Frank

by Fred Petrovsky

  *

  I didn’t include our entire conversation in the article. Some of it was personal, such as when Lavery asked how I came to know about him.

  “Dr. Bernstein tells me that you’ve been tagging him for a long time,” he said. “How did you find out?”

  “A person inside the hospital was my source,” I told him.

  “Who?”

  I didn’t exactly know how to respond to that question. A confidential source is a confidential source. If you betray that trust and reveal their identity you could kiss future information good-bye. But I couldn’t deny Lavery the answer to his question. It was almost as if I were compelled to answer him, as if I were under oath. I’m not sure if it was pity or respect, but I felt I had a responsibility to level with him.

  “A nurse friend of mine, Evelyn Meadows.”

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about her,” he said. “She was good to me. During a long stretch in the beginning she pulled me through this. I don’t think I could have made it without her. How is she?”

  “She’s fine,” I said. “But she misses you. She’s concerned about you. She’s troubled about this.”

  “She must feel betrayed.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” I speculated. “Her caring for you wasn’t tied to any particular ailment. She was there for you because it was her job. Because you needed care. I’m sure your kindness played a part in that as well.”

  “I’d like to see her,” he said. “She was kind to me.”

  “From what I can see, you’re kind to everyone,” I said.

  22: Janelle Orlen

  On Sunday I dropped the kids off at my parents’ house and took a drive. They thought I was going shopping. Some time to be alone and recharge. They thought I was still fragile. Okay, so I was.

  “Take some time, honey,” my mom said. “Maybe you’re taking this too fast. An afternoon alone at the mall will do you good. Buy something for yourself.”

  I drove to the mall and walked past the shops. I didn’t really need to buy anything. Janice could have used a new bathrobe, but that could wait. I went into an accessory store and sorted aimlessly through earrings.

  “Can I help you?” asked a bright young clerk.

  “Just looking, thanks,” I said. She smiled and walked away, and I realized that my answer pretty much summed up my frame of mind. I didn’t feel like a participant in life anymore. More than numb, I felt lost and out of place. I was “just looking,” going through the motions and moving from one place to the next.

  My session with Dr. Jarvis and Catherine Lavery had been a turning point for me, and I had made significant improvement. It wasn’t long before I was bringing my girls back into my life. I went on with things. I prepared breakfast for them and saw them off to school and day care. In the afternoon we would go shopping and run errands or rent videos and all curl up on my bed and watch Disney movies. One day blended into the next, and the routine felt good, almost normal in a way. But for much of it I was going through the motions. I was just looking.

  I bought a pretzel at a snack stand in the mall and sat on a bench to eat it. I tore off small pieces and ate them quietly, doing everything I could not to pay attention to the families and couples holding hands. I used to be among them, I thought. I was once carefree and ignorant of the world’s horrible secrets. Now I knew them too well. I sat there for a while and stared at my feet as I ate the pretzel. It was dry.

  Eating the pretzel reminded me of the time really not that long ago when Frank and I had just become engaged and were celebrating by driving up the East Coast from hotel to hotel, from one bed to another, hitting large cities and small towns and setting sexual records on the way. One night we tried to see how long we could make love without climaxing. The next night we’d try every sexual position possible without him withdrawing. One morning we made love for forty-five minutes without removing our lips from the other. I loved sucking on his tongue.

  In Philadelphia, we saw a large dark ship sitting lonely in the water near Penn Landing. It was a restaurant. Large and black and beautiful. A relic of a time long ago that neither of us could relate to. It was called Moshulu’s. We parked the car and walked past the slim, young valet parking boys and up a short bridge and into the luxurious innards of the boat, now transformed into an incredible carpeted eating establishment.

  We were met immediately by a woman in an oversize sailor suit. “Good evening,” she said. “Welcome to Moshulu’s. Joining us for cocktails?”

  “Dinner,” Frank said. “A table for two. Your best.”

  I peeked to my right and saw white tablecloths and candles and low lighting and elegantly dressed waiters walking slowly here and there. “It’s gorgeous,” I whispered to Frank, licking the inside of his ear. “Get a window seat.”

  “We’d like a table by a window,” he said. “Something romantic.”

  “Please have a seat,” said the hostess. “It’ll be just a few minutes. How about a cocktail in the bar first?”

  Frank looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. “Sure, why not.”

  We walked past the front desk and into the lounge where a piano stood next to a small dance floor. It was so romantic. I hugged Frank as we walked to a small table by a window and sat close to each other. A pleasant waitress came over and took our drink order. Not long after that an older gentleman approached. He identified himself as the manager.

  “Good evening,” he said. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “I’m very sorry to tell you that this establishment has a dress code.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “A dress code, miss. We don’t allow jeans. I’m very sorry. But you’re welcome to sit here and order. We’ll set places here. You’ll be able to order off the regular dinner menu.”

  “We want to sit in the real restaurant,” said Frank.

  “I’m dreadfully sorry,” he said. “Really I am. But we have a strict dress code, and I’m afraid we’re rather inflexible with it.”

  “Just give us a table in the back,” said Frank. “Somewhere where it’s dark. No one will see us. We won’t get up once.”

  “I’m very sorry,” he said again.

  “You know,” I said, pointing a finger at him, quickly angry. “If your mayor walked in here wearing jeans you would seat him at your very best table. Wouldn’t you?”

  “No, I’m afraid we wouldn’t.”

  “I’m talking about the mayor of Philadelphia. Wearing jeans. You’d make him eat in the bar?”

  “Yes.”

  “This stinks,” I said. “Your hostess or whatever she is purposely maneuvered us in here, didn’t she? And she looks silly in that outfit.”

  Frank touched my arm.

  “It’s okay,” he said to both me and the manager. “We’ll eat here.”

  When he left Frank said, “Don’t worry about it, honey. This is a nice table. We have a window seat. There’s the river.”

  “It’s not the same,” I said. “Look, spiders.” I pointed at the window where two fat spiders were crawling on the outside surface. In fact, all the windows had spiders on them. It was disgusting.

  When the waitress brought our drinks I asked her, “Tell me the truth. If the mayor came in here with jeans, you’d seat him in the restaurant, wouldn’t you?”

  She leaned down and said, “In a minute. Of course.”

  “Let’s get out of this dump,” said Frank.

  He threw a few dollars on the table and we left the bar. I started walking to the exit, but he grabbed my arm and led me on a pleasant stroll through the main restaurant. It was more than half empty.

  “See?” he said to me in a normal-toned voice as we walked among the people at their tables, none of them wearing jeans. “We’re walking through the restaurant.” Then he said much louder, “And we’re wearing jeans. My, how snobby I feel!”

  We left the restaurant and walked down the street where a small hot dog shack beckoned us. We
each had a foot-long chili cheese dog. For dessert we had pretzels with mustard. It was one of the most wonderful meals I think I’ve ever eaten, and I can still taste the first bite of that hot dog and Frank’s kiss right after it, chili on both our lips. God, how I loved him.

  That’s what I thought about sitting in the mall. And that’s when I decided to do something. Something I had not planned or thought about. I don’t know where it came from. It simply popped into my head.

  I left the mall and found my way to the freeway. The car seemed to drive itself, as if it were traveling on tracks or some kind of magnetic system. True, I was making the turns and passing cars and slowing down, but it was almost as if someone else were driving. I might as well have been in the backseat observing.

  Each sign that passed overhead became more recognizable. The car eased into a pattern, and I took an exit that called my name. I felt exhilarated. I saw my past projected into the rearview mirror and looked away as everything came back to me. Let it come, I thought. Let it wash over and envelop me and take my hand as much as it wants. I drove past eerily familiar streets until the last one invited me in. Shooting Star Street.

  I slowed down and let the car crawl along until it came to a stop in front of the unassuming house that had occupied my thoughts for so long. It looked the same. Neat and clean. Lawn finely trimmed and cared for. Shutters in the front windows. It was a lovely, charming house that belied its offensive history. I got out of the car and walked up the curved path and to the front door. I rang the bell but no one answered. That’s okay. I had time.

  I walked the street and imagined what it was like to live in this quiet neighborhood. It was exceedingly pleasant. A few houses down a young mother was in the front yard pulling weeds while her baby rested in a stroller. Across the street an elderly couple was pruning roses. A flock of birds flew overhead. I continued walking, kicking a stone here and there. Waving to people.

  I don’t know how far I walked. Probably more than a half hour, though. When I came back around the block I saw that the garage was open and a man was peering into the mailbox in front of the house. It was him. He reached in, took some letters out and sorted through them. He must have just gotten home. He walked casually into the garage, and it closed behind him. He didn’t see me.

  I stood there for a while and wondered if I had the courage to go through with this. What was it I wanted anyway? What questions did I have, and would the answers make any difference? And now that I thought about it, why was I there in the first place? I told myself to get back in the car and drive away quickly before he saw me and wondered who that person was loitering in front of his house. Maybe he was peering out at me through a shutter.

  I’d come too far to turn away.

  I returned to the front door and knocked. When I heard footsteps and saw the doorknob turn I felt light-headed and rose into the air and away over the city. I passed a plane and a skyscraper before closing my eyes and finding myself back in my shoes. The door opened. There he was. He was strikingly handsome. Brushed back brown hair. Light blue inquisitive eyes.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Hi,” I said, my voice sounding distant and far away. “I’m Janelle Orlen.”

  He didn’t say anything. He looked at me as if he didn’t understand what I’d said. He blinked. I added for clarification, “Frank Orlen’s wife. You remember him, don’t you?” I didn’t say it to be accusing or sarcastic. Rather, I asked the question in a sincere, helpful way.

  He frowned. “Yes. Hi,” he said. “Do you want to come in?”

  Did I? I didn’t know the answer to that question. I guess we could have stood where we were and talked. That would have been just fine I think. He could tell I was uncertain, and so he opened the door wider, and I stepped inside.

  “I’m Mike Price. I’ve kind of been expecting you.”

  I found myself walking through his house and into his living room.

  “Have a seat. Can I get you a drink? A glass of wine?”

  “That would be nice.”

  He disappeared, and I had a moment to catch my breath. If I wasn’t mistaken I was sitting in the same place where I’d seen him with his shirt off kissing my husband. He returned with my wine and sat across from me.

  “How much do you know?” I asked him.

  “I think that’s supposed to be my question,” he said. “Are you sure you want to go over this?”

  “I think so,” I said, but wasn’t certain at all.

  “Well, I don’t know where to start. Frank called me after he left your house that night. But I wasn’t home. He left a message on my machine and told me that you’d discovered us that day. But I never talked with him.”

  Look how polite and civilized I was. I was sitting there and sipping wine with the man who had, in a way, killed my husband.

  “How did it happen?”

  “You mean us? He signed up for some technique lessons at the club, and I had an opening. It was completely random. We hit it off right away. He was an awfully nice guy. We got to know a lot about each other because you don’t talk about golf all the time. I’m sure he knew I was gay. I’m pretty open about it to a point. And it just happened. I didn’t plan it. Didn’t want it or expect it. I knew he was married. It would be easy for me to sit here and take the blame. I could tell you that I threw myself at him and that he resisted me and that I persisted. But that’s not the way it was. I think we happened upon each other at the same time. After a few buckets of balls one day I invited him here for a drink. I didn’t intend it. Oh, maybe I hoped he would kiss me. He was an incredibly attractive man. You know that. And then we touched each other, and it happened. He was willing and aggressive. It was mutual and that’s the truth and that’s the only part of this thing that has kept me sane and at least partially guilt-free. I’m sure he’d been driving somewhere on account of me—to my house or his lawyers or somewhere to sleep other than your house because he couldn’t go home.”

  The man in front of me was sincere. I could tell he was being honest. And as he talked I saw him wring his hands and tears run down his face. I instinctively wanted to go to him and hold him and tell him that everything was going to be all right. But I stayed where I was.

  “I’m sorry. You don’t know how many times I’ve wanted to talk to you. To talk to anyone. I’ve kept it to myself. Janelle, it was a crazy thing that neither of us planned. I wish you could find it in your heart to forgive me. To forgive Frank. These kinds of things aren’t supposed to happen. He was a special man. I know how you must have loved him. I felt something, too. You must hate me. Go ahead. Hate me. Please despise me. I’m a terrible person. I think I’d feel a lot better if you threw your wine at me and called me names.”

  I sat next to him and let him sob into my lap. I touched the back of his neck but I didn’t say anything. I let him cry.

  He sniffed and said, “Why did you come here? How can you stand it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. Then I thought of something to ask him. “What was it like being with him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, how did it feel being with him and touching him and everything?”

  “You mean sexually?”

  “That too, yes.”

  “Well, it was wonderful. He was thoughtful and caring and strong. He was everything you’d want in a friend and a lover. He asked questions and seemed sincere in everything he did. That was how he approached golf, too. He wanted to get better. He yearned for understanding. That was one of the things that caught me right away. He had an earnest passion for life, and it was sincere. Sexually? He was powerful and steady and life affirming. You must miss him so badly. I do, too, and I hope you don’t hate me for saying that. I suppose the only thing I can offer you now is honesty.”

  “Where were you going with him?”

  “Going?”

  “I mean, what would have happened if I hadn’t discovered you?”

  “I’ve thought a lot about that, too,”
he said. “But I don’t know. There were only two times. We might have gone on like that for a long time, I suppose. Secret rendezvous. An hour or two here and there. Strings of lies and secrets. It would have gotten more complicated.”

  “Do you think he might have left me for you?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t think about that. I don’t think that would have happened. No. I’m not being honest with you. I don’t know what would have happened.” Then his face brightened, and he said, “Wait.” He jumped up and went into a back bedroom. When he came back he handed me a watch. It was Frank’s. “He left this here that day. By accident.”

  I took the watch and cradled it in my palm. I’d bought it for him a few years back. It wasn’t very expensive, but he’d admired it at a store. Maybe he didn’t leave it behind by accident. Maybe he left it on purpose to have an excuse to come back.

  I gave the watch back to Mike. “You keep it,” I said.

  “I can’t.”

  “Please. Keep it. I don’t need it. I have other things to remember him by.”

  He accepted the watch and smiled at me fondly. “I half expected that if I ever saw you, you would gouge my eyes out with your fingernails. I thought maybe you’d buy a gun and come get me. I wouldn’t blame you. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Neither do I,” I said. “Frank and you have complicated things. It has made my grief harder. It makes things more difficult to understand and accept. But more than anything else I guess I need to understand things. And in a way, I can kind of understand why Frank and you connected. That helps, I think.”

  “Can I get you another glass of wine?”

  “I have to go. I’ve been gone too long.”

  “You can come by again,” he said.