Frank

by Fred Petrovsky

  “I feel honored,” I said, somehow out of breath. Then I managed to say, “Why me?”

  “I wanted you to understand a private, sacred part of me. Because I need your help.”

  “I’ll do anything. Anything I can,” I stammered.

  “Is that a promise?”

  I felt he was trapping me. Cornering me somehow. What was it he wanted? “I’ll do whatever I can. What’s wrong?”

  “Everything’s wrong, Neil. I’ve lost my inspiration. I feel like I’m drowning.”

  “If it’s about your paintings not selling, I can change that. I’m sure. I’m going to shift them to the front room and highlight them. How about a special show?”

  He waved me off. “No. It’s not that. I couldn’t care less. Sooner or later they’ll sell. I’ve got more money socked away than I know what to do with. If I didn’t sell anything for two years I wouldn’t feel it. Besides, I don’t paint for money. Never have.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s your father, Neil. I’m sure you know this. He’s been everything to me in my career. He introduced me to Elly. I don’t think a week’s gone by without us speaking and conferring. He challenges me. Gives me direction. Makes me find things inside myself I didn’t know were there. I don’t think I’m exaggerating by saying that everything I’ve accomplished, maybe everything I am, is because of him.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “I haven’t started a new painting since I don’t know when. Neil, I have to see him. Don’t tell me I can’t. I must. Don’t say anything other than that you’ll try. I don’t want to hear excuses or stories. I’ve heard too many rumors about your father already. I don’t want to hear them or know about them or have them confirmed or anything like that. I just need to see him. To talk to him. Say that you’ll try, Neil.”

  “I’ll try,” I said.

  He drove me back to the gallery in silence and let me out in the parking lot. “Call me soon,” he said.

  “I will.”

  * * * *

  Back inside the gallery I went immediately to the wall where three of Baldwin’s paintings hung. They seemed entirely different to me now, suddenly much more mournful and alive. They were imbued with both a richness and sadness that made their images appear to lift off the canvas and levitate in front of me. It seemed such a shame that they were to be sold to complete strangers who would take them home and attach their own meanings to them.

  I walked the gallery floor and looked at all the paintings more carefully. The gallery seemed altered. I can’t explain it adequately other than to say that it didn’t seem to be as much mine as it was before. It was only then, having received Earl’s inviolable trust, that I began to understand partially what it was that had driven my father all those years.

  At three o’clock my next appointment arrived. His name was Dave Hueger. I didn’t know him. He had called late yesterday and said he wanted to see the gallery. “Nothing specific,” he said. I tried to get him to come on Monday, but he said it couldn’t wait.

  When he walked through the door, my first impression of him was that he was a salesman. He had an artificial smile on his face as he walked over to me and shook my hand.

  “I’m Neil Lavery. How are you?”

  “Fine. And thank you so much for opening the gallery,” he said. “Mind if I look around?”

  “Please do,” I said.

  “If it isn’t any trouble, would you show me around? I’m sure I’ll have lots of questions.”

  Now that was peculiar. It should have tipped me off that something was wrong. I had never had a customer who wanted my company while browsing. People mostly liked to experience art alone or with a confidant. They didn’t want me talking in their ear. Only after a person settled on a painting or two did they call me over and ask for some help.

  “This is an interesting work,” he said. “Who painted it?”

  “Jan Penner,” I said. “She’s from New Mexico.”

  He stepped closer to inspect the price that was typed on a small card taped to the wall beneath the canvas. He whistled and said, “Wow. That’s a pretty penny.”

  “Well,” I said, “it all depends on how you look at it. If it brings you happiness then it might be worth it. And if you discover you can’t live without it, then the price may not seem so high.”

  “Good point,” he said, nodding his head in an exaggerated manner.

  He asked more questions about other works, then said, “You have a very nice gallery. How long have you owned it?”

  “My father opened it years ago.”

  “Oh, really? He has a very nice place here. Is he around?”

  “No.”

  “I’d love to talk with him. His name is Howard, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said, wondering how he knew. “But it’s not possible to meet with him. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s a shame. I was hoping to discuss business.”

  “I can help you,” I said, learning to dislike him.

  “It’s not about any of these paintings. I’d like to discuss a special business proposal. If he’s the owner, I really think I should speak directly with him.”

  “What kind of proposal? A corporate art program?”

  “No. I’m wondering if he’s interested in a merchandising program.”

  “He’s not,” I said.

  “I think that’s something he should decide.”

  “He’s not interested,” I said, now very irritated. “And I’m not interested. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “I really must speak with him,” he said. “I insist.”

  “You can insist all you want. The gallery is closed now. Let me show you out.”

  “All right,” he said, then stopped and looked at the floor. “Forget everything I said. I apologize. I’m just a little desperate. I’m sorry.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m a newspaper reporter.”

  “Oh,” I said and suddenly understood exactly what was going on.

  “I need to talk to your father.”

  “As I said, he’s not available. What don’t you understand about that?”

  “Why? Is he in town?”

  “I don’t think I have to answer your questions.”

  “You don’t, of course. But why not?”

  “It’s a matter of privacy.”

  “What is? What’s so private?”

  “Nothing,” I said, fearing I’d already said too much.

  “Where is he?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Is he sick?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Has he been in a hospital?”

  I shoved him hard and he took a step back. “Leave now,” I said, my temper igniting.

  He was surprised, but he didn’t lose his balance. “There’s no need to be violent. I only want to—”

  I hit him again, pushing him hard into the wall. I moved close to him, grabbed him by the collar and brought my face close to his. I don’t know what he saw in my face, but I felt red and inflamed. My blood was boiling, and I tightened my grip. How large had my eyes opened?

  “Listen to me, whatever your name is. I’ve had it with you and everything. Do you understand me? I don’t like you. Do you know what privacy is? Do you have any conception about it at all? Is my father a politician or a movie star or anyone else famous? He isn’t. What gives you the right to barge in here with your lies and demands?” I drove my knuckles into his throat. I could hear him struggle to breathe a little but he didn’t try to resist. He was weak and dangling in my arms, and his face was pale with fear. “You have no right to know anything. Do you understand that? If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you. Is that plain enough? If you write anything in your fucking paper, I swear to God I’ll come after you.”

  I let go of him and he crumpled for a moment then walked slowly to the door. Before he left he turned around and looked at me. I think he m
eant to say something, but I shook my head in warning and I guess he thought better of it. He left.

  I locked the door, turned off the lights and went to the back room, where I sat on the floor and tried to regain my composure. The last time I went off on someone like that it had been on a boat with my father. And look where he was now.

  I’ve heard that people who resort to violence are weak and angry and are really only lashing out at themselves. I suppose there’s some truth in that. I wasn’t angry at the reporter. Depending on what he knew or suspected, I guess he thought he was only doing his job.

  Then what was I angry at? Everything, I reasoned. Myself, my father, the situation I was in. The pressure I felt. Did I deserve any of this?

  After a while I left the gallery and drove home, where Emily noticed how depressed I was. She offered me a beer and left me alone mostly. Sensing my depression, she moved close to me that night and laid against me and rubbed me gently on the back of my neck where I liked it. She didn’t ask what was wrong. I think she knew most of what was in my head. I told her about what I’d done to the reporter. All she said was, “It’ll be okay. I promise,” and kept caressing me with her understanding until I fell asleep.

  17: Leonard Feasley

  Around town, I have a reputation as a perfectionist. If there’s a need for damage control or public relations counseling, if someone needs an outreach program that can’t be handled without kid gloves, then I’m the one who gets the call.

  I think that’s exactly why Dr. Bernstein called me, and that’s why I love my job. There are tens of thousands of professional public relations practitioners in America, but I was the one chosen to handle what I believe is the most important moment in medical history.

  I must be honest and admit that this particular job wasn’t too daunting. True, there were many things to be coordinated and lots of secrets to keep. But only a few people were involved. That makes a project easy to handle. And there wasn’t an abundance of damage control to maneuver, such as is necessary in a national health scare in which the public health is endangered.

  Still, the media would attack us with a vengeance, I was sure of that, but we could distance them from us fairly easily. And once the details were out there really wouldn’t be anything major for us to do.

  One of the more interesting facets of this project was that my client, Dr. Bernstein, wasn’t in it for the money. He didn’t have an angle on future speaking engagements or book deals. He made that clear during our first meeting when he said, “Len, right now I can’t think about anything else other than survival. I can’t even breathe. I need you to do the thinking for me.”

  Do the thinking for him? I couldn’t wait. He wanted order and calmness. Mrs. Lavery wanted normalcy. I could attain those goals easily, I thought. Later though, with everything cleared away as planned, I would position a world of possibilities for my clients. I’m sure I could negotiate lucrative book contracts for Dr. Bernstein and Mrs. Lavery. And if Howard continued his progress, the sky was the limit. I bet I could get him a two-million-dollar advance. Movie rights and talk shows and speeches and newsletters. This was a gold mine.

  A lot of people were more important than me in this. But I was the one who took center stage this morning in a packed room in the hospital. I stood at the podium and looked out at what I estimated were 150 reporters. Video cameras, microphones, and booms pushed up at me, waiting to hear what I had to say.

  It was easy to get them there. How hard can it be when you have something so sensational to sell? My news release was carefully crafted to lure them in.

  MEDICAL BREAKTHROUGH OF THE CENTURY TO BE REVEALED

  A revolutionary new procedure performed by one of the nation’s leading physicians will be the topic of an open news conference to be held tomorrow at 10 A.M. at the downtown Hilton.

  The sensitive nature of the announcement prohibits additional details from being disclosed in this news release.

  Press information and credentials can be obtained by calling 555-1824.

  I faxed it at ten P.M. last night (purposely too late for news organizations to latch on and report about it on their nightly news broadcasts or in morning newspapers). In addition to the Associated Press, I faxed it to the local newspapers and broadcast network affiliates and CNN. Then I placed a few phone calls to the major national networks to alert them to the AP item sure to come over the wire.

  That’s all it took. Within an hour the phone started ringing as reporters called the phone number in the news release. The phone number rang into a bank of ten answering machines that all had the same recording:

  “Thank you for calling to obtain additional information about the news conference to be held at the downtown Hilton tomorrow at ten A.M. The event will focus on a breakthrough medical announcement that will rival the cure for polio. Additional details about the announcement are not available because of its extreme sensitivity and because private citizens are involved. This is an announcement all news media will want to attend, so it has been scheduled accordingly. Seating will be provided on a first-come, first-served basis, with special camera access and power facilities. The news conference will last approximately thirty minutes.”

  I insisted that Dr. Bernstein’s remarks be scripted. I wrote them, of course, although he took care of the technical parts. I had large illustrated charts made.

  The media began arriving at nine A.M. I greeted them at the door, shaking their hands and welcoming them. Those with electrical needs were ushered to special outlets I had laid out with extension cords. Those with laptops were invited to sit at one of the three long tables I had prepared in advance. I had a raised platform and podium installed at the front of the room. A Chinese screen at the back of the platform hid Dr. Bernstein and a door to the back of the hotel. An exceptional sound system provided impeccable clarity.

  I wasn’t surprised when almost every reporter collared me before the news conference wanting advance information. Many were grumpy. As a rule, reporters don’t like going to blind news conferences such as this. In fact, they hardly ever go to news conferences, period. But overnight I’d been able to create a buzz they couldn’t ignore. If there was an off chance that the news conference really did break an astonishing story, would any assignment editor risk not having someone there?

  At precisely ten A.M. I stepped to the podium. The room fell silent as I unfolded my remarks and began.

  “Good morning. My name is Leonard Feasley, and I have been retained as public relations counsel and spokesman for Sidney Bernstein, M.D., and his patient.

  “Before we begin, I’d like to explain a few ground rules for today. First, this is a briefing. There will be two speakers, myself and Dr. Bernstein. I’ll speak for about five minutes. Dr. Bernstein will speak for twenty minutes. That will conclude this news conference. We will accept no questions today. Additional details about the procedure will be forthcoming over the next few days, either in a public forum such as this or in written communication that will come from my office.”

  When I said the word “procedure” I heard the sense of activity and noise in the room rise. I heard pencils scratching. Keyboard keys clicking. I was exhilarated.

  “Before I begin with the details, I would like to ask you, the collective media, to respect and understand the need for complete secrecy up until now. And I hope you will respect the family involved. This is a very personal matter that could have gone unreported indefinitely. But its importance is so substantial that both Dr. Bernstein and the patient’s family felt the greater societal good outweighed their personal privacy. Still, I implore you to be satisfied with what we feel we are able to release today.

  “Let’s move on then,” I said, lifting my head momentarily and looking over the people in the room. “On last March eighteenth, Dr. Sidney Bernstein performed the first ever human brain transplant.”

  I paused just a second to bask in the wonderful sound of a collective gasp escaping from the media. At that moment I felt my life ha
d been fulfilled. Everything from this point on would be downhill.

  I continued: “Dr. Bernstein’s primary patient, whom we will call John Doe A, had fallen sick with a life-threatening illness that was, to keep things simple, killing his entire body. All his organs were deteriorating and shutting down except, quite miraculously, his brain. Another person, whom we’ll call John Doe B, had, again to keep things simple and protect privacy at this time, undergone just the opposite fate: his body was intact but his brain was dead. This unique situation presented itself to Dr. Bernstein.

  “Dr. Bernstein has long been interested in brain transplantation as a way to further understand the workings of the human brain. Solving the problem of brain transplantation is a way of getting at other issues, such as stroke, Parkinson’s disease, and spinal injuries. Over the past several years, Dr. Bernstein has experimented on animals with some success. The March 2011 issue of Science details some of these early advances. For the most part, his studies have gone on in relative secrecy and obscurity due to the sensitivity of the subject. That is, until today.

  “In a moment, Dr. Bernstein will explain the procedure. But first let me tell you that the surgery was a success. Both families gave written consent prior to the operation. John Doe A’s brain was removed from his dying body and placed inside John Doe B’s body. We will refer to this person as John Doe A, however, because the mental functions are intact. He is alive and stable. He can think and communicate. And, he is regaining some sensation in his left arm.

  “I’m sure you can appreciate the need for privacy. As such, the families are not available for contact at this point. We will keep you apprised of his condition as it continues to improve.

  “At this time, I’d like to invite Dr. Sidney Bernstein to make his remarks.”

  Dr. Bernstein stepped out from behind the Chinese screen, strode over to me, and shook my hand. I leaned in close to him and whispered, “Stick to your written remarks.”