My Famous Brain

by Diane Wald

  “I’ll ask him. He can probably stay. The poor guy drove all the way up to get me the night before last, then drove me down here this morning; I don’t think he’s expecting to get home for dinner.”

  “I’m glad you have someone to help you out. How are Frances and the boys?”

  Poor Gerry. I always felt sorry for people who blundered into quicksand because the map was defective: I’d given Gerry no clue. I sighed. “Frances is divorcing me. That’s why—well, that’s partly why—I’ve been living up north. The boys are fine, I think, but I miss them.”

  “Good lord, Jack. I’m sorry to hear that. On top of everything else, it must be really rough.”

  The phrase “on top of everything else” struck me as rather funny; the man didn’t know how much suffering those few words embraced. But I didn’t want him to start feeling sorrier for me than he already did.

  “Yeah,” I said, “but up until a few days ago I was plugging along. Sorry I didn’t keep in touch, but it just wasn’t possible. You understand. Nothing personal, Gerry; you know that.”

  He said he did, of course, and we arranged to meet again just before dinner the next day. Then Don whisked me off to another part of the hospital for my tests. It really wasn’t too bad, and they even gave me a shot for my newest headache as a kind of special treat, I guess. It was an experimental drug (I had to sign about twenty papers before they’d try it on me, and they made it clear that this was a one-time deal) for what they called “discomfort management.”

  The injection was so effective that by seven o’clock I was actually lusting for food. Don couldn’t believe it. I talked him into taking me to that same restaurant where I’d fainted. We ordered the trout again, both of us behaving like starving men. Then we got a big room in a nearby hotel. The two double beds were hard and the pillows big and fluffy, just the way I liked things. I fell asleep very quickly. My last memory that night, before the wild dreams started, was seeing Don propped up on his bed reading a book that looked like it weighed sixty pounds. I wondered what it could be, and if he always carried such things around with him. All I could see was a silhouette of him there, but it soothed me unimaginably. I guess I was never really meant to be alone.

  33. An Elevator Dream

  I said “before the wild dreams started”—and what dreams they were. I’ve always been a champion dreamer, and for years, when I was young, I kept big fat journals detailing everything I could recall about them. It seemed, and still does, like another life altogether: a brilliant, curious, superbly active life that took place only after I’d closed my eyes and given over mind, soul, and body to a purely magical state. Eliza and I used to spend a lot of time talking about dreams, engaging in a delightful kind of one-upmanship that would leave us fascinated, awed, and hungry for more.

  My most remarkable dream that night in the hotel was a variation on a recurring dream I’d had for as long as I could remember. I called it my elevator dream. This event was often terrifying, and usually accompanied periods of great transition or unrest in my life. Always, there was a huge, many-floored building of some sort, with labyrinthine halls and scores of closed or half-closed doors that gave me the feeling there were people behind them listening to me and watching my every move. I was always in a hurry to get to another floor in the building, always on the run, always searching for a stairwell, but I never could find one and there were elevators everywhere. I would get into an elevator with a feeling of relief that I would reach my destination at last, and then somehow the elevator would get loose. It would begin to spin and lurch and sail out into space like some devilish amusement-park ride gone berserk. Sometimes the walls would disappear, or would become rubbery or slimy or transparent, or would flap in and out in a fashion that seemed designed to hurl me out into the void. This terror would continue until I couldn’t take it anymore, and I would awaken in a sweat, weakened and shaken.

  But that night there was a distinct change in the script of the dream. I was being pushed through the endless corridors in a wheelchair, and though I could not see who was doing the pushing, I had a feeling of safety that surprised me. In fact, I was cognizant that the dream was progressing in an unusual way and felt curious to see what would next transpire. At last, I saw the elevator door, and when it opened, I was wheeled inside. Everything appeared to be normal: the elevator did not differ in size or shape from any normal elevator. There were several other people aboard, everyday-type folk who paid me no special attention. The elevator went up a few floors and some of the people got off; a few floors later, the rest of them disembarked. There remained only myself and my mysterious wheelchair driver. I turned my head as far as I could but still could not see who it was, and he or she never said a word or gave any identifying clue whatsoever. I even looked down at the floor to see if I could catch sight of some shoes, but, curiously, there seemed to be nothing behind me.

  All this time the elevator had continued to climb. A small portion of the old terror began to surface in my heart, and I longed for the thing to stop moving. I wanted to ask my wheelchair driver to push one of the buttons on the wall, but found I could not speak, nor could I seem to control my arms to move the chair myself. I was not exactly paralyzed, but simply immobile. It was as if I couldn’t recall how to move. Just when I thought I could stand it no longer, and was indeed beginning to will myself to wake, the elevator stopped with a little shudder and the doors opened. My chair was pushed out and the doors closed behind me. I knew I was alone, that my attendant had left me there and would not return.

  I found I could move again and got out of the chair gingerly. I felt in my back pocket and was relieved to find my wallet still there; then I felt my shirt pocket and took out a pair of glasses. When I put them on, I could see perfectly. I was standing in a normal-sized living room furnished in a comfortable, old-fashioned manner. A canary sat on a limb of a little orange tree by a window, singing its heart out. It made me happy that the bird was not caged, and I went over and stood quite near it. The notes that issued from its throat were thrillingly beautiful, and I thought to myself they were a little like a Vivaldi piece for flute. There was a noise behind me, and I turned. Eliza was there, and she smiled. I tried to speak to her, to go to her, but I was again immobilized. She stayed in the doorway, her arms folded gracefully across her breasts like a Madonna on a holy card. She looked at me lovingly. She said, “I’ll grow up now.” And then she vanished, leaving behind a kind of shadow of herself for a moment—a smile and a movement in the air. The canary had gone on singing the whole time.

  When I related the dream to Don the next morning as he was shaving, he smiled and said, “That’s a great one. I love it. You’re a talented dreamer, you know? Some people are better at it than others, I think, or maybe just better at remembering. Don’t you feel that way when you listen to patients? A dream can pack in a lot of meaning and helpful information and still be pretty dull. But that one isn’t. Do you want me to analyze it, kiddo?” I could just imagine the mischievous look on his face.

  I laughed out loud. “No, I certainly don’t. There’s nothing worse than two shrinks in a hotel room analyzing each other’s dreams! Disgusting. I just wanted you to appreciate the esthetic value, which you have, and I thank you.”

  I heard him rinse his razor, brush his teeth, gargle, and turn on the water in the stall. While he showered, he whistled Vivaldi like a bird. It cracked me up.

  34. A Red Velvet Kneeler

  Frances must have set in motion one of the speediest divorce proceedings in the history of our state. Even while Don Rath and I were securing another place for me to live, the thing was nearing its grim conclusion. By the time I was actually ensconced in my new, inferior housing, the deed was done. I’d managed to sandwich in some time with the boys and had talked seriously with them about what was happening to all of our lives, but they seemed to take the news pretty philosophically. “It’s better, Dad,” Harry said at one point. “You and Mom were really getting on our nerves.” I was stil
l terrifically upset about not living with them and felt guilty whenever I thought about them.

  I was also consumed with what was going on at work. Don and I began to notice a certain atmosphere of doom in the psychology department at NSU. We had divulged our findings about Wally Mussel to no one; indeed, we hardly even mentioned the subject in our private conversations. And yet, inevitably I suppose, other faculty members began to mumble secretly about their dissatisfaction with our fearless leader. It was obvious that most people wanted him out: his absentee leadership, his repulsive personality, his total disregard for the needs of the instructors and students, his rampant misogyny, his other blatant bigotries, and his seeming ignorance regarding all academic matters had finally combined to tip the scales against him. What our colleagues lacked, of course, and what Don and I had in our possession, was the key to Mussel’s certain dismissal, and we thought long and hard about whether we should repeal our vow of silence on the matter and make our valuable knowledge public.

  I was not sure at that time whether Frances and Mussel were still carrying on their affair, but I had gleaned enough little clues from things that Harry and Mark had said, to know that Frances was certainly carrying on with someone. I don’t think even the boys knew who it was, and I never felt as though I should cross-examine them on the subject. As for Sarah, she was a complete mystery. She did not teach anymore, and no one ever saw her in town. I knew she still lived with Mussel because one night, on a whim, I called his house and she answered. I hung up at once, having found out what I wanted to know.

  Mussel somehow caught wind of the faculty mood—I was sure he must have had at least one spy—and decided to take defensive action. When I realized the action he was taking was initially directed against me, I was certain he was still seeing my ex-wife. The manner in which I became aware of his vendetta was a curious one.

  Late one afternoon, after my last class, one of my students asked to have a word with me, and of course I assented. We stood, this young man and I, leaning against the door outside one of the classrooms, and I was immediately aware of his nervousness. I thought perhaps he wanted to consult with me about some affair of the heart; now and then a student would seek me out for nonacademic counseling.

  “What is it, Frank?” I asked. “Something personal? Or have my lectures been causing people to fall asleep in class again?”

  He laughed. “No, Dr. MacLeod,” he said, “I don’t think anyone could sleep during your classes. They’re too interesting.”

  “Thank you, and you get an ‘A.’ What did you want to talk to me about?”

  He put his books down on the floor and struggled hastily to open his jacket, as if he’d suddenly become very warm. “Well, it’s kind of hard to explain,” he said, “but did you know Dr. Mussel’s been asking questions about you?”

  As calmly as I could, I said, “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t know whether to tell you or not, but I thought I ought to. I don’t even know Dr. Mussel—I mean, I know who he is, I know he’s the department chairman, but I’ve never spoken to him before—and I like you, so I thought I’d tell you. Even though he told me not to. He’s kind of a creepy guy, Dr. MacLeod.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “He called me at home the other night—which was weird enough, you know—and asked me to stop by his office the next morning. I thought it was possibly about my grades or something, but I couldn’t figure out what. I’m a pretty good student, and I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong on campus or anything. But when I went to see him, he didn’t want to talk about me at all; he started right in asking a lot of questions about you. He wanted to know if you stuck to the subject in class, if you were ever late, if you tried to force your opinions on us, stuff like that. He asked me if there was anything ‘strange’ about you lately, too, and that really got me mad. I told him there was nothing strange about you at all and that you were a great teacher and that I wanted to know what all the questions were about. He said it was nothing, just routine faculty evaluation stuff, and ushered me out of there pretty quickly. He said I should keep it all confidential. But it gave me the creeps, it really did.”

  I couldn’t help letting a little sigh escape me. “Thank you for telling me, Frank,” I said. “I appreciate that. Don’t worry about it anymore, okay? You know there are a lot of silly political things that go on with college faculties, don’t you? This is probably just Dr. Mussel’s way of checking up on a few of us, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought at first. But then I mentioned it to a couple of other people in the class, and it had happened to them too. Maria Colippi said Dr. Mussel seemed to be trying to get her to say that you’d been harassing the female students. Maria was furious. She said she told him that you’d never do such a thing, and that it was a stupid question, and that Dr. Mussel got really mad at her, and she wanted to come to you about it right away, but she was too embarrassed. I told her I’d tell you what she said, and she said that was fine with her.”

  I wanted to run into the men’s room or someplace and be alone, but I had to deal with Frank. Suddenly I thought how fortunate it was that Eliza had already graduated; all Mussel needed was to catch wind of our relationship and he’d be off and running with my head. I told Frank I valued his loyalty and thanked him for his information. I think he was relieved when he left, though of course he was still puzzled. Who wouldn’t be? It was maddening to think that Mussel would involve the students in his sickening little games. As soon as I got home, I called Don Rath and told him what Frank had said.

  “Well, that’s it, then,” he said, as soon as I’d finished speaking. “We’re going to have to lower the boom on that bastard now, don’t you think? Maybe we should go straight to the president and not mess around with the faculty at all. What do you think, Mac? I’m ready when you are; just say the word.”

  “I don’t know, Don,” I said. “I’m just not up to it. I’m too weak, and I’m too tired, and I don’t know how much longer I can go on teaching anyhow. Maybe it would be best in the long run if I just disappeared. And you know what else? I’m not so sure about the faculty. I’ve suspected for some time that Mussel’s got spies—or one spy at least. We could run into some real trouble.”

  There was silence on the line. I knew Don was angry. I knew he wanted our battle to be fought—that he’d always wanted that—and that he wanted to defend my honor and critically wound Mussel all at the same time. There was also the matter of his own persecution at Mussel’s hands. As close as we were, there was really no way Don could fully understand my situation, my feelings, my deep weariness. I didn’t really care about Mussel anymore; I just wanted to be free of the whole thing so that I could get on with whatever was left of my life. Finally, Don spoke.

  “I know what you mean about a spy,” he said. “And I think I know who it is.”

  I was flabbergasted. “Really?”

  “It’s Dottie,” he said. “I’ve thought so for a long time, so I’ve been telling her little lies to see if they end up with Mussel. They always do. She tells him everything, and because she’s such a quiet old thing with ingratiating manners, people tell her all sorts of stuff. She’s in love with Mussel, Mac. I’m sure of it.”

  I don’t think my mouth was hanging open, but it might as well have been. “No,” was all I could muster. “I can’t believe it.”

  “It’s true. I asked some of the staff in other departments in our building who have been here as long as she has, and they told me all about her. She and Mussel worked together before he came here, and it was one of those things where the new department chair got to hire his own secretary. He brought her here. There’s never been anything romantic between them that anyone can prove, but Dottie is insanely devoted to Mussel. She lives and breathes Mussel, and she’d do anything for him. She’s never had any man in her life other than that horrible creep, even though she only gets the crumbs, and only at work. I don’t think she even has any friends. I
t’s so pathetic. I’ve met a few women like her. You want to rattle their bones until they come to their senses, but they never do; they just live to breathe the air around their obsession. But anyhow, I’m sure Dottie is feeding Mussel all sorts of crap, and he’s gobbling it up.”

  “Dottie.” I couldn’t get my head around it.

  Don started laughing. “I didn’t think this would hit you so hard, old boy,” he said. “Listen. This is worse than that stuff you hear about guys who have a ‘work wife.’ This is pathological. One time I was with them in a car going to some kind of luncheon, and it was a very warm day and Mussel took his tie off and handed it to Dottie, who folded it up carefully like it was a precious sacramental garment and tucked it in her purse. Then when we all got to the restaurant—Indian—he asked her what he liked, and she told him what he wanted to order. Totally creepsville.”

  “So you think she’s told him—”

  “God knows what. It’s frightening. And she masquerades as such a wimpy old lace-hanky type.”

  “God almighty,” I said, thinking back to all the conversations I’d had with Dottie over the years. “I never guessed.”

  “I’m not sure why I did, except that I’m a paranoid type, I guess. But I want you to think long and hard about all this, Mac,” he told me. “I know you’ll probably decide against doing anything, and I might feel the same way in your shoes, but just think some more about it, okay? I know I promised you a long time ago not to try to change your mind, and I’ll stick to that. But, whatever you decide, if Mussel tries to smear your reputation, don’t expect me to stand along the sidelines and say nothing. That part of it’s my decision, you know?”