. His entire body seemed to be bled of color; even his hair looked dull and gray. Four shots to the back, shoulder, and arm, and it was nothing short of a miracle that he'd survived. The doctors had restarted his heart, replaced the blood he'd lost, pulled the bullets out of him, sewed him up, and were doing the utmost to keep him alive. Paul wondered what hadn't made its way onto the news. The shooter had been arrested right there at the Dakota but his motivation was a mystery. Something to do with The Catcher in the Rye. John lay between life and death because of an old book he'd never read.
The next few days took on a dull sameness. Paul hung around the hospital, feeling useless, and let his mind race when he was by himself. He spoke to Linda every night. He wasn't there when the doctors let John's sedation lift and woke him up for the first time since being shot. He sat with Ringo in the waiting room. Julian was coming from Wales, and Mimi from Dorset. The crowds outside the hospital got bigger. They didn't see Sean again. "You think George will come?" Paul asked Ringo, on the fourth day.
"No. They're not speaking."
"Even after all this?"
"When George is done with something, he's done. All that religion and he can still hold a grudge better than anyone I've ever met." Ringo shook his head. "They're as bad as each other."
Paul barely saw Yoko. When she wasn't managing the crisis she was in John's room, keeping watch over him. A few times she brought Sean, early in the morning before Paul or Ringo got into the room to see him, but usually she was by herself. It made Paul wonder about all the time they'd spent apart, Yoko staying in New York and John in Los Angeles with May. He didn't regret telling John to get back together with her, because he wanted John to be happy and it wasn't doing him any good to be drunk and depressed out in California, but he wondered what would have happened if he'd told Yoko to do her own dirty work.
A week after the shooting, John said his first words to Paul. "You," he rasped. The tube had been removed but it had done a number on his throat. His stubble was growing out. "You're here."
"That I am," Paul said, dragging his chair closer. "Came as soon as I heard."
"Why?"
Paul bit his lip and fumbled for an answer. "You almost died," he said.
"Yeah?"
"I think that's more than enough reason."
John didn't respond. He closed his eyes, and Paul left him to rest. He passed Yoko in the corridor and didn't say anything to her.
Ringo went home after John was allowed to raise his bed and sit up. Julian arrived that same day, and Mimi came the day after. Paul began to feel like he was intruding. John had his family surrounding him, he didn't need Paul and everything he brought with him around. He booked his flight home and went to see John before going to the airport. His lunch tray was off to the side, untouched. "They're keeping me here another week on bedrest, at least," John said. The oxygen cannula in his nose moved as he spoke. "I'm a medical marvel. Doctors and nurses come by to stare in awe."
"How many autographs are you going to sign?"
"Fuck me, I'll sign anything for the one who opened me up and got my heart going."
Paul flexed his hand. He had so much churning inside him that he wanted to say - you're too thin, I'm worried, let me help you, I miss you, I never stopped loving you - but he kept it inside. If he said one thing it would all come out. "Do keep me in the loop," he said. "With your recovery and all."
"I'll send the carrier pigeons twice daily."
"Good, I've forgotten my Morse code." Paul let himself smile, just a little. "I'll phone next time I'm in town."
"We'll do lunch."
Not likely, Paul thought. He left the room without touching John. He was too afraid of what he might do if he did.
Paul went home, unsettled. He knew it would have been useless to say anything, and worse to offer help. John was stubborn when it came to his personal life. When he decided something he was set on it until he moved on or changed his mind, and he wouldn't be dissuaded by anyone except Yoko. And he was so fragile anyway, hanging on by the skin of his teeth. It wasn't the right time. Paul still knew him well enough that he'd feel like he was being backed into a corner and lash out. He told himself so when he thought about John in the hospital bed. "Why wouldn't he listen to you?" Linda asked, when he told her about his time in New York and what he'd said to John. "He's still your friend."
"He's not going to listen to me. He decided a long time ago to not take anything I suggest seriously, since he got Yoko in his ear telling him that I'm against him."
"This is different. You make it sound like he's wasting away."
"I used to think he might have been part mule. Always was stubborn as one."
Paul kept watch from home and fretted quietly to himself. John stayed in the hospital over Christmas and through the first week of January. Pictures of him being pushed out the doors in a wheelchair were shown on the evening news and published in the papers. Paul tried phoning a few times, but couldn't get through. He wondered how John was recovering: if he was in pain, if he could sleep at night, if he was eating. He was stuck on how thin John was. In his weaker moments he thought back on all the times he'd cooked for John. Not just when they were kids at home, but years later, when Paul had moved into Cavendish. The summer that John practically lived there, he would usually arrive with a bottle of wine, or a few joints, or part of a song, and Paul would make dinner. Nothing too extravagant - he didn't stretch himself until he met Linda and learned from her - but he had a small repertoire he could rely on to satisfy them both. Bangers and mash, the grease from the sausages mixed into the potatoes for extra flavor; Welsh rarebit done under the broiler; shepherds pie with tinned vegetables and whatever meat Mrs. Kelly had left in the refrigerator. If Paul didn't feel like cooking there was always curry and lager, or Chinese food. They would eat, and smoke, and write, and sing to each other, and fuck, and sleep to wake and do it all over again. When John came to stay with Yoko, he tried offering to make dinner, but they were always too absorbed in their art, or peace, or staying high, and never took him up on it.
He would do it again. If John asked him, or if he didn't. If he got the chance to have John sit at his table again he would take it. He told himself it was a pipe dream, but, God, how he wanted it.
The phone rang one night in late January. Paul was in the kitchen with Linda, helping her wash the dishes and clean up before going to bed. The little pots sat in the window like pretty maids all in a row; the girls checked for sprouts multiple times a day. "Let the machine get it," Paul said. "If it's important they'll leave a message."
"If they're calling this late, it's important," Linda said, drying her hands on her apron and going over to the phone. Paul stayed at the sink, washing and drying, until he heard Linda say, "Yes, he's here."
Paul looked up. She covered the receiver. "John's assistant in New York."
"What's going on?"
"John is back in the hospital."
"Something to do with the shooting?"
"No. It's his heart."
Paul took the phone from her. "Fred? It's Paul. What's happened?"
Fred explained. John had been feeling ill that day: he was too tired to get out of bed, but he felt that he couldn't catch his breath; he was dizzy, and lightheaded. When he began to feel an ache in his chest he asked Fred to call an ambulance. "He's back at Roosevelt, and they're doing tests," Fred said. "I don't know what's going on but he thinks it's his heart."
"Why did you call me?"
"He asked me to let you know."
Paul hesitated for just a second. "Tell him I'm coming."
When Paul hung up the phone he turned back to Linda. "I'll help you pack," she said, before he could say anything.
Paul got on a redeye flight and landed in New York before dawn. He repeated each step from the month before: the car took him from the airport to the hospital and he sat by himself in the private waiting room. He didn't see Yoko anywhere. To keep himself awake, he read the old magazines and walked the circumference of the room. By the time he was escorted into John's room his eyes were so dry he thought they might come out of their sockets and his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool. He sat down in the overstuffed naugahyde chair, crossed his arms over his chest and his legs at the knee, let his head tip forward, and fell asleep listening to the heart monitor ping softly.
When he woke up the sun had risen on a bright winter day, and John was awake. "You look like shit," he said. He was the same as before: oxygen cannula, IV in his arm, drowning in the gown, pale and leached of life.
"So do you," Paul replied, pushing the chair closer. "What happened?"
"My heart was beating too slow." John lifted his arm a few inches to show Paul. "Atropine. To kick start it again."
"Do they know why?"
"Could be a few explanations: low electrolytes, infection, that sort of thing. And I was shot last month." John let out a breath. "When I came in this one nurse looked me up and down and told me it was because I'm too thin. Strains the heart."
"Well, you are," Paul said. "Too thin."
"Better than how fat I used to be."
"We all gained weight back then. All that rich food and liquor. It wasn't a bad thing. This is too much."
"I'm fine. Nothing wrong with my diet."
"Oh, the macrobiotic nonsense? What do you eat, air and sunlight?"
"You're one to talk."
"Just because I'm a vegetarian doesn't mean I stopped eating real food. Look at yourself. I can see your bones under your skin. What happened to you, John? You used to look amazing. Strong, and healthy - you looked alive. You took up space. Look at yourself now. Grey, and weak. Like you're fading away." Paul brought his hand to his mouth. He was tired and wrung out, and thought he might start to weep. "I can't stand it, seeing you like this. I can't."
"Paul," John said, softly, tenderly, like it was a prayer. "I -"
He was interrupted by a rapid knock on the door and the doctor striding in. He was older, old enough to be their fathers; he had a ring of gray hair around his head, a bulbous nose, and a neatly trimmed mustache. "Mr. Lennon," he said, voice straight out of pre-war Brooklyn. "How are you feeling?"
"Better. I think the old ticker's back up to speed."
"Let me be the judge of that. We'll be keeping you for the rest of the day for observation." He looked at Paul. "I see you've got company."
"Whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of him."
"Very well. The atropine is working, and we'll send you home with medication to keep this from happening again. Now we need to address the root cause of your bradycardia. You are too thin and your body is breaking down as we speak. Don't interrupt me, Mr. Lennon. This incident is only the beginning if you don't gain weight. Medication will only take you so far. It won't save you from the cardiac arrest that's coming."
"The macrobiotic diet is good for me," John said, weakly. "It'll keep me from getting cancer."
"I don't know who's been filling your head with these fantastical notions, Mr. Lennon, but they couldn't be further from the truth. The macrobiotic diet, if we're feeling generous enough to call it that, is severely deficient in vital nutrients, especially for a man your size. And from the way you smoke, I doubt it could save you from cancer. You'll have to quit that, too. It's a miracle you made it to forty, if I'm being frank."
Paul looked from the doctor to John's face. His cheeks had a touch of color back in them. Paul knew what he was really feeling: he was being humiliated at this dressing down from a stranger. If he were at his full strength, he'd have leapt up and started roaring in his face. The doctor continued. "As part of your recovery from the shooting we'll be bringing in a dietician to help you bring your weight up. After that we can begin more strenuous physical therapy."
"I don't need someone spoon feeding me," John snapped. "I'm a grown man. I can take care of myself."
"I don't think you can. Listen to me. You are dying as we speak. You are too thin, and your body is shutting down. If you don't gain weight you will die. Your heart will give out and we won't be able to help you. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"
John didn't respond. He began to pick at a loose thread on the sheet covering him. The doctor continued. "I know who you are. I know about your family. You've got two children, yes? An older boy and a little one at home. You wrote that beautiful song for him. My daughter sings it to her son. How tragic would it be for your sons, to have their father come home after being shot only to watch him die because he refused to take care of himself?"
Still, John said nothing. He stared up at the ceiling.
"Your nurse will be by later to check on you," the doctor said. "Good day, Mr. McCartney, Mr. Lennon. Think about what I've told you."
He left the room and closed the door as he went. Paul looked back to John. He was still looking at the ceiling, clenching his jaw. When the nurse came to check his vitals, he didn't say a word. When an orderly delivered his breakfast, he didn't touch it.
Paul stayed for the rest of the day. He and John passed the time playing with a deck of cards a previous patient left in the room and doing the Times crossword together before John said he needed a nap. When John slept, Paul watched him, marveling at how this starved creature could be the same beautiful boy he'd slept next to in Paris. The nurse came by again to look John over, waking him to check his vitals. "When are you going to let me out?" he asked, as she measured his blood pressure.
"Soon. I'll check with your doctor. Do you have anyone to escort you home?"
"My personal nursemaid," John said, nodding at Paul.
By nightfall John was discharged. He insisted on walking out, pushing away the wheelchair the orderly brought, and not looking at the doctor as he and Paul left. Paul hailed a cab for the short ride back to the Dakota and followed John silently through the archway, into the residents' entrance, and in the elevator up to his dark, silent apartment. John flicked the lights on and gingerly settled himself on the sofa. "Where's Sean?" Paul asked, sitting in the chair next to the sofa.
"Nanny took him when the ambulance arrived. She'll bring him back tomorrow."
"And Yoko?"
"Fuck if I know. Haven't seen Madam in days. Probably off with her boyfriend."
"Boyfriend?"
"Yeah. We've been forcing it along for months. I thought the album would bring us closer together. She spends all her time managing me, she forgot that I'm her husband and not one of her business interests. She can't hack it when things get difficult. Sent me off with May instead of just divorcing me, didn't she? Phoned us day and night so we'd know she was keeping her eye on me. Got you involved with it. Played her mind games with all of us. Now she's moved her boyfriend into one of the apartments I paid for. I've had enough. Already got a lawyer working on the papers."
"Fuck," Paul said. "I'm sorry."
"You're not. I bet you're thrilled. You never got on with her."
"So?"
"So cut the shit."
Paul had plenty to say about Yoko - she got you hooked on heroin, stole you away to America, separated you from everyone who loved you - but he held his tongue. This wasn't the right time. "You need to take your pills," he said. "I'll get you a glass of water."
"Yes, Mother."
Paul filled a glass with water from the kitchen sink. Before going back to the living room, he looked in the huge steel refrigerator. It was about what he expected: plastic containers of brown rice, vegetables, chickpeas, and lentils; unopened packages of tofu; apples, bananas, and a head of lettuce. None of it touched. He looked in the cupboards to satisfy his curiosity: whole grain bread, a health food brand of cereal. It all looked so drab and lifeless, this food that was supposed to prolong John's life and keep him from getting cancer. "Are you going to be okay on your own tonight?" he asked, when he gave John the glass.
"Yeah. I'm used to it. Fred's on call." John put the pill on his tongue and washed it down. "Don't worry about me."
It was far too late for that. Paul thought about offering to stay, but he knew that John would just tell him to fuck off. "See you tomorrow?"
"If you like."
Paul stole one last look at John as he was walking out. He was lying on the sofa, pale, gaunt, clearly in pain but unable to ask for help. That was John, always getting the words stuck in his throat, putting up the shield, God forbid anyone find out what he was really feeling.
Paul phoned Linda when he checked into his hotel room. It was after midnight there but he had to hear her voice. It was the only thing that would help him settle. "I have this idea," he said.
"Uh-oh."
"Hear me out."
Paul explained what had happened that day and what he'd heard from the doctor and from John. "This is going to sound mad," he said. "You don't need to tell me. But he's not going to get any better if he's by himself."
"Are you thinking about staying?"
"No. I wouldn't take off to another country and leave you and the kids alone. I want to bring John back with me."
Linda didn't say anything for a moment. "Well," she said, finally. "I can't say I was expecting that."
"I know. But - he's got no one else to help him. He's getting a divorce and Yoko's checked out of the marriage. The employees answer to her. Sean is only a child. All his family is back in England and he hasn't spoken to most of his friends in years. I hate to say it, Lin, but I'm all he's got."
There was a time in their lives when John and Paul really were all each other had, in the years of playing dance halls and dives, sweating all the water out of their bodies at the Cavern, sharing beds on the road and in secret at home. Even after John married Cynthia and Paul moved into the Asher home that closeness still clung to them, and sustained them as the band took off. "Poor Duckie," Linda sighed. "Well. Where are you going to bring him?"
"The house in London. It's private enough. We can get him a doctor, a physical therapist, and a dietician. I'll stay with him. Once he's settled we can bring Sean over for a visit, or get Mimi up from Bournemouth. I'll come home when I can, or you can come up with the kids."
"You think he'll agree with you?"
"I doubt it. But I'll drag him by the scruff of his neck if I have to."
Linda let out a breath. "Well, if you can get him to go along with it, it's fine with me. But, please, be careful."
"Of course. Absolutely."
"I love you," Linda said, and it felt like her hand against his cheek. "Give John my best."
"I will. Love you, baby."
Alone in his room that night, Paul found himself thinking about India. He wasn't sure what had jogged his memory, but lying in bed alone with the city humming outside his window, he couldn't stop thinking about it. So much of it he couldn't clearly remember because it all ran together: lectures, writing, trying to keep his engagement to Jane limping along, and John confronting him. Paul didn't remember the details of it. He assumed he'd blocked it out because it was just too upsetting to think about. What he did know was that one night, shortly before he went home, they had snuck off to an empty bungalow and used their mouths on each other for what turned out to be the last time. John had wanted something - a promise, a declaration, for him to stay - but Paul had denied him and the moment was lost. He tried to get it back over the following months, tried to get John to trust him again, but after the trip to New York John turned away from him to let Yoko fill his every sense and keep him high, and there was no coming back. He had made his choice. Paul fell asleep long after midnight and dreamed of the sun in Rishikesh, John all in white with a garland of yellow flowers around his neck, the look in his eyes when something inside him closed off forever.
Paul's first stop of the day was at a bank, to have his money exchanged, and then he asked the taxi driver to take him to the nearest grocery store and keep the meter running while he waited. Inside, he picked up a dozen eggs, a pound of bacon, two small tomatoes, two potatoes, a yellow onion, a green bell pepper, a container of mushrooms, a can of beans in tomato sauce, a quart of milk, a package of sugar, and a stick of butter. The cashier didn't seem to recognize him as he paid. He took his bag back to the cab and told him to go to the Dakota.
"Let me up," Paul said, when John answered the phone. "I've got something for you."
"What?" John asked, voice rough with sleep.
"Medicine."
John told him to come up, but as soon as he saw the bag of groceries in Paul's arms he grimaced. "That’s everything I can't have," he said, as Paul unpacked everything in the kitchen. "Fat, salt, sugar, nightshades. I've got food."
"And you're not eating it. When was the last time you had a decent fry up?"
"Years. But -"
"Let me."
John hesitated. He crossed his arms and shifted his weight, thinking it over. He wanted it but he didn't. He was afraid to let himself want it. "Tell you what," Paul said. "I haven't had breakfast yet. I'm hungry. I'll make some for myself. If you want any, I'll share. Okay?"
"Yeah," John said, shoulders relaxing. "Okay."
John retreated to the living room and turned on the television as Paul got started. He got two pans out, one for the bacon and one for everything else. He washed the vegetables, dicing the potatoes and onion finely, the way Linda taught him. The onion made his eyes water and he wiped them with a dish towel that he threw over his shoulder. He always cut the onions at home because he hated to see Linda cry. He cut the pepper into four along the creases and discarded the core before cutting the waxy slices into tiny pieces. He cut a pat of butter off of the stick and dropped it into one of the pans, turning on both burners. As the butter melted he sliced the mushrooms in half and set them aside to get the potatoes, onion, and pepper into the pan. The sizzling was music to his ears, and the smell was heavenly. He sliced the tomatoes, squeezed the excess water out, and set them in the pan to fry. "How d'you like your eggs?" he called.
"Chef's choice," John replied.
Fried, then, just like old times. When the vegetables were finished he tipped them onto a plate, added more butter, and cracked four eggs into the drippings. He splashed a little water into the pan and put a lid on it to steam, so the whites would set and keep the yolks runny, before he turned his attention to the bacon. He hadn't touched it in years, and he wondered what Linda would think if she could see him, opening the package and peeling the pungent, greasy slices out to lay sizzling in the hot pan, washing his hands right after. Two pieces of bread in the toaster, the kettle filled and on to boil. Breakfast at home was rarely this elaborate - Paul hadn't done a fry-up himself in a while - but he liked the ritual of making them. It reminded him of Saturday mornings when his mother was alive.
Paul made his plate - eggs, hash, tomatoes, mushrooms, beans, toast, and a cuppa - and sat at the kitchen table. It was only a minute before John came in. "I thought I smelled bacon," he said, looking into the pan like there was an animal about to jump out and bite him inside it. "For me?"
"It's not for me, mate. Must be for you."
John picked up a piece. "I wonder what she'd say if she saw this."
"What do you care? You're getting divorced."
John seemed to consider this for a moment before taking a bite. The look on his face as he chewed was worth every minute on the red-eye flight. "Perfect."
"Good. Make a plate, sit down."
John took a little of everything: one egg, one piece of bacon, half the hash, no toast. "May used to do a great full Monty," he said, pushing hash around his plate, eating the pepper and onion. "There was a shop near our place on East 52nd that sold black pudding. She always got it for me."
"Next time." Paul cut into his yolk and let it spill out to soak into his hash. "I always liked May. She was good for you."
"And I was shit to her."
John ate the white of his egg, the vegetables in the hash, and the bacon. He left the yolk, tomato, and potatoes alone. It was a start. Paul cleared the plates and put away the leftovers. John stayed at the table, watching him, trying to puzzle him out. "What's your plan?"
Paul put the container in the fridge. "What do you mean?"
"I mean you showed up to make me breakfast. I have to wonder."
"I did want to ask you something." Paul turned the tap on warm and started to wash the dishes. It was easier to talk if he was doing something with his hands. "I was thinking about what the doctor said. About you being too thin. I thought - since you're splitting from Yoko and all that, maybe you'd like to come back to England with me. Set you up with a doctor over there to help you heal. You haven't been home in ten years. I think it could be good for you."
John scoffed. Paul turned his head. John was smirking at him, elbow on the table, chin in hand. "Why am I not surprised?" he said. "Always managing a crisis. Always trying to fix everything, make it nice."
"You're not trying to fix it. I want to help you."
"By stealing me from my home and putting me under house arrest?"
"House arrest? Look around you. You've spent five years watching life go by you out a window. I'm offering you a way out."
"I didn't fucking ask." John stood up, slowly, and took the few steps to get into Paul's face. "You're the same as you were twenty years ago. Always thinking you're right and you just have to drag me along with you. I didn't ask for your help then and I'm not asking now."
"Maybe if you had then you wouldn't be in this state. Look at yourself. You heard what the doctor said. You're dying."
"Fucking quack, doesn't know what he's talking about -"
"Look at me!" Paul cried. He put his hands on John's shoulders and felt the bones just beneath the skin. "You need help. Do you want to end up on a locked ward with a tube down your throat? Do you want to starve yourself and leave your children without a father? And don't you dare tell me they'd be fine without you, because they wouldn't, John, none of us would be fine without you. I'm not going to just stand by and let you kill yourself. You survived being shot and I'd rather die myself than watch you waste away, for fuck's sake -"
"Paul," John said, softly. "Paul, don't cry."
Paul brought his hand to his eyes and realized that he was tearing up. He pulled the dish towel off his shoulder and wiped his face. "Imagine how much I'd cry if you died," he muttered. "Buckets. A river. An ocean of tears. All for you."
"You really want to help me?"
"Of course I do." When was the last time they'd been this physically close? Probably the last time they fucked. "I'm here, aren't I?"
John retreated back to the table and sat down. "You're not turning me into a fucking vegetarian," he said, looking at the floor. "That's my red line."
"Okay." Paul swallowed, collected himself. He was willing to cook meat for John. He would do anything for John. "Okay."