My Famous Brain

by Diane Wald

  Don was silent; I thought he hadn’t heard me, I lifted my head and said it again, with robot-like precision. “Frances—my wife, Frances—and Mussel are having an affair,” I repeated. Then, oddly, I added, “In my house.”

  Don got up and went over to the window. “Oh. Shit,” he said. “Jesus fucking Christ. Worse and worse. But, my God,” he said suddenly catching himself and turning back toward me, “I’m so sorry, Jack, I really am. If I feel this way about it, I can only imagine how you must feel. Or I guess I can’t. It’s horrible. I’m sorry.”

  Now that he knew, I felt a little better. “It’s not that I’m in love with Frances, as you know. It’s just …”

  “Yeah. I get it.”

  “The two of them, Don. Sarah and Frances. What’s the matter with me? Is this some kind of evil karma? I’m just about willing to believe anything now.” I put my head back in my hands.

  “That’s all ridiculous and you know it,” he said, his voice nearly shaking. “There’s nothing wrong with you, nothing. You’re fabulous, you’re great, any woman in her right mind would realize that and value you.” He paused. “Fuck it, Jack, let’s face it: that’s how I feel about you myself. I’m sure that comes as no surprise to you, and I’m not ashamed to admit it either. I know you know; and you know I know you know—but it hasn’t changed anything between us, and it won’t now. You’re great.” He was pacing around now, breathing in little quick puffs.

  “All that’s beside the point,” he went on. You’ve had a spate of unbelievable bad luck, that’s all. Come on, Jack; it won’t last forever. I’m a shrink and so are you: we both know there’s nothing ‘wrong’ with you. I hate to hear you say things like that. Don’t start getting really depressed, or I’ll have to really psychoanalyze you—and I’m sure you don’t want that to happen. If anything will make you nuts, it’s having me for a therapist.”

  He tried to give me his charming grin, but it came out sad and lopsided. It unlocked my heart, and my voice. I’d known he was in love with me for a long time; he was right—it hadn’t changed anything between us, and it wouldn’t now, but hearing him say it was a relief. It meant I could trust him completely. There wasn’t any reason to hide anything from him.

  “There’s something else,” I said. “You might as well know it.”

  “What?” He sighed a little. I knew he was strong, but I also knew he had no reason to expect what was coming.”

  “I’m dying.”

  He just stared at me. “No,” he finally said. “Come on.”

  “Yes,” I answered. “I’m afraid so. It’s true; I’m going to die. Not soon, I don’t think. All these headaches, you know? And my vision’s been poor too. I went to a friend of mine in New York, a specialist, and he said—”

  “Inoperable?”

  “Yeah. But it’s not malignant, at least.”

  He went pale, and sat back in the chair, still looking at me with disbelief.

  “Don, I’m sorry to have to lay all this on you,” I said. “It seems like ever since I’ve known you all I’ve done is tell you my troubles. Don’t worry about me. I should be able to go on for some time in a relatively normal way. I’ve got enough pain medication to anesthetize an army, if I need it. I’ll make whatever adjustments are necessary. Needless to say, this has got to be our secret. I can’t afford to be fired, for any reason. And oh,” I added, as an afterthought, “Frances has filed for divorce.”

  The way I had tacked that on made him explode into one of his laugh-coughs. I chuckled too. “All’s well that ends well,” I said.

  When we’d stopped laughing, Don said, “Oh, brother.”

  I said, “I’m sorry about the Mussel thing.”

  He waved his hand. “Doesn’t matter. It was becoming too much of an obsession with me anyhow. Someday he’ll get his, you can be sure of that. Maybe someday I’ll even take it up again, if he makes me mad enough. Maybe I’ll just let him know what we discovered—wouldn’t that be fun? But for now, I’ll be glad to let it go. The important thing is what happens to you. When are you leaving your house? Where are you going to move to?”

  I hadn’t thought about that; I guess on some level I knew I was supposed to move out of my unhappy home, but it seemed so unreal to me that I hadn’t made a single plan. “I don’t know,” I said. “Any ideas?”

  “Of course. I know just the place for a wild old bachelor like you. A new building in a development called Mapleview. We’ll go look at it next week, okay? Or would sooner be better?”

  “Next week is fine. That’ll be great. I guess I do need a little help on the practical end.”

  He smiled. “That’s what I’m here for. Denny always says I should have been one of those old-time personal secretaries—you know: capable, discreet, ready to handle any detail at the drop of a hat.” He grinned. “Guess I missed my calling.”

  I got up to walk him to the door. I put my arm around him. “Thanks,” I said. “For everything you said. I don’t know what I’d do—would have done—without you.”

  “Everything? It didn’t make you squirm?”

  “No. I feel honored you trusted me enough to tell me. Also, I’m flattered.”

  “Thank God,” he said, laughing. “I was afraid you’d be terrified.”

  “Idiot,” I said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  When Don was gone, I looked out the window. I’d thought he’d be going back to his office, but apparently our conversation had taken too much out of him. He headed out across the lawn toward the parking lot, briefcase in hand. I saw him get into his car and sit there quite a while, not moving. Then he got out again, went around to the trunk, opened it, and took out, of all things, a pith helmet—a relic, I knew, from a student drama production he’d been involved with. He put it on and drove away, looking like he was going into town searching for giraffes. I wished I were gay. I wished I were ten years younger. I wished I didn’t know I was going to die.

  32. Happy Talk and the Water Cure

  Funny I’ve waited so long to mention my talk show: it was such an important, though relatively brief, phase of my career. At first when I was forced to leave NSU (more on that later), I had no clear idea of what I was going to do. I moved in a hurry, to a quaint little three-bedroom with a yard in a western Massachusetts town I’d always loved. The rent was about half of what I’d been paying at Mapleview. I’d managed to secure some part-time teaching at a state college nearby, but I knew if I didn’t keep busier than that I’d go crazy in no time at all. One of my students got me interested in the talk show idea by bringing up something he’d heard on the radio in a class discussion. The concept was new to me, though I was told the phenomenon had been a popular one for some years, and I began to listen to a New York station late at night when the reception was clear. The host was a woman psychologist whose personality and voice intrigued me no end; I think I developed a little crush on her in fact.

  I decided to try and contact her—not just to find out about the mechanics of such a program, but just to have someone to talk to—and the logical place to start was to call during the show. One night I phoned in, and it was the beginning of a long friendship. The lady’s name was Dr. Susan Green. After my first call, during which we’d discussed (in a names-changed-to-protect-the-guilty sort of way) a bit of the Sarah-Frances-Mussel scenario (which, although it took a lot to shock Dr. Green, was obviously quite an unusual type of problem for her to handle), she went to a commercial break, kept me on the line, and asked if I’d like to talk some more the next evening. I said yes; it was the first time in ages that I’d felt the dual luxuries of anonymity and compassion. Soon I was a weekly regular on her show. It was great fun. Dr. Green had of course quickly elicited my profession, and she drew me out about my illness and exile gracefully and surefootedly. Sometimes, after the program, we would talk off the air, and although she invited me to visit her any time I happened to be in the New York area, I knew I would probably never meet her in person. I’m sure she knew that too, but
she was kind enough to ask.

  And then the day came when Dr. Green called me and said she had decided to take a long overdue vacation and would be away from the program for three weeks. Usually, the station played tapes of old programs when she was absent, but in this case, since the hiatus would be more than a few days, they were looking for a stand-in. I had become a popular part of the program, she said, and since I was so eminently qualified, would I consider “subbing” for her? She immediately mentioned a tempting sum of money, but I didn’t need much encouragement. She’d thought of all the practical details too: they would hook up a “remote” to my place in the hills and do the shows live from New York with the assistance of a young tech expert who would visit me while the show was in progress. I accepted at once. And, after a couple of nights of feeling rather tentative and insecure, I had the time of my life. The whole experience was extraordinarily freeing and fulfilling. I could be myself, but no one could see me. I could feel people’s respect again—something that hadn’t come my way in a long, long time. I could actually help people again as well, which gave my confidence a great boost. My visual handicap was no handicap at all; if anything, it allowed me to concentrate more fully on the voices of the callers so that I was able to determine a great deal just from the way they spoke and the words they chose. I felt very close to the people who called, and I felt a warmth coming back from that audience that was reminiscent of my first days of teaching.

  When Dr. Green returned, she called me and exclaimed, “A star is born!” I laughed and told her what a good time I’d had. She replied that even before she’d gotten back to her office her assistant had called to tell her how successful the fill-in shows had been, and how callers were already demanding to know when “Dr. Mac” would be back and even when I’d have my own show. I couldn’t believe I’d been such a hit, but I was delighted with my success. It was the first success of any kind I’d had in what felt like centuries.

  So, with Susan Green’s gracious assistance, I was put in touch with a local station that just happened to be looking for a late-night program that would bring their rural listeners up to date with current radio trends. They agreed to try me out for a month, but by the second week they had offered me a contract, and I was on my way. It was wonderful; my disease had threatened to make a real hermit of me, but I had been delivered by a miracle of the electronic age. Every weekday evening around eight o’clock, two young men arrived on my doorstep to set things up for the show, and to help me however I needed them. The three of us became fast friends; they called me “Doc,” and saw me through some rough moments.

  Tactful and efficient, they treated my near blindness as if it didn’t exist, which was exactly what I needed. I came to think of them as Harry and Mark grown up, for I missed my boys sorely in those days. I reveled in this nightly public contact for three months, and then my head started to give me serious trouble.

  I surmised, when I could manage to surmise anything, that the end was very near. My symptoms increased suddenly in intensity, and I was shocked. The headaches were overpowering at times, and no amount of medication or self-hypnosis could put a dent in them. My vision was poor, and I became bothered by memory lapses and a terrifying though intermittent weakness in the left side of my body. I stopped teaching. I also had to stop the radio work and the station manager was kind enough, as he put it, “to place things on hold.” My intention was to sit back and die, but I could not stick it out, and one night, wracked by physical agony and a sickening fear, I called Don Rath.

  I hadn’t heard his voice since I’d moved—by my own choice. I’d asked him if he wouldn’t allow me a little time to adjust to things on my own, and, although I could tell he was worried, he assented with his usual understanding. The morning I called (it was really very early; I’d been up most of the night with my pain), Denny answered. He put Don on right away.

  He’d been fast asleep, but when he heard my voice, he perked up instantly. “Mac,” he said gently. Then, without waiting for me to utter a word, “How bad is it?”

  “The worst,” I said. “Suddenly I’m immobilized. I don’t know what I want, Don, or even what I need.” I began, unexpectedly, to cry; up until that time I’d been curiously numb emotionally. He let me ramble on a while, then he said, “I’ve been getting dressed as you were speaking. Don’t do anything till I get there, okay? I should be able to make the drive in about five hours. Will you be all right till then? If not, I can call someone for you. Don’t take any more pills. Have you got any music?”

  “Music?”

  “Any kind of music. Any records or tapes or anything—you’ve got a radio, right?”

  “I’ve got lots of music,” I said. “But I’m not much in the mood for a concert.”

  “Never mind that.” His voice reminded me of my father’s all of a sudden: that blend of concern and authority that would brook nothing but obedience and respect. “Just please do as I say. You must be exhausted. Do you have, by any chance, a portable tape-deck?”

  As luck would have it, I did.

  “That’s very good. Bring it into the bathroom. Put it somewhere across the room from the tub for safety. Run a very warm bath—put in a lot of salt. Have you got salt?”

  “I think so.”

  “Put in a whole box. Gather up all the Vivaldi and Bach tapes you’ve got—have you got any?”

  “Sure, yes, of course, lots.”

  “Pick out the longest one and set the player on a loop if you can. No pop music, okay? Nothing with lyrics. No words. Get in the tub. Stretch out. Roll up a hot, wet towel and put it behind your neck. Put a hot washcloth on your forehead. Then dive into the music. Each note. Let yourself float away. Wait a minute …”

  His voice was beautiful, deliberate, calming. I heard the sound of the phone being placed on a table, a short pause, then he came back. “Sorry. Had to find some shoes. Just dive into every note. Don’t think. Don’t think about your body or anything else. Just relax. Concentrate on the music. Have you got that?”

  “Yeah. Sounds dreamy,” I said, thinking it was a sweet idea, but somewhat naïve—I didn’t think anything was going to help me at this point.

  “Right-o. That’s what I’m hoping. Stay in the tub until you shrivel up, then go to bed. Leave your door unlocked—is that okay? I mean, it’s safe enough to do that up there in the wilderness, isn’t it?”

  “Perfectly safe,” I said. “Except for the bears.”

  “Yeah, well, animals like you, right? Go draw your bath. I’ll be there as soon as I can, you know.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But Don, you don’t know where I live.”

  “Of course I do. I’ve had the route mapped out since you left. Someday I’ll fill you in on my detective work.”

  Then I heard him say, off to the side, “Denny, what time is it?’ and then, “Good grief.”

  To me he said, “See you before dinner. Are you sure you’re okay for a few hours?”

  “Yes. Don, I don’t want to put you out—it would be enough just to talk to you, I think. I—”

  “Get in the tub, please. I’ve got to go. If anything weird happens—anything at all—call Denny. He’ll be here all day, and he doesn’t mind. I’ll stop and call him along the way to see if he’s heard from you. Now, are you going to follow my directions, Mac?”

  “Yes. I will. Thank you, I—” But he’d hung up quickly.

  I followed all his suggestions, and they worked like a charm. Although my head still hurt, the pain was manageable, and before the tape was over, I was ready to try to sleep. The music had worked its magic on my panicked mind, and the hot, salty water had rendered my body limp and compliant. I remember girding myself in a towel, sloshing into the bedroom half-wet, and falling on top of the covers like a thirsting man into an oasis. I dreamed every dream on the books that morning, I think. It was more like a fever-sleep than anything else, but I needed it sorely. When I finally awoke, I lay there for a while, then reached over to a chair for my robe. Don hand
ed it to me. He must have been sitting there for hours.

  The very next day he drove me two hours to a doctor in Boston. He stayed over. The day after that, armed with some stopgap, super strength painkillers and tranquilizers, we drove to New York to see my friend Gerry.

  I actually enjoyed the drive; Don was quieter than usual, but whenever I was awake, he kept me occupied listening to his wonderful, funny stories. I heard a lot about his life that day, although I didn’t do much talking myself.

  Gerry didn’t keep us waiting. He seemed very glad to see me and scolded me for staying away so long. I wished I could clearly see the expression on his face, which I knew would tell me a lot about how he thought I looked, but all I could do was run his voice through my now very sensitive ears. I thought he sounded extremely worried. The three of us talked for a few minutes, and then he sent Don out to the waiting room and started my examination. It didn’t take long. I’ve noticed that the more serious one’s complaint, the less time one spends with one’s clothes off in the doctor’s office. In my case, there were a lot more tests to be done, but they had to be done in the hospital, and Gerry arranged for Don to accompany me there that very afternoon. Before we left, Gerry and I had a little talk: a little talk I’d been dreading.

  “Gerry,” I said straight off, “if it’s as bad as I think, I don’t want to waste a lot of time getting tortured and prodded by your finest colleagues. The only reason I’m here is because things deteriorated so suddenly. I’ve been prepared to go out slowly for a long time, but I got really scared when things went sour so fast. Have you been able to form any opinion today, or do I really have to go through with the testing?”

  “I think you should,” he said, looking at me over the top of his bifocals. “I have a suspicion I want checked out. The tests I’ve ordered are fairly simple, and you should be able to go home again tonight, if that’s what you want. Or you could stay in the city and come see me again tomorrow afternoon when I’ll have all your results. Is your friend free to stay with you? If not, I’m sure I can arrange for you to stay here.”