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figure is human.
    “This is not body.” He smiles patronizingly, like an adult trying to convince a child that there are no monsters under the bed.
    “Look here,” Graham says. “If it’s not a body, then what is it?”
    Elvis glances again, feigning curiosity. “Ah, is a dog!”
    Graham smiles. “Isn’t it a bit large for that?”
    “Is a very big dog!” Elvis Paris says, quite serious.
    Graham laughs. “Do dogs wear shoes?”
    Elvis thinks for a moment. His eyebrows arch. “Maybe it is a very wealthy dog! Maybe this dog is capitalist roader!” He turns on his heels and walks away, laughing at his own joke. Graham and I stand side by side, watching the body become smaller, disappear.
    “I suppose corpses are bad for tourism.”
    After a few minutes, I’ve already forgotten the facial features of the dead man. I try to re-create him in my mind, but only the red shoe and the waving hands form a clear picture. The massive river fills my vision. It is wide here, home to hundreds of boats whose collective rumble reminds me of Saturday mornings in Alabama, dozens of lawnmowers kicking to life. Along the riverbank women are doing laundry and bathing their children. The sun blazes red. I scan the river for fish, but don’t see any. The air is strangely absent of birds. Graham has become quiet. He leans on the rail, his hands shaking violently.
    “Are you all right?”
    He remains quiet for a moment, as if he’s deciding whether or not to tell me something. “How much do you want to know about me?”
    I look away from him, scan the unfamiliar landscape, and say, “As much as you’re willing to tell me.”
    His shirt smells faintly of starch. His hands, clenched and shaking, strike me as beautiful. I imagine his hands beneath my skirt, moving up the backs of my thighs. I imagine them on my breasts, the slight pressure of them against my neck.
    “Very well,” he says. “I have ALS.”
    “ALS?”
    “Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. A mouthful, huh? You’d know it as Lou Gehrig’s disease.”
    I’m caught off guard, unable to think of the appropriate words. Late-night telethons flash through my mind, some sitcom actor pleading for donations in front of a bank of phone volunteers. In the background phones ring, while numbers blink urgently on the screen. With just a dollar a day, the price of a cup of coffee, you can help us in the race to the cure . I say the only thing I can think of. “How long have you known?”
    “Eleven months.”
    I try to think of anyone I know who has ALS, some acquaintance or friend of my parents, but no one comes to mind. I’ve heard of the disease, of course, but I don’t know its causes and effects, whether or not it is deadly, what kind of toll it takes on its victims. “Are you in pain?”
    “It comes and goes. At this moment, my hands hurt. An hour from now they may not. But then there are pressure sores, muscle cramps. Sometimes my eyes burn. My feet swell up. I have difficulty speaking. There’s a long list. I won’t bore you with it.”
    “Is there a cure?”
    “No. Just painkillers, and a drug called Rilutek that slows the progression but doesn’t stop it. It’s degenerative. You get worse and worse, and then you die. Half of us are gone within eighteen months of diagnosis. I’m one of the fortunate ones. The doctors say I may have another year in me.”
    I hesitate for a moment, then reach over and hold his hands, feeling their tremor. “God. I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.” Another year, a death sentence. It occurs to me that no one can save him. This is not a burning car, an earthquake, an overdose. This is not an emergency that can be contained.
    He moves toward me, so close I can feel heat on my bare arm, the pressure of his leg against mine. We’re standing side by side, saying nothing, when the sky opens up. The rain does not ease in like the rain in New York City, which is laughable. The rain here is like rain in Alabama in the summer: it