Three Balconies

by Bruce Jay Friedman

  Victoria was tentative in showing him the house. Why should she have her hopes dashed again? But as they walked up the driveway, Siegel said: “I’ll take it, I’ll take it,” in part because he didn’t hate it, but also because Moon had branded him as a renter. What began as a slur ended on a happy note, with Siegel being bullied into a house that was probably good for him.

  The house itself had been moved from place to place. At one point, it was spotted in west Texas. The owner, transferred frequently, loved it so much he took with him. Finally, he dropped dead and had no further use for it. Like an Army brat, the house was adaptable. Stick in a window, tear off a wing, the house didn’t mind. It was happy to be a house. The closing costs cut deeply into Siegel’s savings. Already he could see his year off had been cut to seven months. Instead of covering the history of Venice doge by doge, he’d have to go for broad strokes. Victoria brought antique rugs out of storage which were useful, although frankly he wouldn’t have minded if she asked her family to come across with a few dollars. But he was too shy. In the city, they had virtually licked each other’s internal organs, but about money, he was shy. That and asking her to lie next to him in the next grave. She was younger. It wasn’t fair to tie her up that way. If she volunteered, that was another thing. He’d be happy to have her aboard. Maybe that’s what love was, not pressuring the other person into the next grave. Taking your chances on a stranger.

  A homeowner now, Siegel nonetheless remained loyal to Dong, even though his sauces had gone off badly; no doubt he was distracted by his inability to provide a satisfying social life for his daughters, although Sally had made inroads among woodcutters. One night, Siegel sat next to a family of four whose lives were closely intertwined with that of a club. Their sweaters were embroidered with club insignia; throughout the meal they discussed club affairs. A new member had attempted to sell insurance on the links.

  “At the club?” said the shocked wife.

  “I’m afraid so, Gail,” said her silver-haired husband.

  From time to time, the head of the family looked around to make sure there was someone in the place who didn’t belong to the club and couldn’t get in. This, of course, could only mean Siegel, since he was the only other person in the restaurant. Unless you wanted to include Dong who couldn’t get in either, at least until he became a franchise.

  “Well, I guess we’d better be getting back to the club,” said the father, scrutinizing the check carefully.

  “Yes, Dad,” said one daughter, “Our dates are waiting for us.”

  “At the club,” said the other.

  At one time, Siegel would have been shattered that he didn’t belong to such an organization, even though he had no idea of the facilities. But this was the new Siegel. He did the excluding. The fact that he was alone all the time was another story.

  Still, the encounter put him in the mood for a little exercise. Victoria, with frail ankles, was less interested, but she found a club for him, one that anyone could join; as a result, it had no members. Alone on a high promontory, Siegel staged furious tennis rallies with the ball machine. One day he played the owner’s son, a bewildered child who beat the shit out of him anyway. Then the wind shifted violently in Siegel’s favor, giving him a chance. He won a few games, then became aware of a voice from his old neighborhood, breaking his concentration. On the next court was a woman with orange hair.

  “What kind of backhand is that?” she asked her partner, a silent man with powerful legs that looked as if they’d crossed the Negev.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sakes,” she said, a moment later, “I can’t hit a goddamned thing.”

  Siegel tried to ignore her, although a process had begun that he couldn’t control. As he prepared for a serve, she excused herself and ran onto his court.

  “I’ll only be a second,” she said, then knelt with chunky dimpled knees and fished around for a ball that had her initials on it.

  “There,” she said, when she’d found it. “Was that so terrible?”

  “It was an important point,” said Siegel.

  “And there’ll be plenty of others.”

  Siegel tried to stay calm, telling himself the game was unimportant. What would the kid do if he won, announce it on the six o’clock news?

  Siegel resumed the game, then saw the woman sit down on a bench and throw a leg behind her head. Never before had he seen someone stretch a tendon that way. He was powerfully tempted to take a good look, but felt it would be a concession and pressed on.

  A few minutes later, she interrupted again.

  “There’s such a thing as etiquette,” said Siegel.

  “Oh well, excuse me, Mr. Wimbledon.”

  Then she called out, “Si, would you come over here and help me look. They’ve got quite a few of our balls here.”

  “Maybe you should bring an accountant,” said Siegel.

  “Fuck you,” said the man, then walked in a little circle, snorting at the ground.

  “Fuck your mother,” was Siegel’s less than rapier-like response.

  Nonetheless, it was a remark he had always wanted to try out.

  Siegel was afraid of Si’s legs. Nor was he confident about his own energy level. Still, he advanced toward the man who came to meet him.

  “It’s not worth it, Si,” said the woman. “If that’s his style, you’ll never change him.”

  Both men raised their Prince Charles Classics at the same time. Siegel heard a familiar voice cry out “Mocky,” a word dredged up from his childhood, like a dirty animal in a cellar. He was shocked when he realized the voice was his own, but also gratified that he had finally found the enemy.

  The Reversal

  ANATOLE HAD BEEN SEEING DR. GOLD – on and off – for several decades. Gold had made a mistake or two. Once, almost unforgivably, he had told Anatole that he had a secure position in the second tier of architects. And on more than one occasion Gold had referred to a book by the comedian Sid Caesar as “literature.” But in the overall, Gold had helped Anatole a great deal. He had seen his patient through a hellish divorce, effectively making light of it when Anatole threatened to throw himself off a bridge. Gold was there for Anatole through his gall bladder surgery and virtually held his hand when a partner sued him for defamation. Gold’s office was in Long Island, an hour’s drive from Manhattan. When Anatole lived in a neighboring town, it was easy to get to the doctor’s office. Anatole lived in Manhattan now. Yet, such was Gold’s importance to him that once a week he drove out to Rockville Centre to see his old psychiatrist.

  Anatole’s life was on a comfortable track. At age forty-five, he lived alone in a four-story walk-up in Chelsea. An Irish setter kept him company as he worked. His small business was humming along, He had no shortage of friends. Thank God his health was highly decent.

  One morning, after he’d eaten breakfast and polished off the Times, the downstairs buzzer rang.

  “It’s Melvin Gold here. Do you mind if I come up?”

  “Of course not,” said Anatole, who was surprised, if not shocked, by the unusual visit. “Wait till you hear the click and then open the door quickly.”

  Gold was breathing heavily when he entered the apartment. It was clear he wasn’t accustomed to climbing stairs. The psychiatrist was a sixty-year-old man of medium height with a swelling paunch. His long hair was gray and his moustache – which Anatole had never cared for – drooped a bit at the corners. No doubt it was designed to take the focus away from his large teeth.

  “I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time,” said Gold.

  “Of course not,” said Anatole, who’d been preparing to do the proposal for a renovation and hated being thrown off schedule.

  Overdressed for the season, Gold removed his topcoat and took a seat in Anatole’s favorite chair.

  “Would you like some coffee?” asked Anatole.

  “No, no . . .” said Gold. “The caffeine.”

  “I can make some decaf. . . .”

  “That’s worse,”
said Gold, not bothering to explain. He was still out of breath.

  “How can I help you?”asked Anatole.

  It seemed a ridiculous question. He realized that as he said it. How could he possibly help the distinguished psychiatrist?

  “These stairs,” said Gold, breathing hard. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said defensively. “I can cycle for an hour.... It’s lifting my own weight that’s a hassle....

  “Oh hell,” he said, as if he’d lost a debate. “Maybe I’ll have it checked. . . .”

  “It’s always a good idea,” said Anatole, who had just skipped his own physical.

  “I’ve probably caught you off guard. And I’m aware that this visit is against the norm. Usually, when I’m in a shitstorm, I see Gussie Lanzer, a Viennese Jungian. But she must be a hundred and five now and frankly I’m tired of talking to a stone wall. If I get five words out of her, it’s a victory. To cap it off, she’s promoted herself to four hundred an hour. When we started, she was twenty-five.”

  Anatole was reminded that he was behind in his payments to Gold. He owed him five hundred dollars – but at least it was for two visits.

  “But this has got nothing to do with money,” Gold continued, “although I know, I know, there’s some denial there. I’ve remortgaged the townhouse and it’s freed up quite a bit of cash. Still, if I look at that middle European pruneface one more time, I’ll get nauseous. So I thought I’d change the game plan and try the unorthodox. It’s worked for me before. I once got sound advice from a building superintendent. Pure gold, actually. That’s what brings me here. I thought I’d see you.”

  “I’m flattered,” said Anatole. And apart from the disruption in his schedule, he was. “But what are my qualifications?”

  “For one thing, you’re no dummy. And you’ve been around the block. You’re more qualified than you think. And you know your customer. How long have we been in business? Twenty years? We’ve been through a lot. Hell, if we’re not friends now, Anatole, we’ll never be. May I call you ‘Anatole?’”

  “Please. . . .”

  “Good. You can call me ‘Mel.’”

  Anatole thought he’d risk a question. He was flying blind, but for a split second, he enjoyed this strange reversal of roles.

  “So what’s on your mind,” he asked. Awkwardly, he added, “Mel?”

  “Where do I start? All right, I might as well come clean. In a nutshell, my life is shit. Nothing works anymore. My profession, the marriage, my kids.... I always thought that at this stage of my life, I’d give my patients a hug, say goodbye and circle the globe. But Glo is tied up with her own practice now, treats a whole flock of Bangladeshis. I’ve always enjoyed traveling, but suddenly I’m afraid to go it alone. China’s been on the agenda for years. But what if I fainted in Shanghai? Had an oracular migraine attack in Katmandu? And what were all my trips about anyway? Those seminars? You think I went to Frankfurt to lecture? Or to see the cathedrals? Half the time I was chasing pussy. Spend a little time in the Old City, maybe catch an opera to cover my ass, then start cruising. But let’s say I take a trip now and I get lucky. Some hot little widow hears I’m a shrink and shows interest. What do I do, pop a pill and pray that it clicks in? Let’s say she changes her mind. Or I misread her intentions. What do I do then, walk around Stuttgart with a lonely hard-on?

  “I did enjoy walking,” Gold continued, reflectively. “Any place, as long as I hadn’t seen it before. All that adventure. My favorite word if that fellow Lipton ever asks me on his show. But I’ve got a curvature now. I take ten steps and there’s a piano on my back. This morning I arrived in the Apple, bright and early. My tongue was hanging out with the possibilities. But I can’t goddamned walk. They don’t have benches. What am I supposed to do, circle Harlem in a pedicab?”

  It didn’t take a professional to see that Gold was drowning in self-pity.

  “How about Glo?” Anatole asked, trying to strike a positive note. “Your wife,” he added quickly, as if Gold might miss the connection.

  “Good point,” said Gold. “Glo’s got the Bangladeshis on the couch from nine in the morning to six at night. By the time she gets home, she’s all fagged. It’s a cigarette, Law and Order and off to bed. She still wets my whistle, don’t get me wrong . . . but she’s got no time for me. And what the hell could I offer her anyway? She’s heard my back story. And let’s face it, she takes a drink. Most nights I have to cover her up – all sprawled out like the homeless – get the lamplight out of her eyes. She’s worth the trip, though. I’m not saying that. But if only I could have her attention, full time. Sail her up the Nile, clean and sober. My girl again. Wouldn’t that be something?”

  His eyes teared up at the thought.

  “Would you like a tissue?” asked Anatole.

  “Of course not,” Gold snapped. But he cooled down quickly and accepted one. “You probably want to know about the kids?”

  “It had crossed my mind.”

  “Number One Son lives off the land in Georgia, kills his food with a stun gun. He’s probably aiming at me – claims I smacked him around when he was toddling. My other son’s a gem. Builds houses in Morristown, but he won’t take five minutes off to smell the coffee. Came out to buy me lunch last week and I caught him looking at his watch, like the first Bush.”

  “And your patients? You’ve helped me. I’m sure there are others.”

  “Accountants? Tortured accountants? Shall we not yank my chain.”

  “Any hobbies?” asked Anatole, who realized instantly that he had made a mistake. Gold would choke on the banality of the question. Anatole almost did himself.

  “You mean folk dancing?” said Gold. He looked at Anatole as if he were a member of an alien species. “Is that what you’d like me to do? How about basket-weaving? Or collecting. That’s a good one. Why don’t I start collecting mouse figurines? Would that make you happy?”

  “Sorry if I offended you. I saw some artifacts in your office. I thought perhaps you went on digs.”

  “Dig my own grave, that’s more like it. Those objets you saw on my desk. It’s my homage to Freud. The good doctor’s second love was anthropology – but you probably knew that.”

  “More or less,” said Anatole.

  “Maybe I was showing off a little. But this is not about digs,” said Gold in frustration. “Can we not talk about digs?”

  “Forget digs,” said Anatole gently.

  “Good,” said the psychiatrist.” It’s the here and now that gives me grief, Anatole. Lindsay Lohan? Kevin Federline? Rummi? Brownie? 50 Cent, for Christ’s sake. Where do I come in, Anatole? I drove off the highway and I can’t get back on? What on God’s earth is happening? Wonkette? Canoodling? Tonsil Hockey? Paris Fucking Hilton? I ask you, Anatole – Bingo Bloody Gubelmann? I know there’s no second act. But where’s the third?”

  He leaned forward with genuine longing in his eyes.

  “What do you make of this? What’s getting me down? What’s it all about, Anatole?”

  “What do you think?”

  “What do I think? Now there’s a question for you. What do I think. I don’t think anything. What in bloody hell do you think I’m doing here?”

  “What if I showed up in your office and dumped a package – such as the one you’ve described – in your lap?”

  “‘Dumped’ is good,” said Gold. “I like ‘dumped.’”

  “But what would you do?”

  Gold appeared to ignore the question. He sat quietly, staring straight ahead, as if he was watching a pill dissolve in a glass of water. Then he took a deep breath.

  “Well, for one thing,” he said, “I’d tell you to get off your ass and consider what you’ve got. You’re a revered figure – and not just in Rockville Centre. Your influence spills out in all directions. You lecture in Oslo every year. Ask the Norwegians what they think of you. I know, I know, it’s Norway, but they’ve got some awfully decent people over there . . . . Your wife adores you – she’s preoccupied at the moment, but she
’ll come round. Basically, you’re her guy. Who do you think gives her the strength to deal with those East Asians? Your patients are accountants? What are they, lepers? Here’s some news for you. An accountant can have a heavy heart, too. And ask them for their opinion of you. They’d be happy to line up and kiss your feet, not to speak of your fat ass.

  “Take a fucking walk. So you’ll limp a little. It’s not a death sentence. And go to Shanghai. What if you do get a migraine? The city’s been around for a thousand years. You think they won’t know how to treat a migraine? You’ve got a full plate. ENJOY YOUR GODDAMNED LIFE.”

  The two men sat in silence, Gold breathing heavily.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Not at all,” said Anatole.

  “You’re very good.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Trust me . . . and what do I owe you for this visit?”

  “It’s on the house.”

  “That’s enormously kind,” said Gold, getting up to leave. “Now what about you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Medication?”

  “Actually, I’m running low on lorazepan.”

  “I’ll phone in a prescription. And I’ll expect to see you on Thursday in Rockville Center.”

  “Four-thirty. I’ll be there.”

  Gold put on his topcoat, walked to the door, then hesitated.

  “What if I wanted to pop ’round and see you – for another ‘session’?”

  “That can be arranged. Just call ahead and give me some lead time.”

  “I’d insist on paying.”

  “We can work it out.”

  “It’s highly unlikely,” said Gold. “It was just a thought.”

  He opened the door.

  “Unless, of course, I happen to be in the neighborhood.”

  An Affair

  SHE FELT it was her literary prominence that appealed to him.

  He claimed it was her smoky voice, and her air of having attended good schools.