Frank

by Fred Petrovsky

  “Come in,” she said.

  “Should I close the door?”

  “No, that’s all right,” she said, and I felt an immediate easing.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  “I wanted to ask you the same thing,” she said, sitting straight behind her desk and thumbing through a blank notepad.

  “The Hoshimuru Gardens?”

  “You read my mind,” she said.

  “I haven’t gotten down to the health department yet, for one thing.”

  “Have you eaten there?”

  Ethics check: should I lie to her? “I haven’t had time,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

  Hoshimuru Gardens was a Chinese restaurant on the north side of town. It was an institution that had long served up some of the best Asian food in town. But the restaurant was not one of our advertisers. On the other hand, Szechuan Won Ton, a new restaurant, had recently signed a long-term advertising contract.

  A few weeks ago, Bolyard assigned me to write an investigative piece on the cleanliness and health record of several popular restaurants. But I was told to pay particular attention and lead with Hoshimuru Gardens, which had been rumored to have a cockroach problem, at least according to Bolyard. “If there’s no cockroach problem, we should tell our readers,” she said. “And if there is indeed an infestation, our readers will want to know that as well, of course.”

  “That’s an old trick,” I told her. “That’s the same as asking a person if they’ve stopped beating their wife. It sucks.”

  “It’s news,” Bolyard had said, waving me out of her office. “And it’s your story. Get to it.”

  But I never got to it. First off, it wasn’t news. It might even have been illegal. I don’t know. Not to mention that Hoshimuru Gardens had the best damn Peking Shrimp in the city. I was determined not to be part of torpedoing a business just because its competitor was a large advertiser. I told this to Bolyard, but she just laughed and said, “I’d like it next week sometime.”

  That was two weeks ago, and the only thing I’d done on the story was to check out the food at Szechuan Won Ton. I was delighted to find that its cuisine was terrible. Its House Special Kung Pao Chicken tasted like Kung Pao Shit. But I didn’t see any bugs crawling on the walls. It was a brand-new restaurant, after all.

  “What do you mean you haven’t had the time,” Bolyard asked.

  “I just haven’t. But I’m going to get right on it.”

  “Oh,” she said, then didn’t say anything for a long moment. She looked at me, shook her head and rubbed her eyes. Finally she said, “Tell me you’re not still working on that doctor story.”

  I was surprised she remembered it. I didn’t think she really paid any attention to me. But three days ago I approached her with the initial work I had done on some strange occurrences at the hospital. I didn’t have anything concrete, but I had an inside source that could be trusted.

  “You have a source you won’t name,” said Bolyard when I told her about it. “You don’t know who the patient is. Don’t know what the procedure is. You can’t tell me what its significance is. Sounds like a great story.”

  She was both sarcastic and right. But the next evening I met with Dr. Sidney Bernstein in a bar, and we talked about the story that would be mine. I still didn’t know exactly what it was. That was frustrating. But I knew it was going to be big by the way the doctor acted when we met. If I’ve ever met anyone with a secret, it was Dr. Bernstein. Every word from his mouth, every raised eyebrow, every carefully considered word, all broadcast that he was involved in something important. He kept talking in hypotheticals, but that’s like a child with a problem who asks his parents for advice by saying, “I’ve got a friend with a problem.” No, something big was happening at the hospital. I could feel it. It was going to be huge. But I didn’t have anything that Bolyard would print.

  “I’ve been doing a little work on it,” I admitted.

  “Where’s the story?”

  “I don’t have it yet.”

  “Dave, I don’t know what to say. You don’t have the story I assigned you. And you don’t have the cockamamie one you’ve been secretly working on, either. Are you a writer or a librarian?”

  She should have fired me on the spot. Maybe I wanted her to. Either I was going to explode or cry. Instead, I kept quiet. “I’ll have the Hoshimuru story to you tomorrow. What time do you want it?”

  “Ten A.M.,” she said.

  I walked nonchalantly out of Bolyard’s office and slowly back to my desk, seething. I didn’t bother walking around or doubling back over my steps. I went straight back to my chair, sat down and didn’t look at anyone.

  I picked up the phone and called the health department and started the basic legwork on the restaurant piece. I called the Better Business Bureau to see if any complaints had been lodged against Hoshimuru Gardens. Then I placed a bogus call to the restaurant and pretended to be the owner of a restaurant across town that needed a recommendation of an exterminator company. Could they suggest anyone?

  As I went through the motions gathering background on Hoshimuru Gardens, I kept contemplating how much I hated myself for what I was doing. I was a disgusting animal with no backbone. If I had any moral strength I’d step into Bolyard’s office and quit. That’s what I should have done in order to retain even a shred of my self-respect. But I didn’t. Because I had nowhere else to go. Like many Americans, I was just a paycheck or two away from being homeless.

  The only thing that kept me sane was thinking about Dr. Bernstein and the potential that he held for me. Wasn’t it conceivable that if I broke the story and if it went big, and if he really did give me the exclusive that he had promised, that I’d elevate myself within the organization? I would be insulated from Bolyard’s advertising stories. Maybe even position myself for a job at a newspaper that had higher journalistic standards.

  I took a break from the Hoshimuru hatchet job and called my inside source at the hospital.

  “Evelyn, how are you?” I asked, giving her as much respect and attention as I could in my greeting. “It’s Dave Hueger.”

  “Hi,” she said, and I immediately detected a distant, detached tone that was uncharacteristic of her.

  “Is anything wrong?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “I wanted to say hi and see what’s up.”

  “Nothing’s up,” she said.

  “How about your patient?” I prodded. “The one in C-113.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  “What do you mean? We spoke just the other day. All the secrecy and everything. Dr. Bernstein. You know.”

  “No, I don’t know,” she said rather sternly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dave.”

  Something was wrong. I could tell she wasn’t going to talk to me. Someone had gotten to her.

  “You’re denying that we ever spoke?”

  “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Dave. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Evelyn, why are you doing this to me?”

  “Doing what to you?”

  “Did you get in trouble for talking to me?” I asked.

  “When did we talk? Is there anything else?”

  “They paid you off. Is that it? Let me guess: Dr. Bernstein made a generous deposit to your bank account.”

  “I’ve got to go,” she said.

  “Talk to me, Evelyn,” I pleaded, feeling my story fall away, leaving me with nothing but Hoshimuru’s mythical cockroaches. “Don’t do this to me. You’re right. There’s something to this whole thing, and I’m on it.”

  “I’m hanging up,” she said.

  “Please don’t.”

  Then her voice was gone and a dial tone was in its place.

  13: Catherine Lavery

  I’ve discovered that I’m more a caregiver than a wife now, and that’s why, in recent days, I’ve found an island of peace among all this chaos. Call it acceptance.
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br />   That’s not to say that I don’t love Howard. Of course I do. That “till death do you part” vow holds sway over me. I care for him deeply and miss him dreadfully. I sleep alone at night, still on my side of the bed, afraid to spread out and luxuriate in the wide, middle expanse of mattress now available to me. Sometimes I wake up and reach for him or extend my leg to touch him for security. I ache for him.

  But the Howard I loved and built a life with has surely gone. In his place is a man with his memory who needs a great deal of attention. I continue to love him, but I can’t make love to him. Can’t talk to him at great length or depth. Can’t communicate with expressions. He is unable to look at me and understand without words what kind of day I’ve had.

  I’m now a statistic, one of those women who take care of once active husbands after they’ve become invalids. I sit with him, hold him, wipe his face and, when I have the time, monitor his vitals. I have learned how to prepare and administer an injection for him, practicing on a grapefruit until I became proficient. I enjoy giving Howard a shot. It makes me feel needed, useful, and, in a certain way, intimate. Holding his arm and inserting the needle is something I almost look forward to.

  Funny, how natural it’s come to me, and how his needs have helped me get beyond the freak situation we’ve gotten ourselves into. My obligation to see him through this has kept me busy, and that has been a blessing.

  * * * *

  Yesterday we moved Howard into a small, private rehabilitation clinic. It used to be two houses that have now been connected. It has a small nurse’s station, six patient rooms, and a comfortable visitors’ lobby. Dr. Bernstein has arranged for the entire facility to be vacant as long as we’re there—he’s booked every room.

  Dr. Bernstein called me the night before last. I had just gotten under the covers, Matisse already asleep by the foot of the bed, when the phone rang. It was 10:30.

  “Catherine, it’s me,” he said, and I knew that something was wrong because his voice sounded a little hyper. I was ready for bad news.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Is Howard all right?”

  “He’s fine. Don’t worry. But we need to make a move. We’ve got to get Howard out of the hospital. I’m afraid it’s going to break wide open. We’ve got to get control.”

  Control. That’s what Dr. Bernstein feared losing the most. Perhaps more than Howard’s life. He was afraid of relinquishing command. More than anything, he had to be in charge. Of Howard. Of the situation. Of the media. Of information. That’s why it didn’t surprise me that Howard’s nurse, Evelyn Meadows, hadn’t been retained. Instead, Dr. Bernstein stepped in, serving as both nurse and physician. He set up a room for himself in one of the empty patient rooms, as had I. That he was present almost all the time was a comfort. “He’s my only patient now,” he said.

  Howard wasn’t happy, but I guess that was to be expected. It was Dr. Bernstein’s idea not to tell Howard about the move. “Why upset him?” he said to me. “I want him exercising his brain on positives, not worrying about what’s going to happen. It’s best for Howard.”

  That was fine with me. I was tired of the hospital and its large parking lots and long walks and endless hallways and elevator rides that stopped on every floor. I was sick of people who recognized me and pretended to be familiar. They’d say hi and exchange pleasantries. I was weary of hospital smells, hospital sounds, hospital food, and people in wheelchairs and white-haired volunteers and that tiny musty-smelling chapel. I don’t think I could have taken much more of that. It was a relief not to battle all that anymore. Howard’s new home was a quiet and serene haven.

  But as I said, Howard was annoyed and the most agitated since the transplant. He asked why I agreed to it.

  “Because it’s better for you,” I explained. “Dr. Bernstein said that it’s standard procedure for patients to go from a hospital to a place like this. That means you’re making progress. Maybe the next step will be home.”

  He knew better and complained that we should end all this foolishness. “It’s time to go public,” he said.

  I held his hand and rubbed his shoulder and arm where he was beginning to get feeling back. It was so nice to be able to touch him and know that he felt me; it allowed me, at last, to connect with him. Still, it was disturbing, because it really wasn’t Howard. It was the younger body of the man called Frank, and I was drawn to him more and more.

  I have been faithful to Howard. I’ve never been with another man. Now here I was becoming intimate with someone else. I understood well that everything that really made a person was inside the brain. Personality. Character. Intelligence. Warmth. Love. Compassion. Anger. That Howard had a new body didn’t change him.

  But it changed me. It brought cobwebbed feelings out of storage, strange sensations. At first I felt uneasy and a bit afraid, but now those emotions have been replaced by ones of lust, eroticism, and danger. Was it wrong of me to feel this way? I don’t know. But I could not help experiencing these feelings. And I didn’t want them to stop. I wanted to make love to Frank and have him touch me and hold me for a long time. I wanted to shower with him and lather him.

  That was unlikely to ever happen, according to Dr. Bernstein, and that was frustrating. My husband had been given a new body, and I couldn’t possess it. Still, I could touch him, so I enjoyed caressing him and laying my head on him. I’d lift his hand and drag his fingers through my hair like he used to do.

  * * * *

  Later that afternoon, a man came by the clinic. I thought at first he’d made a mistake and come to the wrong address. I was standing in the lobby, stretching my legs, when he came in. He was a short, plump fellow. I towered over him, in fact. He was well groomed, wore a brown suit and carried a suede satchel-type briefcase.

  We made eye contact immediately, and he smiled broadly. “You must be Mrs. Lavery,” he said, offering me a pudgy hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “I don’t know you,” I said, shaking his hand anyway.

  “I’m aware of that,” he said. “But, through Dr. Bernstein, I’ve come to know you. Is he here? He’s expecting me.”

  “Who are you?” I said, annoyed.

  “Len Feasley. I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said, bowing a little, exuding a false warmness.

  He was fake and insincere. I took an immediate dislike to his smarmy attitude and was about to say something sarcastic when Dr. Bernstein appeared.

  “Len!” said Dr. Bernstein excitedly. “Come in.” He strode over and shook Feasley’s hand, genuinely glad to see him. “Did you two meet?”

  “Briefly,” I said sternly, making Dr. Bernstein understand how uncomfortable I was.

  “Len, have a seat. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Give me and Catherine just a minute, will you?”

  “No problem. Take your time,” Feasley said, setting his briefcase down.

  Dr. Bernstein put his arm around my shoulder and led me away.

  “I can see you’re upset, Catherine,” he said. “I meant to tell you about this.”

  “About what?” I said.

  “Len Feasley is a public relations expert. He’s here to help us.”

  “When were you going to tell me? When did you hire him?”

  “It was quick, Catherine. Yesterday. I meant to tell you. It happened fast. I found him yesterday. We needed someone. But it’s going to be fine. I promise. We’re in control of things now. It was about to spin out—”

  “Of control,” I said, finishing his sentence. “Everything’s about control with you.” It was at that moment that I realized fully that he hadn’t planned anything. He was a surgeon, and nothing else. He hadn’t given any thought to what would occur afterward. He hadn’t considered the implications of what might happen to Howard or me or Frank’s family or himself.

  “Is that what you think this is about? I’m doing this for you and Howard.”

  “It’s all going to come out,” I said.


  “I know that, but we have to manage it before it manages us. Like today, I got a message from Frank’s in-laws.”

  “What do they want?”

  “I don’t know. They could want anything. Maybe they want to see him, too. I haven’t returned the call. I guess I owe them the courtesy. But that’s the point. Things are happening and we need to do something.”

  I felt sorry for him in a strange way and smiled. How sad it must be for him to realize he couldn’t do this alone.

  “Fine,” I said, because I didn’t feel like escalating this discussion and because it didn’t make a difference. If Dr. Bernstein thought Feasley could make things go a little smoother, then I guess I was in favor of that.

  Dr. Bernstein fetched Len Feasley and we sat down around a small round table in the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Lavery,” Len Feasley said straight off, “I can see you’re uncomfortable with me being here. And I completely understand. I’m a little uncomfortable, too. But I want to put you at ease. I’m not in charge here. You are. One hundred percent. I’m simply here to help manage things a little. You can trust me.”

  I didn’t say anything. A weak, tired smile was all I could muster.

  “What have you come up with?” asked Dr. Bernstein.

  “Okay,” said Feasley. “Down to business then? That’s fine.”

  He opened his briefcase and withdrew a yellow legal pad. The top sheet was completely filled with writing in a tight, cramped script.

  “First of all,” he said, “we need to secure the situation. And I like what I see here so far. There’s no other doctors or nurses running around. No patients who can overhear something. That’s very good. But it won’t last for long. I’d estimate that we have three or four days here before this place becomes risky. Maybe less. It is a fairly well-known rehabilitation facility. You can only keep it booked for so long before doctors start talking about it and insurance companies take notice. Hospital discharge planners will become curious. Just my guess. I might be wrong. It’s a wagon-circling mentality but it’s best to take precautions and be prepared.”