My Famous Brain

by Diane Wald

  When I looked at my watch it was close to six o’clock. I rinsed my face in the icy water and drove to our motel. I rented our room. I went in and sat on the bed, turned on the television, and watched the end of the six o’clock news. A man in south Jersey had murdered an elderly woman and stolen three dollars from her purse. The picture they showed of the dead woman reminded me of my mother, whom I had not seen in some time. I suddenly wanted to see her badly. I considered driving to her house in Connecticut, then remembered she was on a cruise. I noticed that Walter Cronkite looked quite tired. I wondered how old he was, if he were married. A heavy, dreadful feeling, as if I had forgotten something, was giving me a headache. Suddenly I realized I had forgotten to tell Sarah what we’d discovered about Mussel. Would it have changed anything? I tried to use the bathroom, but I didn’t need to, so I simply sat there for a while gazing at the overly bleached, stiff white towels. One of them had a small, rust-colored stain along the edge that I at first took to be an insect; I stared at it for quite some time, until I was sure the stain had moved. Back in the bedroom, I took an ashtray from the bureau and put it in my pocket. Then I drove home.

  18. Listen to My Nothing

  As I’ve told you before, the poems I wrote to Eliza (I gave her only five or six of them while I was alive, but there were many more among the papers I left her) were pretty dismal altogether as poetry, but every now and then I’d hit a few lines I wasn’t ashamed of, like “There was a time/in the wake of winter/when we were less better off than we are now.” There was something formal and sad and me about that sentence that I always found appealing, and thinking about it makes me remember how I began my memoirs, for I began to record them around the same time I wrote that poem.

  It was while I was seeing Eliza that I began this project, and I intended the tapes to go, eventually, to her. There was no one else I needed to tell my story to, and I certainly did not consider it literary. There were too many memoirs out there in the world already, in my opinion. To expedite matters, and to spare my eyes, I spoke my memories into a tape recorder, a huge, clumsy machine I’d picked up at a discount place. Each evening—or whenever I could—for several months, I would talk to the machine, and each night it became easier and easier for me, until memories and thoughts began to flood out of me in a steady and fairly articulate stream. I made no effort to edit anything—for one thing, I was afraid to tamper too much with the recorder, which came with a little booklet of instructions in print far too tiny for me to read—but mostly I didn’t want to interrupt the flow. It was fascinating to me; I had never attempted anything like it before, and I had never had the chance to spin out the whole of my life without feeling as if I were overwhelming someone. It was also greatly fatiguing, and sometimes I felt like the Ancient Mariner, “stuck, nor breath, nor motion;/As idle as a painted ship/Upon a painted ocean,” but I persisted.

  I did not fear that my story would overwhelm Eliza, for I knew her to be sensible enough to take it in small doses—or not at all, if that suited her better. This spinning out of my life’s tale went on, as I mentioned, for some months, and then I became careless. I had never wanted Eliza to know what I was doing, but one night she almost caught me in the act. I had given her a key to the apartment at her request, in case of an emergency, but she had never used it. That night, however, she had planned to surprise me. I’d told her on the phone, earlier in the day, that I was planning to stay late at school for a departmental meeting, but as the afternoon dragged on I found myself too weary to risk a drive home in the dark, and so had left the office at my usual time.

  After dinner I turned out the lights (it loosened me up, I felt) and began to speak to the machine; it had a trance-like effect on me. So consumed by my task that evening was I that I did not hear Eliza come in, and when she turned on the light in the living room I nearly had a seizure. She too was frightened: there she was, standing frozen in an arena of light, her eyes as huge as those Frisbees my boys used to play with, with one hand clapped over her mouth. Once we recognized each other we began to laugh. She dropped whatever it was she had been holding, let out a whoop of dismay, and fell doubled up onto the couch. I went over to her and fell upon her with kisses. She sat up suddenly.

  “My God, Jack,” she said. “Oh Jack, this is so funny. I mean it’s terrible—I dropped my cake!”

  She went over to the box she had dropped in the middle of the rug, opened it, and howled with horror. “Oh, no!” she said. “It’s completely ruined—I dropped it on its head!” I then realized that she’d also been carrying some flowers wrapped in a flounce of tissue.

  “Never mind,” I told her. “What on earth is going on here? You’re certainly the nicest burglar I’ve had in some time, and I’m delighted to see you, but would you please tell me what this is all about? Is it your birthday or something?”

  Eliza sat down next to me and sighed, still laughing a little. “It’s nobody’s birthday,” she said, “but when you told me you’d be late coming home tonight I decided to surprise you. Remember when you told me how you’d loved pineapple upside-down cake as a child? I made one for you! And there it is on the floor—really upside down! Oh, poor cake. Poor Jack. I’m so sorry I scared you!”

  “You’re too good to me, goose,” I said, truly touched. “What a sweet thing to do. And flowers too?”

  “That was an afterthought.” She stopped for a moment, then reached out a hand to me, very shyly. “Peonies. I wanted you to open the door and smell them when you came home tonight.” She stopped again. “I thought it might make up a little for some of the things you can’t see.”

  I reached up and found some tears on her face and kissed them away. Then I tickled her until she begged for mercy; I was so shaken by her kindness that I was afraid we’d both go on a crying jag if I didn’t jolly us out of it. Suddenly I realized the tape recorder was still on and got up to turn it off. Eliza was very interested.

  “What’s this?” she asked, and then, “Oh, I mean, you don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry I interrupted. Never mind; I can’t stay anyway. I promised to take my mother shopping tonight.” She pulled on her hat and started to pick up the cake box and flowers.

  I stopped her. “Just a minute here,” I said. “Not so fast. First of all, I don’t care what that cake looks like—I mean to have a piece. And I hate to eat alone. And my peonies need some water, and arrangement by a feminine hand. And speaking of feminine hands …” I picked up her hand, turned it over. and kissed the palm. “Thank you, love,” I told her. “You’ve cheered me immensely.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, solemnly. “And I’d love to stay, but I really do have to go.” Then she bent down over the recorder and flicked some switches. “Jack,” she said, “I hope you weren’t doing any important work just now. This machine isn’t recording anything. It’s going around and around, but the tape is unhooked from the reel.”

  “Nuts,” I said. “I guess it pays to read the directions. Never mind, I wasn’t that important. I can do it again.”

  “Would you like me to rewind it for you?”

  “No, thanks. I think, if you really have to desert me, I’ll just take a bath and go to bed … unless you can be persuaded to join me?”

  She laughed and kissed me, very, very nicely. “I wish I could,” she said, “but I’ll see you tomorrow,” and she made her exit. I remember feeling cold; it was as if a charming spirit had left the room.

  I had a piece of the delicious, mangled cake (it was still, miraculously, rather warm) and then went back to the machine and loaded into it, one by one, all the previous tapes. They were all blank. I carried the tapes into the bathroom, put them in the tub, and ran scalding water over them from the shower. I knew that action was unnecessary and weird, but it felt correct and ceremonial. Then I shoved them all in a plastic garbage bag and set them outside my door for the trash collector. I looked hard into the bathroom mirror.

  “You blasted fool,” I told myself. “You poor, sick, pitiful fool.”
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  The world would have to march forward somehow without my memoirs. What a shame.

  19. Like an Actress in a Silent Movie

  I think I can say without exaggeration that there was never a single day while I was working at NSU that I did not spend some time thinking about Wally Mussel. It was less of an obsession than a necessity. Don, Frances, Sarah—they were all involved, in one way or another, with this blowhard from academia.

  I don’t know when I began to suspect that Frances was having an affair, but I’m sure I ignored all the signs until it would have been obvious to any other dead man that something was going on. She and I had finally stopped even making a show of sleeping together a couple of months after the move from Vermont. The new house had two extra bedrooms and I moved into both of them; that is, I alternated nights between them depending on my mood. One room was a little cooler than the other, very pleasant on summer nights, but the second room was larger, and I moved quite a few of my books in there to keep me company. Harry and Mark, of course, were somewhat confused by all this, but I explained to them that Daddy had strange habits like reading all night or tossing and turning like a crazy person that kept Mommy awake unnecessarily. They were just boys. Lying to them was the only unpleasant part of the arrangement; other than that, I found that having my own space apart from Frances was the greatest thing that had happened to me in years. And the months when I was with Sarah were made all the sweeter, of course, by the fact that I could come home and be alone with my feelings and not have to spar with Frances or let her see the lovelight in my eyes.

  And yet, somehow, she did see it. I suppose one never loses the ability to see through one’s long-time mate, even when love has gone. One night I came home very late after being with Sarah. All the house lights were out, and I assumed that Frances had long since turned in. But as I was making my way to the cooler of my bedrooms, I ran smack into her as she blocked my way in the dark corridor. I let out a little “Eek,” but she silenced me right away.

  “It’s only I—your wife,” she said imperiously.

  “You startled me, Frances,” I said. “Why are you lurking about in the hall?”

  “Keep your voice down, please. The boys are asleep.”

  “Okay,” I said, more softly. “May I pass now?”

  She stood in front of me, a wall of palpable scorn. She was wearing a caftan sort of thing and had a towel draped over her shoulders as if she’d just washed her hair. Her hair was still very lovely.

  “Why don’t you just bring the little slut home with you, Jack?” she said in a syrupy voice. “You have so many cozy little bedrooms here in which to screw her.” I could see her red lipstick and white teeth reflecting what little light there was in the hallway. She looked like a vampire.

  I felt a chill of fear, but it passed in an instant. “Frances, please,” I said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m very tired. I want to go to sleep. If we’re going to have a big argument, let’s have it in the morning.”

  “Fine,” she said. “Fine. But you certainly do know what I’m talking about, and don’t you deny it. I don’t know yet who she is, but I’ll find out. And when I do, I’ll divorce you in the ugliest possible way. Not one of your little student geniuses, is it, Jack? That would be simply too cute for words.” She laughed a cruel but pain-laced little laugh, then stepped aside for me to walk by her, but I grabbed her by the wrist and marched her into her room—the room that technically belonged to both of us.

  I half dragged her over to a chair and sat her down in it, not roughly, but firmly. She looked a little scared. That was good; she was hard to impress. My one thought was that she would find out about Sarah and make the poor girl’s already miserable life more miserable still with a scandal. I had to bluff Frances out of it. I had to win this time. I’d gotten so far into the habit of ignoring all Frances’s little barbs and bites that I’d nearly forgotten how to deal with her. I had to start remembering fast.

  “Frances,” I began. “I don’t know what put this particular bee in your bonnet, but let me tell you it really pisses me off. I have nothing to hide from anyone except the pain I feel every day when I come home to this wretched, empty farce of a marriage. Maybe you ought to divorce me. Maybe I should divorce you. Well, let’s do it, I don’t care. I didn’t turn out to be the big fancy success you wanted; that’s been clear to me for years. I’m not enough for you, socially, and I don’t make enough money to keep you happy. The boys will be better off in the long run; we’ve been fools to stay together like this.

  “Do it tomorrow if you want to—I want to move on. It’s fine with me; in fact, I wish you would. But please don’t start staging these moronic little dramas in the middle of the night. For your information, I’m not having an affair, but even if I were, what of it? You and I haven’t exactly been cuddly for a long time, have we? Do I have to remind you that you were the one who finally turned me out of this room with your bitter, sarcastic criticism of my last desperate attempt to make love to you?”

  I was just beginning to get up a head of steam when I noticed Frances was trembling. She looked absolutely cowed. I did not know what she was afraid of, but I was prepared to do some serious fishing. She did not speak, so I continued.

  “You know, Frances,” I said, turning to look out the window, “you really take the cake. You don’t want me, but you want me to want you. You don’t want me, but you don’t want anyone else to have me. You don’t want me—do you want someone else yourself? Is that it, Frances? Are you trying to make me feel guilty for something you’re doing? Is that it? Is it?” When I turned back to look at her, I could see I’d reeled in the big one on my first cast. She’d gone absolutely white and was clutching and twisting her hands together like an actress in a silent movie.

  “Don’t be absurd,” she said in a tiny voice.

  “Well,” I said, “Absurd or not, I just don’t care. I don’t care what you do, as long as you leave me in peace. You think I’m some kind of wimp, I’m sure, but that’s only because I’ve let you gobble and gabble at me for a long time now without talking back. But it’s not because I’m a wimp, Frances—it’s because I just don’t care.” My voice was rising in spite of myself. Part of what I was saying was an act, but part of it was true. It was scary. My marriage was really over.

  I looked at Frances to see if she would say anything, but she was still looking down at her lap and twisting her hands, so I left the room. I did not slam the door. I did not even close it after me. I went to my “cool” room, undressed in the dark, and got into bed in my shorts. So, Frances is having an affair too, I thought. It was oddly, quite oddly, surprising. It never occurred to me to wonder who her lover was.

  20. Don Tells a Story

  I ran into Don Rath the next morning, and we walked over to the cafeteria for coffee. Rath could really put me in a good mood in a few minutes; he was a very clever fellow and could turn the most mundane story into a hilarious tale with the twist of a phrase or two. That morning he began telling me something about an encounter with his mailman that had me in stitches very quickly. It felt wonderful to laugh after the previous night’s set-to with Frances. I had awakened feeling soiled and sad.

  After our second cup and a cursory discussion of a problem student who was taking classes with both of us, Rath got an uncharacteristically grim look on his face. “Mac,” he said, “I’ve got something to tell you.”

  He really looked peculiar. He even sounded peculiar. He’d never called me “Mac” before, but I liked it.

  “What’s that?’ I asked him.

  Speaking down into his paper cup in a very low voice, he answered, “It’s about Mussel.”

  “Ah.” I didn’t know what to expect. We hadn’t spoken of him, except in jest, in a very long time.

  “I think,” Don went on, “though I am not positive, mind you, that I’ve happened on a bit of information that might interest you … that is if you’re still interested in uncovering Mussel’s past?”<
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  I didn’t answer him right away. A great many thoughts passed through my mind; I knew this could be a very important conversation. I tried to replay in my mind the talk I’d had with Don in the Hojo’s before I’d started teaching. Something odd occurred to me in that connection.

  “I am,” I answered. “But Don, tell me something. Remember when you and I talked about this over fried clams in Connecticut?”

  He smiled. “Sure,” he said. “Of course.”

  “Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t exactly remember telling you that I wanted to ‘uncover’ Mussel … or did I? “

  Don smiled again; it was a smile of commiseration teased with a glimmer of mischief. “No,” he said, “you didn’t exactly tell me that.” He paused. “But it’s true, isn’t it? You want to expose him?” He paused again, and, still smiling but more compassionately than anything else, said, “Because of Sarah?”

  I heaved a great sigh and smiled back, ruefully. There was something I truly loved in the man, something I trusted. “Yeah,” I said. “How long have you known?”

  He patted me on the arm. “Don’t worry. I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who knows. I’ve known for a while—a couple of months, I guess. It was just a hunch at first, and then somehow I felt sure.” He got up and went over to the concession counter and brought back a couple of doughnuts, handing me one that was oozing red currant jelly.