My Famous Brain

by Diane Wald

  “Oh, thank God. Mac, are you all right? No, no, never mind. You don’t have to say anything. You fainted, I think. Very bizarre. Should I call a doctor? I told them not to call 911, but maybe that was wrong. Maybe you’re getting the flu or something. Anyway, I—”

  “Where am I? Isn’t that what one says under these conditions?”

  “Well, if you can still be witty, I guess you’re going to live. This, my dear fellow, is the manager’s office. And this,” he said, plucking the sleeve of what I suddenly realized was not my own garment, “this is the manager’s shirt. Obliging man, I must say. He said you could keep it. You more or less drowned your own shirt in trout juices on your way to the floor. Very untidy. Lucky thing you’d taken off that nice jacket already. The tie is ruined, however. No great loss.”

  “On my way to the floor?”

  “Oh yes. You made a sort of twirling nose-dive. For a split second I almost laughed, you looked so fucking funny. But then of course I realized you were ill. Do you feel any better?”

  I sat up slowly. I still had a small headache, but I usually did in those days. Otherwise, I felt fine. “Yes,” I told him. “Much. No doctor, please. Maybe it was the Campari, I don’t know. I did guzzle it down kind of fast. God. I can’t believe I keeled over like that. Sorry to spoil dinner.”

  Don began to bustle around, picking up our belongings and straightening up the couch and cushions. “Don’t mention it. And now I think I’d better thank the nice manager, pay up, and get you out of here.”

  I stood up. I felt pretty good. “Great,” I said, “thank you. Did I throw up?”

  Don laughed. “No, nothing but a nice genteel yet dramatic fainting spell. Don’t worry about it.” And he was off, returning quickly with my jacket and bundling me off into the night.

  On the way home I stretched out on the back seat of his car, at his suggestion. I felt tired and disappointed. We hadn’t even had a chance to form a plan regarding Mussel, and I’d spoiled Don’s dinner as well.

  I must have fallen asleep, because it seemed like only an instant had passed when I heard Don say, “Here we are, Professor. Beddy-bye time for you.” I thanked him again and walked up the steps to my front door carefully, holding on to the wrought iron railing. There was a light on in Frances’s room, but the place was perfectly quiet. I went straight to bed, not even bothering to brush my teeth. Just before I abandoned consciousness for the third time that evening, I thought I heard Mussel’s voice say “darling.” It was a depressing auditory hallucination, and I thought, I certainly hope this sort of thing isn’t going to continue. It didn’t. But it was no hallucination.

  30. Turning Out the Patio Lights

  Don Rath and I got together again soon after our aborted dinner date to talk over what was to be done with the information Don had uncovered. I was all for blowing the cover off Mussel’s little scam immediately; Don was more circumspect. He convinced me that timing was crucial, that only by letting the gruesome cat out of the bag at the perfect moment could we be assured of the effect we wanted: Mussel’s immediate dismissal. I was afraid for Sarah, naturally, but although Don agreed that the scandal would be hard on her, he was sure that the inevitable outcome would be that Sarah would waken from her nightmare, realize her dreadful mistake in marrying the man, and leave him. It might take time, Don said, but it was certain to happen just that way. I wanted to believe him.

  But in truth I was out for blood. It was becoming gradually very clear to me that my affair with Sarah had amplified my awareness of my deep hatred for Mussel and all he stood for. Although I didn’t really share Don’s opinion that Sarah could still be saved (and I certainly didn’t think she’d ever again be a part of my own life—I didn’t even want her to be), I desperately wanted Mussel out of the picture. Cynically, I figured he would eventually scrape off any tar and feathers we might be able to slather upon him and set himself up in another comfortable position elsewhere, but I did not care. I wanted him to suffer, at least for the moment.

  Maybe a little part of me wanted Sarah to suffer too, but it was an unworthy part of myself and I pushed it away. I considered only that she had been duped, assaulted, and forced to lose touch with herself, and that any pain we might cause her through Mussel’s departmental defrocking would eventually prove to be for her own good.

  It was Don’s opinion that the yearly departmental budget meeting would be the beginning of Mussel’s end. Don knew, through his friendly association with the weirdly Mussel-fixated Dottie, that her boss was about to recommend that all faculty salary increases be stalled for the second year running, and that he was also planning to reject several important requests for research funding and sorely needed lab and classroom materials. He would use the money saved on these essentials to spiff up his enormous office and allow himself travel to conferences in exotic places. Don felt that the faculty would be so incensed over these blatantly self-serving frugalities that members would be easy to approach with any anti-Mussel propaganda. Once we had a few of the more powerful professors on our side, we would go to the dean with our story. I thought that would probably be as far as we needed to go, but Don felt it highly possible that there were people on the lofty end of the totem pole who, for various corrupt reasons, would try to uphold Mussel’s reputation and position. If that proved true, Don said, we had to be prepared to go to the press. We were.

  The weeks dragged by and the big meeting approached. Don kept Dottie on constant alert for news: he’d become paranoid that Mussel might try, in his inimitable way, to have someone else do the dirty work for him at the meeting. But when there was less than a week to go, I ran into Dr. M. himself in the men’s room. He greeted me in his usual insincere way, and we had one of our usual meaningless conversations, but I was able to ascertain that he did indeed intend to favor us all with his presence at the meeting.

  My headaches had been getting worse all this time, and my eyes were starting to bother me more as well, but I told no one. I was already beginning to form an idea of my probable diagnosis, but there was so much happening that I could not stop to think about it long. I was afraid, but I was preoccupied. I’d also discovered that a stiff drink and four extra-strength Tylenol made me feel quite a bit better, and one night, just a few days before the department meeting, I went off with Don to a local hideaway to soothe my head and spirit. After listening to a couple of his hilarious stories and discreetly downing my pills with two bourbons, I felt almost human. We stayed on rather late, each of us seemingly unwilling to leave the comfort of the other’s presence: the encumbrance of our secret had bound us together in a strange brotherhood.

  All the lights were out when I got home. I looked in on the boys, something I rarely did any more. Harry was lying on top of his still made-up bed in his gym shorts; I covered him with a quilt. He was tall and had Frances’s beautiful hair. Mark had left the radio on, and when I turned it off, he twitched a little, as if I had pulled something out of his hand. The radio had been tuned to a classical station, which surprised and pleased me. I wished I knew more about my sons.

  As I went into the bathroom, I thought I heard some muffled noises in the kitchen, and then the familiar click of the patio screen door as it closed. Since I had just seen both boys asleep, and since I assumed Frances to be sleeping as well, the noises worried me a little. A prowler was not something I felt up to dealing with, but of course I had to see about the noise.

  It was only Frances. She was sipping a glass of wine at the kitchen table and wearing a bizarre outfit unlike anything I’d seen her (or anyone) wearing before: a sort of cheap-looking, satiny, bright pink negligee with marabou trim—like an ensemble from one of those cheesy boutiques that advertise in the backs of magazines. Her hair was combed out long, but was encased in, of all things, a lacy snood of sorts, with little flowery specks all over it, and on her feet were feathery high-heeled slippers that matched the negligee. My first impulse was to laugh. She jumped up from her chair when she heard me, then gave me a frightened
, hateful glare. It made her look all the more outlandish, but it stopped my laughing. I felt, in fact, a little scared.

  “You have no right to spy on me like that, Jack,” she said, sitting back down. “I didn’t think anyone was up.”

  “I wasn’t spying on you, Frances, for God’s sake. I heard some noise down here, that’s all. Did you go out on the porch just now? I thought I heard the door.”

  “What if I did?” she said, drilling her eyes through me.

  I went to the refrigerator and got some milk, pouring it into a big tumbler. I had to find out what was going on and I knew she wouldn’t come right out and tell me. I sat down opposite her with my glass and a package of Oreos. I knew she hated to watch anyone dunk them, so I started right in dipping. She turned away from me, but, curiously, said nothing, and made no move to go upstairs.

  “So, Frances,” I said. “I see you’ve made some adjustments to your wardrobe.”

  “I make enough money. I can buy what I like.”

  “No question about that. Is this what the modern-day corporate lawyer lady wears to lounge about in of an evening? Or,” and I couldn’t stop my giggles from coming back, “were you expecting a late-night visit from Bela Lugosi?”

  I knew I shouldn’t have said that, but I didn’t expect her to throw her wine glass at me, which is exactly what she did. Fortunately, I ducked, and the thing shattered harmlessly against the wall over the sink. Frances began to cry. I got up and began picking pieces of glass out of the sink and putting them into the garbage.

  “I seem to have upset you,” I said.

  She went to the cabinet, withdrew a glass, and poured herself another drink. “You shit,” she said. Frances hardly ever swore.

  “Come on, Frances. Either you want to talk about tonight’s strangeness, or you don’t. If you don’t, please leave me alone. I’ve got a headache, and I’m tired. If you do, fine, let’s talk. But I’m not interested in your histrionics. Frankly, coupled with your tasteful outfit, they’re a little hard to take seriously.”

  That set her off. “Take seriously!” she shouted. “When was the last time you took me seriously? You don’t take anyone seriously who hasn’t got at least a one-sixty IQ, and you know it. You’re a horrible person. You’re more interested in a brilliant underachiever than a person like me who has done very well with a slightly less than certifiably amazing intellect. I haven’t had your full attention in years, Professor Big Shot.” She paused and took a huge gulp of her pinot grigio.

  “You don’t like the way I look?” she went on. “Who cares! Maybe I’m not dressing for you, did you ever think of that? Maybe not every professor is a goddamned head-in-the-clouds weirdo like you, did that ever occur to you? Maybe—”

  I stopped her. “At least keep your voice down, Frances. You can be as hateful as you like at a lower volume. I don’t want the boys down here.”

  She stared at me. “The boys,” she said, only a little more softly. “What the hell do you know about the boys? When was the last time you took them anywhere, or even had a talk with them?”

  “Guilty. I’ve been very distracted lately. I’m going to do something about that. But I don’t think that’s really the topic tonight, is it? Let’s get to the point.”

  “The point is that I’m sick of you always creeping around here after dark. I’m sick of living with someone I don’t even know anymore, sick of tiptoeing around my loathing of you, Jack. That’s it; that’s the topic, if you must know.”

  “And you want a divorce.” It might have been the bravest—or most cowardly—thing I’d ever said.

  “I want … I don’t know …” She began crying again. She looked so ridiculous in her Frederick’s of Hollywood outfit that it made her quite pitiful. I went up behind her and put my hands on her shoulders. “Frances,” I said. “I don’t know what to do for you.”

  She shook off my hands, sprang up out of the chair, and faced me. She ripped the flowered kerchiefy thing from her hair and tossed her head back in a deliberate, seductive movement that was perfectly shocking. For a strange split second, I thought she was about to kiss me. Then, in a low and menacing voice, she said, “I’ve got a lover, Jack. And so do you, I know. I couldn’t care less. One of your little geniuses, probably. I just don’t care. You want to know why I’m dressed like this? Because it turns my lover on, that’s why. So what if it’s not sophisticated!”

  I was glued to the spot. She went on, “You think every man on earth is as stuffy and intellectual as you are? You’ve been walking around like a zombie with your nose in your books for so many years that I’m surprised you even noticed what I’m wearing. And I’m glad you don’t like it! That thrills me, Jack! Anything you don’t like is okay with me. Wally likes—” She stopped, clapped a hand over her mouth, and stared at me, her eyes wild. She sat back down.

  I went to the sink and ran the cold water, but I couldn’t seem to remember where to find a glass. I was sure I was going to be sick, but somehow I controlled my stomach. My head was another matter: the pain seemed to pitch it from side to side like a loose barrel on a ship’s deck. I put my wrists under the stream of icy water, not even taking off my watch. Frances said nothing.

  Finally, I turned off the water and dried my hands. I thought if I could make it to the bedroom, I would never leave there. I would try to will myself to die, but if I couldn’t, I would simply stay there forever, holding on to my aching head and watching the shadows change on the walls from morning to night to morning. I couldn’t even look at Frances as I walked past her.

  But then I remembered the noises I’d heard. It occurred to me that Mussel had probably left the back door unlocked when he went out. I went and locked it, then turned out the patio lights. I went slowly upstairs. I fell asleep quickly, mercifully. When I woke the next day, I realized I’d missed both my morning classes.

  31. Don in a Pith Helmet

  At some point I began to grow my thinning hair long, according to the latest fashion, though it probably didn’t suit me, and I began to see more of Eliza. Mostly we would just meet in my office in the early evenings and talk for an hour or two. She was funny and charming and a little troubled by her inability to fit in with college life. Eliza never wanted to join a sorority or anything like that—she had no desire to mainstream to that degree—but she did find her classmates considerably more frivolous than herself, and therefore felt a bit the odd woman out at times. I helped her relax about that, telling her it was a natural consequence of her advanced maturity and intelligence, and that things would quickly even out for her in the coming years. Being with me calmed her; being with her gave me some kind of reason to go on living. She knew nothing about my life outside of school and she never asked; her respect for my privacy, her high regard for my advice, and her obvious pleasure in simply sharing my company did much to knit together the frayed fabric of my peace of mind.

  Frances began divorce proceedings, and I did nothing to stop her. Except for matters regarding the boys, I was relieved. I tried not to think about my physical problems too much; I knew there would be time enough for that later. My most immediate problem was Don Rath.

  At first, I could not bring myself to tell him what I’d discovered about Frances and Mussel. Two days before the faculty meeting, I called him into my office and told him I wanted to drop the Mussel thing. It was one of the hardest sentences I ever had to say to anyone. I did not give him any reasons.

  “I don’t believe you,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Don, I’m really sorry. I have to back out. Of course, if you want to carry this through on your own, I won’t try to stop you. I just can’t support you, that’s all. In fact, if that’s what you decide to do, I don’t even want to know about it. I can’t handle it right now, and I’m not in a position to explain why. I hope you’ll forgive me, but I’ll understand if you can’t.”

  He left my office abruptly, without saying a word, then returned a minute or two later, looking red-faced and drained, as if he’d been
punching something. I was still sitting at my desk. He sat down opposite me and grabbed the edge of the desk as if it were a mountain ledge and he was holding on for dear life.

  “Jack,” he said. “Please! Please, tell me what the trouble is. You can’t have had a change of heart so suddenly unless something terrible has happened. You’ve got to tell me—there’s no question of forgiving you or not forgiving you—that’s silly. But I think you owe me some kind of explanation. I can’t handle it otherwise, Jack; I’m sorry. I just don’t understand.”

  He was right, of course; I don’t know what made me think he would just accept my decision and go away quietly: how could he? He was my friend; he deserved to know. Ever since that awful night in the kitchen with Frances, my most overwhelming emotions had been anger and sadness. Being with Eliza now and then had taken the edge off those. But I realized now, just before I filled Don in on the whole situation, that what was really torturing me was humiliation. I felt so powerless, so unmanned: two women with whom I’d been intimately involved had chosen Mussel over me. It stuck in my throat like a rubbery fishbone—not dangerous enough to kill me, but uncomfortable enough to make every swallow an ordeal.

  I had some coffee in a thermos, and I poured a cup for each of us. “I’m sorry,” I told him. “You’re right. I’ll tell you. But then you’ve got to accept my decision, okay? Don’t try to convince me to go ahead with this thing. Promise?”

  “Sure, Jack, if that’s what you want. I promise.” He looked young and solemn, like an altar boy just before the consecration of the host.

  “I found out something last week that set me on my butt, and hard. Mussel isn’t being faithful to Sarah.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. But what’s it got to do with anything?”

  I drained my cup of coffee. I put my head in my hands and spoke directly into the desk blotter. “He’s having an affair with Frances,” I said.