It wasn’t his way. Was it anyone’s way? Not until the time was ripe. There was no family tradition for him to fall back upon.
Thank God he had his work. An entomologist, he worked in a small research center in lower Manhattan. One thing he could do was hail a cab and give the driver instructions on how to get to Broad Street. For twenty years, he had studied terrestrial vertebrates, publishing a paper now and then, most of them in obscure but highly regarded Finnish journals. Known to a few in the States, Gaylord was a beloved figure in Helsinki. Would his efforts lead to a cure for cancer or some other dread disease? The Finns thought so. Gaylord wasn’t so sure. And though he worked assiduously and clung to his research like a lifebuoy, he no longer cared. Forget cancer and Guillain-Barré. His main concern was putting on his pants in the morning. Everything took him ten times longer than it once did. Taking a shower was like building a bridge. Let future generations take care of themselves. Was this selfish? Tell it to his legs and his poor fingers.
One morning, out of the blue, Gaylord received an email from the president of Oulu University saying that he had been awarded the Hanski Award for his outstanding work in the natural sciences. Along with the million-kroner prize money, he would be given a week’s stay at the Kämp, one of Helsinki’s finest hotels, and, of course, a celebratory banquet attended by all or many of Finland’s leading scientists. The previous recipient of the Hanski had donated the cash award for the purchase and preservation of a forest plot in Finland. There was a hint that Gaylord would be expected to do the same—though it was not mandatory. Gaylord was given a week to respond.
His first impulse was to reject the purchase of a forest plot. Maybe, as a token, he’d throw them half an acre. Not that he knew what he would do with the money, which some two-finger tapping on the iPad told him was worth $l50,000 in US currency. He could fork it over to his granddaughter, of course, though he continued to have trouble with her name. Wasn’t Miriam a name for a grown-up? Of course. That’s what had bothered him. And her hyperactivity. Both made her insufferable. He felt better, having figured it out.
Gaylord mulled over the offer and pushed on halfheartedly with his research. One day Brisko, a colleague he rarely spoke to, approached him. He was a small man with a tiny head and a soft and disproportionately wide body. He spoke with a tinny voice. None of this affected his considerable ability as a scientist, but the whole package was unnerving to Gaylord, who kept his distance from the man. When it came to bad bodies, Gaylord lacked saintlike forbearance. Once, irritatingly, Brisko had made a rare appearance at an institute cocktail party with a stunning Asian woman, a head taller than he was. To his dismay, Gaylord was told by a waiter that this was Mrs. Brisko. For the time being and the indefinite future, Gaylord had two canes—and no one to warm his bed. How could he not be envious of his coworker rolling around with a hot Asian.
“I can put some life in those legs of yours,” whispered Brisko.
“Please,” said Gaylord, “I’m not in the mood for comedy.”
“I’ve never been more serious.”
“What have you got, a new doctor?” asked Gaylord, preparing a sample for his microscope. “I’ve had six.”
“No, no, we don’t use them.”
“We?” asked Gaylord. “Who’s we?”
“A small group,” said Brisko vaguely.
Since the onset of what he referred to as his “setback,” Gaylord felt he was entitled to be rude.
“Get lost,” he told his coworker.
Brisko ignored the slight. “See that fellow next to the water cooler,” he said.
Gaylord reluctantly looked over at the man, a lab assistant who had just arrived. He wore a blue blazer and gray slacks.
“That’s Smithers. What about him?”
“Observez-vous,” said Brisko.
He tapped an old Bunsen burner three times. Smithers’s blazer turned gray, his slacks blue. Walking back to his station, Smithers seemed to notice the change. He stopped for a moment, shook his head, as if amused by some cosmic mistake, then continued on his way.
“I’ll come right out and ask,” said Gaylord. “How the fuck did you do that?”
“That’s not the issue,” said Brisko. “What’s the forecast? For the next two days?”
Ritualistically, Gaylord checked the weather each morning on his computer.
“Sunshine, from dawn till sundown.”
“Wrong,” said Brisko with uncharacteristic sharpness, causing several interns to whip their heads around. Then he went back to a whisper.
“Prepare for record-breaking thunderstorms, on both days, from noon to midnight. I’ll speak to you on Thursday. And by the way, Changchang sends her regards.”
“Your wife?” asked Gaylord.
“Who else would it be? You think I fool around?”
The sun was blinding the next morning. As he left his apartment, Gaylord threw up a hand to block it out and felt lucky to reach the air-conditioned safety of a Yellow cab. Later, when he left the lab to get a sandwich, the rain came down with such force it not only soaked his tuna on rye but threatened to drown him. The following day began promisingly, with clear skies. But as if scheduled, torrential rains came down precisely at noon, destroying the more cautious Gaylord’s fine (and expensive) British umbrella.
On the third day, Brisko greeted Gaylord at his workstation.
“Care to see some card tricks?”
“Never mind,” said Gaylord. “I get it, I get it.”
But as he said this, Brisko pulled a straight flush out of a nostril.
“Oh, Jesus,” said Gaylord, who was touchy in this area. “No nose stuff, all right? Now, how’s it work?”
“I can have you springy in a couple of days.”
Gaylord hated himself for developing confidence in the man. “What about the fingers?”
“Four, maybe five tops. Fingers are negotiable.”
“And tennis?”
“Doubles,” said Brisko emphatically.
“I’ll take it,” said Gaylord, who could almost hear the thwack of a ball against his racket, a favorite sound.
“There’s a condition,” said Brisko, lowering his head.
Had he suddenly become shy?
“Isn’t there always? Lay it on me.”
“There’s to be no prize.”
“No Finns?” said Gaylord. “No Helsinki?”
“You can visit, of course. Take in the clubs, the forests. But no award.”
“So I’ll be springy and unrecognized.”
“You’ve summed it up beautifully. The best part is you have twenty-four hours to mull it over.”
“Why is that the best part?” asked Gaylord thoughtfully.
Brisko looked hurt. “We thought it was rather generous.”
“Right back at you,” said Gaylord, a phrase he’d heard in the streets, and one he never dreamed of using. “Tomorrow morning. And incidentally, Brisko, what do you get out of this?”
“The pleasure of watching you squirm.”
“You’re not a good person,” said Gaylord.
“And you’re no angel.”
Gaylord didn’t waste a minute. After cleaning up his lab table, he left the building and hit the ground mulling. To get some spring in his lifeless legs! And say goodbye to the nickname he’d given himself: “Dead Legs.” To get back on the tennis court, even though he hated losing and slept restlessly the night before a meaningless match. He’d had his eye on a comely young intern. Long blond hair, a nightclub voice. She came to work in short black skirts, then changed into a lab coat. And oh, those legs. He’d exchanged (choked out) a few words with her, then backed away for fear she’d spot the canes. With the legs back under him and the return of most, but not all, of his fingers, the sky was the limit. Drinks, dinner. Maybe he’d have his own Changchang. And travel. He’d be
able to say the word “wheelchair,” since he’d have no use for one. Shanghai was high on his list, although, in truth, he’d read a long piece on shopping in the New Yorker on Shanghai and felt he had already been there.
The new—or the restored—Gaylord would be able to walk the three blocks to his local supermarket. Admittedly, they were only trustworthy on staples—-bread, butter, and eggs. But the great Zabar’s itself was within reach. No need to get carried away, but what was to stop him from biking along the path that lay mockingly alongside the Hudson? More than once, he’d made it to the Holocaust Memorial and back without losing his breath.
What a deal. And it had fallen right into his lap. By the time he’d gotten out of the cab, he’d made up his mind. He’d call the lab and tell the weird little Brisko to start the ball rolling. He was on board. After that, he’d send an email to the Finns expressing his regrets.
He was confident he’d made the right decision. Only a fool would trade his legs for a prize. Yet he had some doubts. …
For years Gaylord had worked in anonymity. When a colleague was singled out for a prize, he felt little envy and was among the first to offer his congratulations. Let his own experiments go well. That was his reward. He’d learned of a dying colleague who yearned for laurels. Gaylord wondered: What does he need them for? So he can drop dead grinning?
Still, Gaylord was essentially a normal person. What would be so terrible about a little applause? With an absence of recognition, he would end his life as if he’d never existed. A speck (if he was lucky) in the Great Void. With the Hanski under his belt, he’d still be a speck, but one with a little glitter to it.
The Hanski was not the Nobel. Gaylord didn’t need to be told that. Still, he assumed there would be a Great Hall. How could there not be? There were all those Finnish scientists, more per capita than any country. (They’d nosed out Germany.) He envisioned a procession of distinguished Finns, Gaylord being wheeled along by a uniformed attendant. There would be an ovation, not thunderous—the Finns were known to be stolid—but impressive nonetheless. Would Einstein himself be impervious to such a reception?
Gaylord began to compose an acceptance speech. It would be anchored in a salute to humanity—how could it not?—and then would branch off to the wonders of science and the universe, with a special tip of the cap to the Finns, who had so often shown the way. Had they really? For the time being, this was of no importance.
As if sensing that he was squirming around indecisively, the Finns sent a follow-up email assuring him that the Helsinki press would be there in full force. Denmark would be on board as well. How could the New York Times itself ignore such an event? Gaylord lived in a world of test tubes and tissue samples. He knew little of YouTube. Yet if they had any sense, they would pay attention.
There would be limousines at his beck and call. Attached to the follow-up email was a photograph of his “attendant,” a lissome blonde with an advanced degree in—what else—Gaylord’s beloved entomology. The Finns weren’t fools.
Their offer was more than tempting. And Gaylord could still get around with the canes. In truth, he needed only one. But he’d seen a photograph of Norman Mailer, a literary hero, limping along with two, so he ordered an extra.
Biking had become tiresome. Did he need another visit to the Holocaust Museum? He’d visited five. When you’d seen Yad Vashem, you’d seen them all.
Tennis, in truth, took too great a toll on his nervous system. Worrying all the time. What if he lost? And did he really need to eat fried grasshoppers in Shanghai?
His fingers? He could hunt and peck on the computer. If he suddenly felt an urge to do a memoir, he could, with presumption, dictate, like Churchill.
He’d stayed away from the theatre. The crowds. An aisle seat cost a fortune. And what was there to see? Mary Poppins?
Despite his disability, he still had his books, his papers, his bottle of wine, seven o’clock on the dot, along with crackers and a strong cheese. He’d discovered a local takeout place that delivered linguini with fresh—repeat, fresh—clams.
And let’s not forget his guilty pleasure—Law & Order: Special Victims Unit.
He thought again of the Great Hall, the banquet, the ovation from the usually stolid Finns, the light-haired (and worshipful) attendant. To turn his back on the first recognition he’d ever gotten. A chance to step out of the darkness. To step out of his hole. To stop feigning delight when a colleague won an award. To take a turn in the spotlight before the lights went out for good. To have an answer for the laboratory wise-ass who teased him in the men’s room.
“Still under the radar, Gaylord?”
To trade all this away?
Once again, he called Brisko and left a succinct message on his voicemail. One no doubt influenced by the dialogue in old Warner Bros. movies:
“Get yourself another boy.”
He signed off: “The Gimp.”
An email to Helsinki went out next.
“Count me in.”
Gaylord glanced at the clock. It wasn’t quite seven. Still he permitted himself to open a bottle of wine, to pour a glass and settle back in his favorite armchair, one with a clean view of his beloved Hudson. His two canes leaned against a bookcase. And for the first time since the surgery, he could have sworn he felt a lifelike tingle in his legs.
Nightgown
Stranded in Manhattan on a holiday weekend, Nat Solomon, a visiting academic from Detroit, decided to treat himself to an off-Broadway play. The production had received tepid reviews, but the theme intrigued him. The plot? A Catholic priest had begun to doubt his faith. Rather than speak to his bishop—he’d been there before—he decided to reach beyond the Church and to consult a psychiatrist.
Solomon himself had lost three of them; that is to say, a trio of psychiatrists had died on his watch. They were old men; he had sought them out for their wisdom. Never had it occurred to Solomon that one by one they would expire, which they did—just as he was getting somewhere. He took another try—this time with a Jungian. When she learned of the three dead shrinks, she turned color and refused to take him on as a patient.
At the moment, Solomon had no one. When it came to his mental health, he was flying solo, barely holding his life together—a distant wife, a rudderless daughter, shrinking income, and crumbling knees. It was quite a package.
Solomon lucked out and got an aisle seat in the tiny theater—the better to stretch out his left knee, the one that was in the first position on pain. Both performers in the two-character play were accomplished, but Solomon could not take his eyes off the actor who played the psychiatrist. Never before had he seen such compassion in the face of a therapist. Each time the priest cried out in anguish, the therapist cried out with him, though silently, if such a thing were possible. The few times he spoke, his words trembled with humility and quiet strength, a difficult combination to pull off. Solomon waited for him to stroke his chin, an unbearable cliché. Stroke it he did, although the stroke was closer to the ear than the chin, which made a world of difference. When he drummed his fingers on a desk, Solomon did some drumming of his own—on the armrest. The priest had been waffling. The drumming was a gentle nudge. Get to the heart of what’s eating you.
There was a slight trace of Cockney in the psychiatrist’s voice, which was appealing. There was a puckish grin in the mix. All of it was irresistible.
In the last scene of the brief play, the priest, beaming with fresh perspective, wrote out a check and blessed his fellow actor. Solomon would have done the same. Both performers received a standing ovation.
Where do you find such a man, Solomon wondered as he left the theater. With all respect to the three psychiatrists he’d buried and a few he’d met at parties, not one had the quality of the man he’d seen on the stage. He was convinced that such an individual could finally set him on the path to mental health.
There were few rest
aurants in the darkened neighborhood. Solomon decided to have a bite in a tavern that virtually leaned against the theater. Flanagan’s, it was called. How bad could it be? No sooner had he wolfed down a cheeseburger than the actor he so admired entered the restaurant, took a seat near the kitchen, and whipped out a copy of Variety. Solomon took a swallow of his beer and approached the gifted thespian.
“Forgive me for intruding,” said Solomon, “but I thought your performance was brilliant.”
The actor looked up with a smile.
“That’s very kind,” he said, then returned to his show-biz newspaper.
“I hope you don’t find this indelicate,” said Solomon, who was slightly offended that he’d been so quickly ignored, “but may I ask you how much you earn—performing in a play like this? The question is in a good cause. I don’t mean to offend.”
The actor looked up again. “We don’t get rich, that’s for sure. Actually we get a percentage of the gate. I made about seventy bucks tonight.”
“What if I gave you a thousand?” said Solomon, getting in the question before the actor returned to Variety.
“For what?”
“For doing essentially what you do onstage. I’m not a rich man. I’m a professor of anthropology, but it would be well worth it to me. What’s more important than our mental health?”
“I agree with you on that.”
The actor took a close look at Solomon.
“This isn’t a gay thing, is it?”
“No. Of course not.”
And then he felt compelled to add, with a chuckle, “Certainly not to my knowledge.”
The actor set aside his newspaper.
“I’m sure you’re aware that I didn’t write the play. I do vamp a bit here and there, to keep the performance fresh, to keep up my interest, frankly. But the dialogue was written by the playwright Ruth Bender-Farkas, and I rarely stray from it.”
“Bender-Farkas would be nothing without you,” said Solomon.
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