For me, my best destiny has been with my gallery, evaluating and assisting talented artists, putting on shows. That’s mostly gone now. If I wanted to, it’s feasible that I could direct the main business functions of the gallery from my bed here. But what would be the point? I couldn’t see the works. Couldn’t even go there. Only now do I understand just how noncerebral the art industry is. It’s anything but intellectual. It’s almost entirely physical. Hands holding brushes. Splashes of color on a canvas. Negotiating and discovering new talent. All the things I can no longer do. That’s why the gallery is still very much for sale.
* * * *
Today I feel better. I continue to feel sensation in my left shoulder and a little in my upper arm. At least I think I do. Dr. Bernstein doesn’t seem to believe me, but he’s promised a special test later to see if my perceptions are accurate.
The doctor has explained that even a tiny improvement will be modern science’s most miraculous breakthrough. At best, I’d be faced with the uncertain recovery experienced by people who have had a very severe stroke.
“With a stroke, you never know what you’re going to get,” said Dr. Bernstein. “It all depends on what areas of the brain have been affected and to what extent. A lot of people completely recover from a stroke, but others aren’t so lucky. They enter a silent world and their brain begins a slow spiral away from them, eventually shutting down their bodies. Others regain some speech, perhaps even the use of their limbs. And so on. But with you, Howard, there’s no telling. I haven’t made you any promises. You know that. You’ve already made history.”
What I haven’t told the doctor is that my eyes feel changed as well. It’s not that I can see. Far from it. No matter how I strive, all I can see is a dark veil of blackness. But my eyes feel different. How can I describe it? When I strain to move my hands in order to talk, it’s almost as if I can see the strobe. But mostly it feels as if I have a sinus infection. There’s pressure behind my eyes. They are working hard to see, I know it.
One of the most unusual aspects of my condition is how time has changed for me. Actually, time is something that has no meaning. There is no light and darkness. No day and night. No stopping and starting or activities to measure distances with.
For me, the concept of time has been transformed into a continuous thread of existence. Do I sleep? Yes, but in no regular pattern. As far as I can tell, I take a never-ending series of short naps. And when I sleep I have a chance to dream and that is a lot of what keeps me going. Because in my dreams I am whole and alive. I walk and talk and make love and work my way through a variety of situations. In a way, dreaming is my true reality.
I’m always scared when I come out of a dream, because instead of waking up and having a clear change in physical existence, I simply fall into my wakeful darkness and become slowly aware that the dream is over and that I’m back in solitary confinement.
Each day gets easier than the one before because I’m a little more used to it and know what to expect, and I get better at the stenography shortcuts. I have good days and bad days. Yesterday was a good day because Neil finally came to visit.
Ours is a complicated relationship. I love him so much and yet have ambivalent feelings about him. I know that he’s a grown adult with his own stresses, yet I yearn so much to be with him and father him and love him. I feel proud to have brought him into the world, but I am jealous of his youth. He’s made me a proud grandfather, but I would give that title up if I could be young again and be with him and take him to the zoo and coach him in Little League. Are my feelings any different than those of other fathers?
I know that he feels guilty about what’s happened. I’m aware that he blames himself. But it’s my fault, really. Did I corner him about the gallery thing? Was I attempting to maneuver him into taking over? Of course I was, but not for the reasons he believes.
It wasn’t the gallery itself, nor my artists. Newer galleries had sprung up in town and were on the cutting edge of what was happening, leaving me a bit behind. But that was okay with me. In my time my gallery’s walls lit the town on fire. Now I was part of the establishment. We were what you might call stodgy. Just a bit predictable, I guess. Yes, my gallery’s time had waned.
I wanted the gallery to be Neil’s because I wanted him to be me. And, in so doing, I would be him. Our lives would be one. And I’d be younger. He’d need my expertise. We’d take meetings and be closer than ever. And perhaps he would enjoy reinvigorating the gallery.
My love for him is so melancholy. I don’t blame him for getting angry.
Hearing his voice in my ear was like listening to a symphony. Though I felt sad that I could not put my arms around him, it was enough to have him with me, talking to him, basking in his company.
Neil is a serious man. That’s not a surprise, because he was such a serious child. Not that he didn’t do the things that all little boys do, but he did them with such ardent passion. I can’t remember him ever starting something that he didn’t finish. He was extremely task oriented. Give him something to do, and he’d do it with very little direction.
Still, I wonder if he had fun along the way.
When he built a plastic model kit he would approach it as if he were a highway engineer. He read the directions fully two or three times. Painted the pieces before opening the tube of glue. Used toothpicks and files. He’d stay up late and work at his desk under lamplight. I don’t think he enjoyed it. But when he was finished, when he would place his creation on his shelf, putting it in just the right spot and angle, he’d step back and admire it. Maybe he’d smile then. And that would be the last time he’d ever touch it because he’d already be on to a new task and he’d bear down and start being intense all over again. He had to understand everything fully.
When he was ten, we had a discussion about the facts of life. Like my father had with me, this was a formal, sit-down talk that I had planned for a few days after he started asking what people meant by the word “sex.” I started by saying, “Neil, I’m glad you asked about sex. Sex is what people do when they love each other and want to make each other feel good, and it’s also a way to make babies.”
“Wait a minute,” Neil said. He ran out of the room and returned a moment later with a pad of paper and a pen.
“I need to write this down. Start over.”
“You don’t need to write this down.”
“I want to. This is important.”
“You don’t have to memorize it.”
“Then why are you telling me?”
“Because it’s time. And you’ve been asking.”
“Then why can’t I write it down?”
“Because it’s just not something you write down.”
“I want to.”
“Fine,” I said, flustered.
“Now start over,” he said, “and go slow.”
He then proceeded to write a numbered list, which was distracting. But I made a good go of it, I thought. When I had explained everything, he seemed more intent on his list than on really understanding the mechanics of sex.
“Okay. Let me get this straight. Kissing comes first. Touching is two. Taking your clothes off is three.”
“Don’t do that.”
“What’s four? Is that touching the penis and vagina?”
“Why do you have to write this down?”
“Five is, what’s that word? Intercourse?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes. Intercourse.”
“Good. Six is orgasm. Seven is getting pregnant. Oh. I forgot the hard penis part.”
“That’s just part of sex,” I said. “You don’t need a separate number.”
“Yes I do.” Neil crossed out numbers and added in the erection part. “Kissing, touching, clothes off, touching penis and vagina, hard penis, intercourse, pregnancy, babies.”
Mercifully, that was the end of our talk. But Neil kept revising his list over the next several days. And he persisted in asking questions. He put in separate numbers for using
a condom and for sperm and for having the baby grow. He wrote little descriptions for each one and had me check them over constantly to ensure he had it right. He kept it pinned to his bulletin board over his desk with the heading “Sex Stuff,” and he showed it to his friends even though I forbade him to. For a long time after that he would ask questions about the sex that Catherine and I had and were we going to do it on a specific night and was I planning on using a condom so we wouldn’t have a baby. He converted it to memory that he would recite in the car. I recall this lasting for weeks on end until one day out of the blue he said, “I think I’m going to have sex one day, Dad. Only not right now. When I get older.”
“That’s a wise decision,” I said and, as far as I can remember, he never asked about it again.
* * * *
“How are you doing, Howard?” Dr. Bernstein asked when he came by about an hour ago. “What’s new this afternoon? Are you still feeling sensations in your shoulder?”
I told him yes. My spirits soared when I heard the doc’s voice. He always seemed so confident and strong, as if he could will his patients to get better.
“That’s good,” he said.
Suddenly I felt something in my shoulder. It wasn’t quite a pain, more of a pressure of some sort. Then it became warm and grew stronger. And it didn’t stop.
“It’s happening now,” I said.
“That’s very interesting,” he said, “because I’ve got a three-inch needle buried deep in your shoulder. Tell me when it stops.”
I kept waiting for it to go away, but it didn’t. I waited and waited. I didn’t want to fail this test. I was so excited I could hardly contain myself. But the pain didn’t go away. For the longest time it persisted and, perhaps, grew more intense.
“It’s still there,” I said.
“That’s good, because I haven’t taken it out. How about now?”
Did he take it out? It didn’t feel any different. I imagined him standing next to me and worming the needle in. Glad I couldn’t see it. But the pain remained.
“I still feel it.”
“That’s because it’s still in.”
And then, like night and day, the pain vanished. “It’s gone,” I said.
“I took the needle out,” said Dr. Bernstein, and I thought I could almost hear him smile.
Then the pain returned. Dejected, I said, “It’s back.”
“Good, ’cause it’s back in.”
Again, it stopped. I told him when, and I was right. He did this test several times, moved the needle around to different places. I don’t know how long this went on. But I didn’t care. I had feeling in my shoulder!
After a while, I heard the doctor’s voice, much stronger. He must have been sitting next to me, leaning very close to my ear. “Howard,” he said warmly, “I believe you have feeling, my friend. From about four inches below your ear to about even with your armpit, you have definite sensation. Honestly, I’m astonished.”
“I’m not,” I told him.
“This is more than I could have hoped for, Howard. It must be caused by you concentrating on your hand when you communicate. I wouldn’t have guessed it, to be honest. And I don’t know what’s next. This could be it, or there could be more. If you can stand it, we’ll do this every other day or so to see if your area of feeling grows.”
“I can stand it.”
Then the doctor’s voice changed.
“Listen, Howard, there are a few things we need to discuss. Catherine needs to be involved, too. Complicated things. Not exactly unforeseen.” He paused. I heard him take a breath. I wished I could see his face and read what he really felt. “Here’s the deal. First of all, I got a call from a reporter today. He knows something is up. I don’t know how. But I sort of expected this. The good news is he doesn’t know exactly what’s going on, but he’s one of those persistent investigative reporters. The kind we don’t need. I might meet with him and try to fend him off. But I think our time is growing short.”
I told him that I understood and that I wasn’t surprised. We had talked about this before.
“But the real complication is this. The donor’s wife wants to see you.”
“I see,” I said, trying to move my hand. “I thought this might happen.”
“Do you know what I’m saying? It’s Frank’s widow. It’s against everything that she’s signed. She has no legal rights. But that hasn’t stopped her. I’ve put her off two times, and now I’ve got another message from her. I’m afraid she might make it public.”
“I very much want to see her,” I said.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I said. “I want her here. How soon? Bring her soon.”
6: Janelle Orlen
The suddenness of my husband’s death was not the hardest thing to bear. That Frank was part of my life one moment and then completely gone the next was terrible, yes. But the avalanche in my heart started before he died when I discovered his bizarre affair.
I had always thought that it could happen. I hoped it wouldn’t. But I thought it might because Frank was so brutally handsome. I was used to women flirting with him. I saw it all the time, even when he had our daughters in tow.
But that he had chosen to be unfaithful with a man is really more than I could ever have imagined. That’s what makes mourning Frank so complicated, especially because everything happened at once, all wrapped up into one grotesque weekend package.
What I think about a lot is the strange coincidence. That on Saturday our marriage was in ruins because he’d been having sex with the golf pro, and the next day he was gone from a bullet in his head. Coincidence or punishment? That’s what possesses my mind. None of it makes sense.
The discovery was full of coincidences, too.
Frank left the house early on Saturday to play golf. I dropped the two oldest girls at my folks’ so I could run some errands without all three. I had to drive across town to pick up a wedding gift at a specialty store, and I didn’t want to drag all the kids with me. It was easy with one. I always made an effort to make sure that I spent quality time with each of them alone.
I dropped two off and, with two-year-old Angie safely tucked in her car seat, I got on the freeway and headed east. The better part of an hour later, when I took my exit, I suddenly saw Frank’s vehicle a few cars ahead of me. I wondered what he was doing out here. Was he going to one of those new east courses? He usually played on one of the Brighton courses to the north. Very strange. I changed lanes to see if it was indeed his car. It was. And he wasn’t alone. I was about to speed up and wave when his car signaled and turned off into a residential road called Shooting Star Street.
I turned as well, but stayed back a little bit. Something strange was going on, I was sure of it. Don’t ask me how I knew. I just did. The car pulled into the driveway of a small house and they got out. Frank and a man I didn’t recognize.
They went in the house, and I stayed in the car, felt the floorboards drop away and the seat disappear and the roof dissipate as I was enveloped by something foreboding and far away. It could have been harmless, I know. A golf buddy wanting to show off his new weight room or something. But intuition told me that something bad was happening.
“Are we there, Mommy?” Angie said, bringing me back to reality.
“Not yet. We’re just stopping for a second.”
That’s when I did something very out of character. I got out of the car and removed Angie as well. I couldn’t leave her in the car alone.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Just going to take a little walk,” I said, and led her down the sidewalk and across the grass so as to approach the house from the side like I’d seen detectives do on TV. I didn’t want us to be seen. I suppose I could have walked right up to the door, rang the bell and said, “Hi, Frank. I saw you driving and thought I’d stop by and say hello. Kiss your daughter.”
Angie dragged her feet and reached down to pick up a twig.
“Come on,” I said.
The front windows were shuttered so we walked to the side and tried the gate to the backyard. It was open, and that’s about the only lucky thing that happened to me that weekend. Or since.
“Who lives here?” Angie asked.
“Shhh,” I said. “Let’s see how quiet we can be.”
“Okay,” she said. “Shhh.”
I crept slowly around the back. I noticed that the yard was well kept. Small brick-trimmed lawn. Hammock. A hummingbird feeder. I peeked in the kitchen window. Nothing there. Then I went a bit farther to the other side and found two wide French doors and a large living area beyond them. I moved close to one of the panes and saw them. They were on the couch with their shirts off and in each other’s arms, their mouths together, arms roaming about. The man who I hadn’t recognized was unbuttoning Frank’s pants.
Thankfully, Angie’s attention was directed at a pigeon that had landed on the lawn. “Birds!” she said.
I didn’t stay to see more. I pulled Angie into my arms and left as quickly and quietly as we’d come, but I don’t remember walking back to the car or putting Angie in. I don’t recall driving away. I don’t even know what I was thinking about.
“Who lives there, Mommy?” Angie’s small voice came from the back seat.
“No one,” I said.
The drive home was long and solitary. My world was different and suddenly upside-down. All the cars on the highway seemed to evaporate.
I drove to my parents’ home but didn’t say anything about what happened. I sat with them a while and had an iced tea and somehow managed to answer their usual questions that once were important but now sounded so trivial. What are you doing with the girls this summer? Is Mandy old enough for sleep-away camp? We’re thinking of getting a new car. Do you want to have lunch this week with your aunt Ellen?
I sipped the tea and let part of me respond to their questions. The rest of me was somewhere else. Watching the condensation drip down the glass. The lemon slice leaning on an ice cube half way down. The trees outside the window. The sound of an airplane in the distance. A pebble in my shoe. My thoughts kept pushing themselves to my children and about what I should do. Divorce? I wondered how fast I could get a locksmith out to the house to change all the locks. Did my parents have room for us to move in for a while? I had enough sleeping bags. We could camp out indefinitely, I supposed.
Frank Page 5
