My Famous Brain

by Diane Wald

  Duncan had fared rather better than I. As the second child, he was naturally more relaxed, and he was privy as well to the experience my parents had had while raising me, their first-born “genius,” for five years. Duncan did extremely well in everything, but not well enough to be singled out quite the same way as was his older brother. I think, to a broad degree, this “just well enough” routine was deliberate on his part, and I always revered him for that: indeed, it convinced me that Duncan was, in all the ways that really counted, far brighter than I.

  When my IQ was first recorded, at the age of six, it was brought to the attention of some people in my parents’ university who were initiating life-studies of gifted youngsters. I believe that when approached with this project by a bevy of psychiatric researchers, my parents did not fully realize the extent to which they were offering up their offspring as a guinea pig for life. They were told that I would be tested periodically and followed in various ways to track my development. It did not sound to them like a cruel idea; and the experimenters themselves, while certainly aware of the possible deleterious effects their studies might have on the chosen children, most probably thought that they had the problem well in hand. I did not realize myself, until early in my teens, how much I hated them, but I never let anyone know. I cooperated and cooperated; I seemed a willing victim. I suppose I could have walked out on it all at any time, but I didn’t. I was a kid. What did I know?

  By the age of seven I had mastered the piano and was composing almost daily; everyone thought I was well on my way to a concert career. I gradually lost interest. For the next several years I did practically nothing but read, and it was during that time I discovered my strange ability to memorize literary material. It had to be something I liked a great deal: with other kinds of text, I was not a quick study, and I never showed any signs of having what’s commonly called a photographic or eidetic memory. Many scholars don’t even believe those types of memory really exist, but I think it’s a matter of semantics; people quarrel over definitions sometimes as if there were hard and fast explanations of the mysteries of the mind. That approach leaves out so much. I’d learned from having my own brain studied that having a good imagination has a lot to do with having a good memory, and I did enjoy imagining things. While my “reading years” were in progress, my father wisely decided I should be forced to rest my eyes and exercise my body now and then, so he took me to a pool at his YMCA. After a few weeks there, I decided to become an Olympic swimmer.

  I stopped reading. I did not have to do much schoolwork, since I was so far ahead of everyone already, so I devoted myself to my new obsession. I turned from a skinny little wimp into a finely muscled specimen of young manhood, and eventually was successful enough to reach the Olympic trials and qualify. I decided not to go. I knew I could not be a swimmer all my life, and I missed my studies, so I went back to school.

  At that point, I decided to become a doctor, but I had not chosen a specialty. For so many years, the “psycho-studiers,” as I called them, had interviewed me and reviewed my every movement at regular intervals. At first, when I was just a child, this following wasn’t really bothersome—it was all for science, and, odd as it sounds, it seemed to be my destiny. But ultimately the team of researchers began to anger me intensely. They wanted to know about my eating habits, my dreams, my ambitions, my sexual inclinations. I told them, quite truthfully, whatever they wanted to know, but I was building a terrible case against the medical profession. I decided to forgo an MD and become a “simple” psychologist. I would specialize in childhood and young adult problems. I knew I could do well at that. Something at last felt permanently right. My brain was famous, but I was not. Not every gifted child invents a pollutant-free fuel, paints a masterpiece, or finds the cure for cancer. Some of us just live out our lives.

  And that is the course I pursued. When I realized I would complete my studies too soon (no matter how brilliant, no “shrink” can qualify to practice at age sixteen, and rightly so), I picked up a couple of other graduate degrees to pass the time: a master’s in English and a doctorate in education. And I began to write.

  It was obvious I could not write fiction. I had some small success with poetry, but I was not driven to it, and therefore knew I did not have what it takes to be a poet of any high caliber. Nevertheless, I floundered happily for quite some time amidst the pages that issued copiously from my little portable Olympia. I never threw any of that stuff away either; in fact, I later foisted some of it on poor Eliza, who had more literary talent in her fingernails than I could ever hope to display. She took it, bless her, as a gesture of love (which is what it was) and did not stoop to critique it.

  That reminds me: Eliza did not show up that terrible night, but what I did not realize was that she was not due to arrive until the next evening. I’d gotten the date wrong—perhaps from mere impatience, perhaps from the Percodan—but I certainly suffered for my error.

  I waited for her that night until 10:30 or so, when I finally fell into a fitful sleep on the sofa. My dreams were dreadful dreams of abandonment and physical pain (in one of them I was deposited on an ice floe, naked and freezing, by a gang of oafish sailors), and when I woke, although I did not recall immediately why I was in the living room instead of in my bed, I was grateful to be alive and awake in a world I could at least control to some small degree. My first thought was to call Eliza, but I could not do it. There were too many reasons to simply let things take their course.

  I dressed and shuffled to my car to make my mole-like way to the school, fumbled and bumbled my way through my classes (I was attaining new heights as the lovable, absentminded professor: an odd-edged humor had taken hold of my lectures, and my students seemed to appreciate it), paid attention to two troubled young persons who had come to me for psychological/academic advice, and moled my way home again in the Caddy. I was looking forward to a hot bath, a pizza (delivered), and an early bedtime. I had not allowed myself since waking to think of Eliza, and I was feeling the better for it. By nine o’clock I was snugly tucked in bed, a full dose of “Dr. P.” (like Dr. J. of basketball fame, the drug could stuff my pain right through the hoop of infinity, leaving me a breathlessly grateful fan) settling itself into the half-pizza I’d devoured, which was resting comfortably in my stomach. I had a tape of Brahms on the machine, satin sheets on the bed, and an old, holey set of red flannel long johns swathing me in joy. I knew it was absurd to feel such happiness from warmth and comfort and freedom from pain, but I did. I felt almost elated. It was Dr. P. talking of course, but I did not care.

  When the doorbell rang, I had been dozing, and at first I wasn’t sure that what I’d heard had not been some peculiar sound effect from the stereo. Then it rang again. And again a few seconds later.

  It took me, in my groggy state, what seemed like a year to find my robe and reach the doorway. I had not stopped to find my glasses, and so when I opened the door, I was uncertain for a moment whether it was really Eliza or just a woman who looked somewhat like her. Whoever she was, she took my hand and spoke.

  “Jack! Are you all right?” she said. “I kept ringing the bell because I could see a light on and I knew you were in there and I thought … ” She didn’t finish the sentence. She dragged me inside and sat me on the sofa. She pulled her coat off and sat down beside me. It was so cold outside that her long hair crackled with electricity and stuck to her cheeks as if blown there.

  It was my Lizzie. I could not believe my luck. I could think of nothing to do but reach out for her head, pull it towards me, and kiss her, once, hard, on the mouth. She kissed back softly, sweetly, like, I thought, Snow White would have done. The kiss stopped her little monologue about how worried she was getting when I didn’t answer the door. I laughed.

  “I thought so,” I said, happily.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I thought I’d kissed you before,” I told her.

  She laughed then. “But you haven’t,” she said.

  I kept on lau
ghing; I was so foolishly happy I couldn’t stop. “Then let me do it again,” I said. And I did.

  We sat there holding each other for a minute or two, then I took her out to the kitchen to make her some tea.

  “Eliza, my dear, what are you doing here?”

  She looked at me as if I were a madman. “What do you mean? You invited me, I told you I was coming, and here I am.” There was a thin strand of hurt in her voice.

  “Oh God,” I told her, “I’m so glad to see you, Eliza, you have no idea. But the reason I’m all discombobulated like this is because it was last night that I was expecting you, not tonight. And when you didn’t come—”

  “No, no, you’re wrong!” she said, jumping up from the table. “I’m sure you said Thursday, I’m sure of it. It’s the last thing I’d make a mistake about!”

  Then it hit me. She was right. Not only had I mistaken the day, but I’d accused her of doing the same. I’d suffered all the night before for no reason. And now that I allowed myself to feel the residual pain of what I had fancied to be her silent, deliberate rejection of me, I was nearly felled by the magnitude of it. I flopped into the kitchen chair opposite to hers.

  I pulled her back into her seat and took her hands. “Eliza,” I said, “I’m such an idiot! You’ re right of course. I waited for you all last night, I thought you’d decided not to come, and I—”

  “I would never do that; I wouldn’t. I couldn’t wait to get here.”

  I got up and dragged her, laughing, into a little waltz around the table. I hugged her close. She felt like a soft, flexible doll in my arms and her sweater had that amazing wooly smell that only happens in winter. “How do you like my outfit?” I said.

  She took a step back and examined me: red long johns under a tattered white terrycloth robe. She pronounced me “noble and kingly.” I hugged her to me again and felt dizzy. Then I put her back in her chair and proceeded with my tea making. We took our mugs to the other room.

  It was a wonderful evening. We talked more than we’d ever talked before, and we laughed and laughed, Eliza seeming to take a true delight in my silly jokes and puns. I dragged out a bunch of family pictures from the piano bench: pictures of me in my swimming-champ days, pictures of Duncan, pictures of my various graduations, and then a picture that caught us both by surprise.

  “It’s your wedding,” she said.

  “Oh. I didn’t realize those were in there.”

  “Your wife is beautiful. What’s her name?”

  “Frances.”

  “Frances. Nice.”

  “How do I look?”

  “Very handsome,” she said. “Very.”

  She put all the pictures back inside the bench, closed it, and sat down on it. “Do you have children?” she asked me. I’d forgotten there was so much she didn’t know.

  When Eliza and I had started seeing each other outside of school, which was only very recently, I’d told her only that I’d just gotten divorced. She didn’t ask me anything more. And I’d told her I was ill, but not the full extent of the problem. I think she guessed but was too discreet to press me for details.

  “Two sons,” I said, “Ages eleven and thirteen. Harry and Mark.”

  “Not little boys then,” she said.

  “No,” I answered, “I’ll tell you all about them someday. I miss them.”

  And that was the night that Eliza and I first made love. Or that is how I think of it, because the truth is that, for all our trying, the act was never consummated—not technically. That humiliating fact was the one thing I could never come to terms with while I lived, though I knew—I knew with certainty and gratitude—that Eliza and I did indeed make love that night and many others. I do not think we loved each other as “normal” lovers do anyway—how could we, amidst our peculiar circumstances—so perhaps my physical failure was a fitting accessory to our complicated passion. I tried to think of Abelard and Heloise and other exalted duos, but usually I failed to extract much comfort from that exercise. Eliza did not mind as much as I did; she said she minded for me, but it did not make any difference to the way she felt, and I believed her. I believed her because I loved her and because I knew her very inexperience worked in my favor: although she was not a virgin when I met her, she had not yet been trained by life to crave reliable physical love. I told myself she was like someone who had only been smoking for a little while: it would be easier for her to forgo the habit. Naturally I felt some guilt, but my need for her was great, and I suppose I never entirely lost the hope that a miracle would restore my physical powers. I was solaced only by the fact that I knew that after I was gone (or, I had to admit to myself, quite possibly even while I lived) Eliza would easily find a lover who would fulfill her as I was unable to do.

  Oh, but that night, that night. It started off so joyously. I was so elated to realize my mistake about the date, and we were so relaxed with each other—so goofy and normal and unlike our usual half-nervous selves—that fate led us inevitably back to the sofa, where we lay kissing and touching each other’s faces like children. I had not slept with a woman in what felt like a very long time—since a woman named Sarah Bowe, in fact (I’ll tell you about her later)—and I was very excited.

  I did not know, however, whether or not—or how—to proceed with Eliza. Our age difference (which I reckoned to be some eighteen years) and our odd friendship added up to a big question mark in my mind. While she was kissing me not inexpertly, I had no idea about her previous experiences with men. I wanted to find out, at least a little.

  I maneuvered us both into a sitting position, and sat with my arm around her, her head nestled into my shoulder. She was innocent and kitten-like, I thought, but also immensely seductive somehow: she exuded some subtle sexual power that was almost palpable in the silent room. Looking back, I know I had always sensed that in her; I had just been too psychologically polite to admit it to myself. My chest was bursting with desire and confusion. “Eliza,” I said, “Have you ever made love with a man?”

  She nodded against me. “Yes,” she said. “A few times. “

  I was glad. I was jealous. “Do you have a boyfriend now?” I asked her.

  Again she nodded, lifting her head from my shoulder and reaching for my free hand. “Miles,” she said. “A guy from school. We’ve slept together on and off this semester.” I could get no clue from her voice of how she felt about this Miles.

  “Do you love him?”

  “Well,” she said, without hesitating, “In a way I do, but it’s not that simple. Miles is still half in love with his old girlfriend. And I, I …” she faltered only for a moment, “am more than half in love … with you.” She pushed away from me and looked at me strangely. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but it’s true. You probably didn’t want to hear that. But please don’t psychoanalyze it; don’t spoil it for me. I know it’s all wrong in the world’s eyes, but it’s made me very happy—you’ve made me happy, that’s all.”

  I pulled her back and kissed her face over and over. “Lizzie,” I said, “You are sweet and wonderful. You have no idea how happy you’ve made me by telling me that. You know I love you too, don’t you? You’ve read those poems I gave you—you knew they were about you, didn’t you? You silly thing. You silly, silly thing.”

  She was crying and laughing both. “Well,” she blubbered, “I did think they were written for me, but I was afraid to be sure.”

  We kissed then for a long time. When I could wait no longer, I asked her, “Would you like to make love with me?”

  She smiled. I had pressed my hand gently to her mouth, fearing she might say no. She put my hand aside. Simply, she said, “Very much.” We went into my bedroom.

  I was amazed to realize I was still in my odd, mostly flannel ensemble, but I was glad that the old satin sheets were still on my bed (relics of the early days of my marriage that Frances had sarcastically packed in with my things when I moved out). I did not turn on the lights; I was as embarrassed as a boy. Briefly and vaguely my mind
flashed back to my final liaison with Sarah Bowe—how very different that had been.

  While I fumbled with my robe and other gear, I noticed that Eliza had stepped out of her jeans, removed her heavy red turtleneck, and was standing before me in a silky little undershirt and some skimpy briefs. I ran my hands all around her and sighed; she felt so solid and serene. Her navel was flat, her breasts were small and firm, her buttocks were rounder than they looked in her jeans. She was shivering a little, so I put her under the covers, quickly finished removing my odd regalia, and joined her there: we were both trembling.

  She was delighted with the feel of the sheets, saying she didn’t think “average people” used such things. After some delicious foreplay, Eliza spoke shyly. “Jack,” she said, “Do you have any protection?”

  For a moment I had no idea what she meant; it had been a very long time since I’d heard the term. Frances had had a diaphragm. Sarah had never mentioned the subject. And other women, I assumed, had taken care of all that themselves—or had they? My age—all the repressed habits and general male stupidity of my generation—fell down around me like the proverbial wet blanket. I moved my body off my little love.

  “Oh God,” I said. “I don’t. I’m such an idiot. You’re right. We mustn’t take any chances. Get your clothes on.”

  “WHAT?” she fairly shouted. “Are you throwing me out?”

  I pulled her from the bed and held her by the shoulders. I hugged her. “Eliza, I thought you were an intelligent person,” I said. “We’re going to the drugstore, that’s all. We’ve all the time in the world to get back to this. Get dressed. You’re far too valuable to me to take foolish chances with, and I thank you for reminding me. I apologize, truly; I should have thought of it myself. “

  Soon we were in the Caddy, the heater turned up full blast, shivering and giggling. I turned the radio on, and Frank Sinatra blasted out “Chicago.” I had Eliza in convulsions of laughter as I crooned along with Frankie.