The Window

Mr. Wilson and Mr. Thayer, both seriously ill, shared a small room in a hospital. The room was just large enough for the pair of them-two beds, two bedside lockers, a door opening on the hall, and one window looking out on the world.

Mr. Wilson, as part of his treatment, was allowed to sit up in bed for an hour in the afternoon (something to do with draining fluid form his lungs). His bed was next to the window. Mr. Thayer, however, had to spend all his time flat on his back. Both of them had to remain quiet and still, which was the reason they were in the small room by themselves. They were grateful for the peace and privacy, though. None of the bustle and clatter and prying eyes of the general ward for them. Of course, one of the disadvantages of their condition was that they weren’t allowed to do much. No reading, no radio, certainly no television. They had to pass their days quiet and still, just the two of them.

They passed the long morning hours talking about their wives, their children, their homes, their jobs, their hobbies, what they did during the war, where they’d been on vacations. Every afternoon, however, when Mr. Wilson was propped up for his hour, he would pass the time by describing what he saw happening through the window beside his bed. Mr. Thayer began to live for that hour.

The window apparently overlooked a park with a lake where there were ducks and swans, children throwing them bread and sailing model boats, and young lovers walking hand in hand beneath the trees. There were flowers and stretches of grass, games of softball, people relaxing in the sunshine, and right at the back, behind the fringe of trees, there was a fine view of the city skyline. Mr. Thayer would listen to all of this, enjoying every minute of it-a child nearly fell into the lake, beautiful girls in their summer dresses strolled in the park, a ball game came to an exciting conclusion, a boy played with his puppy. It got to the place that he could almost see what was happening outside.

One fine afternoon when there was a parade passing by, Mr. Thayer thought, Why should Wilson get to be next to the window and have all the pleasure of seeing what was going on? Why shouldn’t I have the chance too? He felt ashamed for thinking like that, but the more he tried to put the thought out of his mind, the more strongly he wanted to be the one to see all those sights. He would do anything, he felt, for a chance to be by the window. Within a few days Mr. Thayer had turned completely sour. He should be by the window. He lost sleep brooding about it and grew even more seriously ill, which the doctors couldn’t understand.

One night as Mr. Thayer stared at the ceiling, Mr. Wilson suddenly awoke, coughing and choking, the fluid congesting in his lungs. His hands groped for the call button that would bring the night nurse running. Mr. Thayer didn’t move. The coughing racked on and on in the darkness. Mr. Wilson choked one final time, and then stopped breathing altogether. Mr. Thayer continued to stare at the ceiling.

In the morning, when the day nurse came into the room with water for their baths, she found Mr. Wilson dead. With no fuss, his body was quietly taken away.

As soon as it seemed decent, Mr. Thayer asked if he could be moved to the bed next to the window. The doctor agreed to let him be moved, and the nurse tucked him in, making him quite comfortable. The minute he was left alone, he propped himself up on one elbow, painfully and laboriously, to look out the window.

It faced a blank wall.

– Anonymous

April 2, 2006