“Howard, I don’t know what to say. I can’t believe it. You look ... good.”
“Thanks.”
“Howard,” said Earl, “you won’t believe this, but I’m not surprised by this whole thing. I mean, I am surprised. I shouldn’t say that. Surprised is the wrong word. I’m sorry, darn it. I mean I just knew something was up. I knew there had to be some sort of strange justification for your disappearance. And for a while there I was doubting myself. I felt you and I had a special relationship. I was certain that you’d have tried to reach out and let me know what was happening. I tried to convince myself that you were dead as an explanation for not clueing me in.”
“I’ve thought about you a lot. And I feel guilty for abandoning you and others without a word. I know everyone has been wondering what happened to me. But if it makes any difference, you’re practically the first person I’ve talked to outside the family.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate that. But what can I do? Neil told me what happened. And I’ve read everything I could find.”
“Knowing you care is enough,” I said.
“It’s not enough, Howard. My art hasn’t been the same. I haven’t started a new canvas since you vanished.”
“Shame on you,” I said. “I have nothing to do with your art.”
“You know that’s not true,” he said. “You are everything to me. I’ve felt rudderless. I don’t know where I’m going.”
I honestly didn’t know what to say. Earl’s a sensitive man. He’s given me these kinds of lectures before, and they usually left me feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable. Honored, sure. But I’d rather not have them said. I felt like telling him he was full of shit. “Look at me,” I said. “Look where my brain is and realize what I’ve gone through. I haven’t given up my active life so that you could pout and arrive at a creative block. That’s not fair to me. It makes me feel sad. You’re one of the most gifted artists in the world. How do you think it makes me feel to be blamed for you not creating?”
“I understand that, Howard. I’m sorry. But going cold turkey like this is terrifying. I didn’t know what happened. A million things were going through my mind. I felt lost.”
I asked, “Earl, how do you think it makes me feel to know that you’ve stopped painting? It makes me sad. Don’t you realize that I have no art in my life?”
Hearing the computer speak those words made me feel beaten. All my life I’d worked hard to enhance our artistic community. I’d encouraged artists like Earl. Brought them into my home. Pressed politicians for cultural support. But now I had nothing. I really had no art in my life. Oh, I had music. And if asked, Catherine would read me a book. I suppose those counted as art. But they were static, existing somewhere out on the periphery. And even when I was listening to music or a story, I found it difficult to concentrate. My thoughts were always shooting off somewhere and taking me away someplace that had nothing to do with what I was listening to. I missed my gallery and the paintings immensely. I liked arranging the canvases and hanging them, making sure they were at eye level. I’d developed a special formula with respect to which canvases hung next to others, and which artists shared walls. Paintings and sculptures were physical, tangible objects that defined me. No longer.
“Earl, it would mean a great deal to me to know that you’re working again and starting new paintings,” I said.
“What direction should I take?” he said, sounding desperate.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But consider starting a series that would celebrate everything good with life. You know what I miss the most? I miss the simple things. Opening the gallery in the cool morning. Talking with friends. Looking at a new painting for the first time. Seeing you. I’ll never have them again. Maybe you can do something with that.”
“I think I can,” he said.
* * * *
Today I became aware that, quite suddenly, I had become something of an oracle. I was someone with whom people sought an audience and made pilgrimages to. Whether it was the media, friends or business associates, Catherine said she had a list of more than three hundred people who had requested to see me. Earl Baldwin was the first. Amanda Bernstein was second.
I didn’t know Amanda. I actually gave her no thought. But I was very concerned about Dr. Bernstein. He was acting different. When I first met him, well before he gave me Frank’s body, Dr. Bernstein was a confident, towering figure. He spoke slowly and thoughtfully. He was wise and generous. There was nothing he hadn’t considered. It made me feel good to be in the hands of such a physician. But his voice sounded nervous lately, and he spoke haltingly and with little assurance. I know it has something to do with the way things have gone and the dismantling of his career. I suppose he feels sorry for me and would turn back time if given the chance.
This is what I told Amanda when Catherine brought her to see me this afternoon.
“Are you afraid of me?” I asked her.
“Afraid? That’s not the word,” she said, sounding dignified but still rather unreadable. “Astonished.”
“What did you expect?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I didn’t expect to find a person, I guess. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “You’re honest. I respect that and want that more than anything. I consider that a gift.”
“You’re generous,” she said. “I hadn’t expected that either.”
“You’re married to a wonderful man,” I said, starting in with what I had really intended to say.
“I know that.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“I do. Of course I do.”
“He must have your support. Do you know why?”
“It’s a difficult time for him, I know,” she said.
“Difficult is an interesting word,” I said. “He’s going through hell.”
“I know. Believe me, I know.”
“Then support him,” I said. “Love him unconditionally. Do everything you can. Lie to him if you have to.”
Catherine said, “Howard’s right, dear. You need to be there for him and put yourself away for a while. It’ll come back. I promise you it will. You’re married to the most amazing person in the world. He’s made history. His name will be remembered forever.”
“I don’t want to be married to history. I want Sid. I want him back.”
“You’ll have him back,” said Catherine. “Time will lead him there. You know that’s true.”
“I only wish I did. It doesn’t seem so obvious right now.”
“I need you to stand with him for me,” I told her. “Without your husband, I’m lost. More than lost. I’d be institutionalized and studied and treated like an animal. Your husband treats me with compassion. If he slips away then I will, too.”
“You’re probably right. I appreciate you talking to me about this. You make it all seem so easy.”
“It’s not,” I said.
Neither of them said anything for a while. I heard some muffled sounds. Maybe Catherine and Amanda were holding each other. That would be nice. What occurred to me was that Amanda was probably experiencing things similar to Catherine, except Catherine rarely said anything to me about her loneliness. I loved her for that. She was a good actress.
“Can I ask you something?” asked Amanda.
“Of course,” I said.
“How do you feel?”
“A little better every day.”
“That’s good. But how does it feel? To be you, I mean.”
How could I possibly answer that question? I don’t even think I knew the answer. Did she want to know the horrible pits of gloom that pinned me down hour after hour? How could I make her understand the sensation of floating endlessly without perception and drifting in and out of dreams where I was whole and functioning normally? Would it be fair for me to place such a burden upon her? If I chose my words carefully, I could probably make her understand that those around me created much of what I felt. People d
etermined my world. This concerned the psychology of how people reacted to me. If they treated me like a human being, then I felt alive and vital. When they babied me or acted in a patronizing way, I felt small and burdensome. In fact, when people acted as if I was less than whole, I felt like the monster I suppose I’d been portrayed to be. What was it like to be a monster? Maybe that was what she wanted to know. What was it like to be half human and sluglike? I was a monster. No one needed to tell me that.
Catherine touched my arm and kissed my ear.
“How do I feel?” I said to Amanda. “Like the luckiest person in the world.”
20: Catherine Lavery
I walked Amanda to the car and told her, “Thanks for coming.”
“Why are you thanking me? I’m the one who’s grateful. Your husband has an amazing mind.”
“You treated him like a real person,” I said. “I appreciate that. So does he.”
She turned to me and took my hands. “Catherine, listen to me. For the most part I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re going through. But in a way, I suppose I feel closest to you than anyone else right now. You’re going to think I’m crazy, but I’d rather be you than me. You have more of your husband than I do mine. Besides, he’s cute, too,” she said, smiling sadly.
I instinctively moved closer and hugged her. She was a good woman. I hardly knew her, but I guessed we might be friends one day. How hard it must be for her with the isolation and desperation that had taken over her husband. I don’t know what I would do in her place.
“Please come again. Soon,” I said.
“I will.”
I stayed outside for a while. There was a slight breeze and it felt fresh and invigorating. Who was to say which of us had it worse? I couldn’t judge. I wished her well. Mostly, though, I thought about Amanda’s comment about Howard being “cute.” What an interesting and risky thing for her to say. But she was right, he was cute. And every day, as the scars from his surgery healed a little more, as his circulation improved and less life support was necessary, he grew more attractive. How could I not notice?
I sat on the curb, pulled my knees to my chest and thought about simpler times. What came immediately to mind was the summer I’d spent at my grandparents’ Kentucky farm.
It was the summer that my parents were going through a very messy divorce. Despite their dislike for each other, they shielded me from their arguments and spared me no love. During the hardest time they sat me down and explained what was happening and asked if I’d like to spend some time with grandma and grandpa.
I was twelve and well aware that I was complicating things. I was in the way, though not made to feel guilty. I never felt unloved or that I had anything to do with their split. But I knew they were sending me to my grandparents so they could finish things.
My mother’s parents ran a modest vegetable farm in northern Kentucky. I don’t recall much about the operation of the farm except that it was a very busy place. Grandpa Pete was hands-on around the property, even though by that time he was already slowing down. He employed some full-time farmhands and a few migrant workers. He died just three years after that summer. I remember him fondly—his bushy mustache, ruddy face, and open arms. He treated me with love and respect and enjoyed giving me red licorice.
Grandma Corey was the most special person in the world. She welcomed me into her home and had a special room made up just for me with a large quilted bed and an expansive sitting window that looked out over the farm. Of course she knew what was going on with my parents, but she never mentioned it. I helped her clean the house and make cookies and we took drives to a small town nearby to go shopping. During evenings we would play card games.
I spent a lot of time that summer exploring the wooded forest next to the farm. It was a tall, old-growth forest with tree branches that reached out and formed a canopy that spread shade everywhere. I don’t think I ever went very far when I was in it, but I felt unrestricted. I would walk and chase rabbits and make up games, pretending I was a lost princess.
One day I met Lori James in the forest. She was a year younger than me and lived with her parents on a neighboring farm. She was a very pleasant, freckle-faced girl who wore thick glasses. She introduced herself and asked if I’d be staying at the farm permanently.
“No,” I answered. “Just for this summer. My parents are getting a divorce.”
“Figures,” she said. “There’s nobody else my age around here to play with. I wish my parents would get divorced.”
“No you don’t,” I said.
“I do. Then maybe we’d move away and I could live on a street with other kids and share their bikes and play games.”
“Do your parents get along?”
“Sure they do. They’re always lovey-dovey. But I wish they wouldn’t sometimes. I wish they’d hate each other and break up like your folks.”
“My folks don’t hate each other,” I said.
“Then why are they getting a divorce?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Well, maybe they hate each other some.”
“Thought so. Do you like it here?”
“A lot,” I said. “I think you’re lucky to live in a place like this. It’s so peaceful and quiet. You can get a lot of thinking done here.”
“You can get bored to death, too,” she said. “But I guess it’s okay. You want to see my secret hideaway?”
“If you want.”
She swore me to secrecy and made me promise not to tell my grandparents or, especially, her brothers about her hideaway, which turned out to be a hollowed-out clearing in the middle of unusually dense brush. You had to get down on your knees and crawl through a low opening and then, quite surprisingly, it opened up into a large treeless square. She’d thrown down some old carpet and wood planks in the middle and tied up a few pictures on the thatch.
“I come here a lot,” she said. “My brothers don’t know about it. They’re gross. I hate them.”
“What do you do here?”
“Mostly read. I read a lot. Do you read?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good. Maybe we can read together.”
“I’d like that,” I said.
“Other times I come here when I’m mad at people and want to get away.”
“Thanks for trusting me.”
When Lori was sick or couldn’t play she let me use her hideaway, and I enjoyed crawling in and lying there and reading my books or just wondering about things. Mostly I thought about my parents and how things would be different when I came home. I got to thinking about where I’d live and which parent would take me. Maybe I’d spend time with both. I stayed in that simple hideaway for hours and hours and thought about my life. I had a sense that things would be different and that, when the summer was over, my childhood would be over.
I was frightened to grow up. I didn’t particularly want to. I remember being scared about getting older and becoming an adult and having to get a job. I didn’t want that at all. I wanted to stay young and go to school and play games and let my parents do everything for me. Mostly, I wanted them together to shield me from life and keep me safe. Now that I think back on it, I was also uncertain and scared about sex. I knew the mechanics, but was sort of disgusted by it. I realized it was something I’d be expected to do one day, perhaps even like. But sex and its mystery and the relative grownupness of it was terrifying. It was part of what made my stomach feel queasy that summer. I didn’t feel like eating. I felt uncertain about a lot of things.
When I think of a quieter, innocent time I remember that summer and my grandparents and Lori and the secret meetings in the hideaway and how everything felt surreal. I had no control over anything.
When I returned home, my father had moved out and there was a FOR SALE sign on the lawn. I suddenly had new responsibilities, not the least was supporting my mom and making sure she knew I loved her. I was on my best behavior. When I saw my father on weekends he’d hold me close and hug me a lot and ask me if
everything was okay. I knew he felt bad for me. I felt bad for myself.
* * * *
I went back inside and asked Howard if everything was okay. I touched his arm and said, “Can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m a little tired after Earl and Amanda. When’s that reporter supposed to be here?”
“Not for a couple hours,” I told him. “How about some relaxing music?”
“Not yet. You being here with me is relaxing enough. I like it when you touch me.”
“I like it, too,” I said, and felt a rush of excitement. “Amanda told me that she thinks you’re cute.”
“How about you?”
“Of course I do,” I said.
“Cute enough to wait for?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” he said. “You must be lonely.”
“I’m not that lonely, Howard. I’m too busy.”
“Not that kind of lonely. Lonely for love. For sex, sweetheart.”
“Let’s not talk about that. It’s not fair.”
“I think about it a lot,” he said.
“I guess I do, too,” I admitted.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you found comfort somewhere else. It might be good for you. It’s not fair for you.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m not. I miss sex with you. Let’s talk about it. Don’t you miss being intimate?”
“Of course.”
“Make love to me, Catherine.”
“I want to,” I said. I needed no urging. I locked the door to the room then returned to his side and took his arm and stroked it. “Does that feel good?”
Frank Page 19
