“Oh Jesus, Oh Jesus,” he muttered. The man’s head jerked. Bathed in sweat, his pale body convulsed beneath the hospital gown. His head jerked one final time, then silence.

The woman reached out, held what had been a man, but touched only cold skin.

 “What did you mean, what did you mean?” she asked at last, in a strangely hushed voice, but the man did not answer, the universe did not answer.

In his last days, in his delirium, she had pleaded with him. “Jesus loves you,” she had said. “It’s not too late. Say you believe.”

“Jesus doesn’t care one way or the other,” said the man, feeble now but obstinate as ever.

“Just say you believe. Make sure. Save your immortal soul. Make sure.”

“My immortal soul is fine. If there is such a thing as an immortal soul.”

“Make sure. I need to spend eternity with you or, or . . . .”

“Or what? Or you’ll die?” His voice was feeble but his spirit as cynical as ever.

They’d had that conversation, or variants of it, dozens of times over the years. The man was as stubborn as the mildew that grew in the shower, among the cracks, resistant to toxic sprays, resistant to bleach. Many times, the woman had scrubbed and scrubbed, straining to eradicate the grey scum. Yet the shiny white she so desired never appeared.

The man had promised to, at some point, remove the caulk and replace it with the fresh, the shiny, the new. He was usually diligent about household tasks, did what he promised. In this one case, however, he kept putting it off and putting it off no matter how often she reminded him.

“Deep in my heart,” he had told her once, when she’d offered to bake butterscotch brownies, his favorite, every week if he came to church, “I don’t believe.” When her entreaties continued, with the addition that she would make his favorite butterscotch sauce, plus buy ice cream to top the warm concoction, he had replied: “You can’t bribe someone to believe in God.”

Now his body lay still, empty of speech, empty of thought, empty as the vast, unknowable universe. A universe swelling with stars and comets and vibrant colors, blues and reds and oranges and our own yellow sun. Between these brilliant celestial objects lay only billions of miles of absolute cold, absolute dark. As cold and empty as the shell before her that had once been a human being.

But the man’s final words. They must have been of belief. He must have been crying out to Jesus for mercy, for love. The man couldn’t have died cursing. It was impossible.

Still, “Oh Jesus” was one of his most-used phrases. It came from his father, he had said. It couldn’t be helped, he had said. You can’t break a habit no matter how you try.

But his final words. They must have been words of belief. They must have been. They must have been.