My Famous Brain

by Diane Wald

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I’m sure I am. So get back to your story. When was the last time you saw him?”

  Then Eliza began to tell her friend the long story of our relationship, starting backwards, at the point of what I call her fade-away from my life. She told her friend just about everything, including the dreams and all our blessed coincidences, and Charlotte listened intently, interjecting little questions and comments here and there to fill in the blanks. I was pleased to observe that Eliza’s version of our story differed very little from my own. She wept quietly on and off, and Charlotte kept feeding her tissues, and when it seemed that Eliza was finished speaking, Charlotte said the most remarkable things. I understood then just why they were such good friends.

  “Eliza, baby,” Charlotte said, playfully heaping sand over Eliza’s feet and patting it down around them. “I think this Jack may have been a kind of supernatural soulmate for you.”

  Eliza looked amused. “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is this: some people have one person in their life who takes on an importance that goes beyond love, beyond sex, beyond the ordinary boundaries of life as we know it. This phenomenon doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the person you marry—or with anyone else you love. It’s a different thing altogether. Personally, I think every-body’s got such a person, but not everybody recognizes it. You did. Sounds like so did he. You’re not obsessed with your Jack, you’re just in absolutely perfect tune with him—always were. Do you know what I mean? Or am I making perfect nonsense here?”

  Eliza wiggled her toes out of the sand pile. “Go on,” she said. “I want to hear this.”

  “Well, look,” said Charlotte. “You had a special affinity for this man when you first met him, didn’t you? Maybe that’s what people sometimes mistake for love at first sight. You and he had a special way of communicating that had nothing to do with Ma Bell, right? That communication has gone on over many years, even though you haven’t spoken to one another. And what’s most important is that this communication went on and on, even though you didn’t know he was dead. How common is that? It doesn’t make any ‘common’ sense at all, that’s what’s so beautiful about it.”

  “Char,” said Eliza, “you’re a genius. You’ve pinpointed the very things I’ve always felt. And best of all, you don’t seem to think I’m crazy.”

  Charlotte laughed as she packed Eliza’s feet back up in sand. “Oh, I know you’re crazy,” she said, “but who cares?”

  “But there’s still one thing that bothers me more than anything else,” Eliza said. “And that’s my guilt. Why did I just let go of him like that? And why, in all these years, didn’t I try to look him up, to find out how he was at least? That’s what tortures me, really. I’ll always wonder if I could have helped him, made things easier for him when he was so ill. I thought about him so much, but I never did a thing to try to find him. Maybe he died lonely and miserable; maybe I could have done some little thing for him; maybe …” The sentence trailed off and she began to cry again, this time in earnest, wiping her eyes on the ends of her headscarf.

  “Maybe you should go a little easier on yourself,” Charlotte said. “After all, he didn’t try to look for you either, did he? And you know why I think that was? Not because he didn’t care about you. Because he did care. Because he cared enough and was wise enough to know that the two of you weren’t meant to be in touch that way. You had—you still have—another channel for your togetherness. It’s a weird one, I admit, but what of it? Don’t you see, Eliza, you’re torturing yourself for nothing. Doesn’t the fact that he mentioned you so exclusively in his will tell you anything? He never forgot you; you never forgot him. It’s fucking beautiful, you idiot, if you’d just stop bawling long enough to see it. Eliza, it’s out of this world! And it’s not over, that’s the best part. It will be with you as long as you live, and maybe longer for all we know. Imagine the joy of that. You can’t relive the past; you can’t make him live again. All you can do is be your own wonderful self. I never knew this Jack, but from what you tell me about him, I’ll bet that’s what he’d say to you this minute if he were here.”

  Eliza stopped crying and looked at her friend. “You’re right,” she said. “Thank you. I’ll try. And thank you for listening to me. I feel a lot better. I think I’ll go in the water now. Want to come?”

  Charlotte said no, thanks, that she’d not yet thawed out from her first little dip. Eliza leaned over and hugged her, then tore off her scarf and sunglasses, bolted from her chair, and ran into the surf. She screamed when the first icy breaker hit her. Charlotte yelled something and waved. The scene was fading from me; I tried to hold on to it. I could see Eliza’s head bobbing in the frothy green and white waves and fancied I could taste their salt and feel the exhilaration of the freezing water hitting my neck and face. I imagined I was there with her, lifting her light frame over the waves and holding her against my chest when the big ones hit us. The vision faded. But at last, I’d heard so much of what I’d always needed to hear.

  40. Let Her Be Spoiled

  With Don around, my recovery was fairly easy. He performed whatever actual nursing chores were necessary with the greatest skill and discretion, pushing me gently but convincingly to do for myself whatever I could handle—sometimes even a little more. He respected my modesty and privacy, ignored my intermittent foul moods, fed me like a king, trucked me back and forth to the hospital for check-ups, kept me entertained with his conversation and Tillie’s antics, and executed every household function with impeccable efficiency and style. Moreover, he liked me, he liked caring for me; one could see it was no burden to him at all. This lifted my guilt and soothed my nerves and filled me with an invaluable sense of being wholly befriended. I could not imagine how I’d ever gotten along without him and dreaded the day I knew would have to come: the day of his inevitable departure.

  Ironically, because of his skillful care, I was making rapid progress, and it was soon obvious to both of us that Don’s ministrations were, in large part, becoming altogether unnecessary. I’m sure it was on his mind as well as on mine, but we never mentioned it. Then there came a day when Don revealed that he’d soon have to go down to New York on business. He broached the subject at breakfast, which I no longer took in my room.

  “What time will you leave?” I asked him.

  “I’d like to go quite early tomorrow,” he said, “so I’ll miss some of the traffic through Connecticut.” Then he paused. “I was also thinking,” he went on, “that if you think you can get along all right, I might spend the evening with Denny and come back the next day. We haven’t seen each other since his visit here last month, and I really owe him some time. What do you think? Would you feel comfortable being alone overnight?”

  It was the opening I’d been waiting for; there were things I’d have to say for him, doors I’d have to open.

  “Of course I will,” I told him. “Stay longer if you like. I’m doing really well; you say so yourself every day. There’s no earthly reason why you can’t take a trip and feel relaxed about it. Not that I won’t miss your grubby little beard over coffee tomorrow, but Tillie and I will make do, won’t we, Tillie?” The little cat—more of a teenage-type cat now—was asleep on my knee. At the mention of her name, she opened one eye and looked at me, then went back to sleep.

  Don was stirring his coffee maniacally. “Good,” he said. “Yes, I think you’ll be fine. It’s not you I’m really worried about.” He took a long sip of coffee. “It’s Denny.”

  “Oh no. Are things deteriorating because you’ve been up here so long?”

  “I’m not sure—maybe …” he said. “But it goes beyond that. I think my time with Denny is over, Mac. Even before I came up here things were falling apart. We were inching away from one another, and bitching at each other a lot. I thought a little separation would be good for both of us, but nothing’s really improved. I don’t know if you noticed the tension between us when he w
as up here, but it really tore me up. I think he wants to be rid of me once and for all but lacks the guts to say so. I think I’ll have to help him, and this might be the time. It’s shitty—it’s always shitty when people break up—but I know in my heart I really don’t want to go back and live with him again. So maybe I really will stay down there a couple of days, if you’re sure you’re okay. I don’t know how long all of this will take, and I don’t want to rush it. And I’ll be in touch with you every day by phone, of course.”

  “I’m really sorry to hear about you and Denny,” I said, “but I’m sure you know what’s best. As for your staying in New York, don’t give it a second thought. Stay as long as you need to.” I poured him another cup of coffee, filling it up halfway with milk the way he liked it. “You know, Don,’ I continued, “I really would be all right on my own now—I mean, as much as I love having you here, maybe this is the right time for you to go. Besides the situation with Denny, which may take longer to resolve than you think, there’s your job to think about. I worry about that, Donald. You can’t keep NSU on hold forever you know; sooner or later they’re going to want their favorite professor back.”

  Don again stirred his coffee and then stirred it some more. He breathed in and out heavily. I hoped I hadn’t hurt his feelings. I was only trying to give him the opening he needed, somewhat the way I’d opened things up for Eliza when I knew she’d have to leave me. I wondered briefly why I found myself so often in that role, and if I were prone to jump the gun in such situations—but I knew that wasn’t true. Eliza and Don had their own full lives to live. Don cut himself another slice of his homemade bread, toasted it, and smothered it in apple butter. He ate almost the whole thing before he spoke.

  “Mac,” he began, “there’s something I should have told you a few weeks ago. Now that you’ve brought up NSU, I guess the time is right.”

  I braced myself. I think I knew what was coming.

  “I quit,” he said.

  “When was that?”

  “A few weeks ago. You don’t have to feel it had anything to do with you. The closer my little sabbatical came to ending, the clearer it became to me that I could never go back there. Mussel’s still there, Mac, and that’s one thing. I simply can’t stand to be around him, to work for him, even to see his name on a memo. And then there’s the fact that I’ve just been there too long. I felt that if I didn’t take this perfect chance to get out, I’d be in danger of stagnating there forever, you know?”

  Don looked a little embarrassed, as he always did when he was about to praise me. I think he was afraid that I would think he was being too nice because of the crush he’d once had on me. But I didn’t think that. I was certain the crush had matured into a perfectly beautiful friendship. I rarely thought about his homosexuality at all anymore, even when Denny had been visiting, and they had slept together in the bedroom next to mine.

  Don went on. “You’ve always rather inspired me, you know: your intellect, your ethics, your stalwart grip on life. You’re one of my heroes, Mac—maybe my biggest one.” He looked at me sheepishly.

  “Good grief,” I said, trying to cover my emotion. “Next you’ll be telling me you’re authoring a superheroes comic strip in my honor. What are you going to call me, ‘The Amazing Balding Man’?”

  Don laughed and coughed. I’d noticed that since he’d been living with me this little habit had decreased in frequency quite a bit. He was calmer in general, more peaceful, more centered. “Very funny,” he said, “Nevertheless, I meant what I said. I tried to imagine you staying on at NSU in my situation and realized you never would have done it. And anyway, I really wanted to go. So I did. You see before you one middle-aged, unemployed therapist-academic. Oh, did I mention I’ve decided not to resume my private practice again either?” He gave me a sly look.

  “Nope,” I said. “Isn’t that a rather drastic step? I mean, if I may be so frank, what are you going to use for money? Or do you have something else lined up that you ‘forgot to mention’ as well? I know you’ve been living off your savings the whole time you were here. I should have been paying you that salary I mentioned the very first week; you should have accepted. I’ve a good mind now to force the whole retroactive sum down your stubborn little throat.”

  “My, my,” Don said. “We certainly are feeling our oats today, aren’t we?” He laughed. “Don’t worry about my finances. I’ve got tons of money in the bank, really; this little ‘vacation’ has hardly made a dent in it. After all, a single boy like myself has very few expenses, and I’ve been working for a very long time. I don’t have any prospects at the moment, but I don’t think I’m exactly unemployable. Once I decide where to settle, I’ll sink my teeth into the job problem pronto.”

  His last statement shouldn’t have surprised me.

  “You’re not going back to the city?”

  “I don’t think so. I think once I’ve worked things out with Denny I’ll want to move on. The city is dirty and noisy and full of too many people just like me. I look around on the street sometimes and see myself everywhere: it’s depressing. Even driving across the bridge to NSU every day used to be a treat, if you can imagine that.”

  “Where are you thinking of going?” I asked. But I knew.

  Don came around the table and picked Tillie off my lap. He held her up in the air, at eye level, and spoke, as if to her.

  “Here,” he said, “if that’s all right with you.” Then, with one finger, he gently moved Tillie’s little head up and down in assent. He smiled at me. “She says okay,” he stated. “What about you?”

  I had to admit he had staged it perfectly. What could I say? To say I didn’t want him would have been a lie; to say it wouldn’t work out would have been ridiculous. There was nothing standing in the way, no reason on earth not to agree with him.

  “Don,” I said solemnly, “have you really thought this through? Of course it’s okay with me—it’s more than okay—but do you truly realize you’d be saddling yourself with all my problems? I know, I know—you’ve done that already, and you’ve handled everything beautifully, believe me. You must know the depth of the gratitude in my heart. But our situation as it stands now might be misleading. I’m fairly well now, Don, but I’m not going to stay this way forever. Who knows how long it will be before I become totally dependent? What kind of a life will you have here if I—when I—begin to get sicker and sicker again? I don’t know, Donald. I have a good mind to kick you out once and for all and be done with it.” As I spoke, the things I was saying made me angrier and angrier. They were true. He shouldn’t stay. I realized I’d been making a fist around my piece of jam-soaked toast and relaxed my grip. Don handed me a napkin. I wiped off my hand and covered my eyes.

  “At best,” I said, “you’ll be saddled with a partially disabled man. At worst, a vegetable. Think twice, my friend, before you sign on with this army. It’s marching into the valley of death for sure.”

  Don sounded angry too. “You jerk,” he said, flatly. “You have to make a big fucking drama out of everything, don’t you? Do you think I’m a moron? Don’t you think I’ve considered the big picture? I said I wanted to stay, and I do, but if you’re going to be some kind of tortured martyr all the time, I think I will back out. Just remember, Mac: this was my idea. I wanted to come here, and I want to stay. You don’t have to take any responsibility for any of it. If you don’t want me, just say so, and I’ll be gone. I don’t want your gratitude; I just thought we lived well together. Who the hell knows what’s going to happen to whom? Suppose something happens to me. Would you head for the hills? You’re so fucking brilliant you can’t tell your ass from your elbow, as my father used to say. Your famous brain is letting you down, man. Let me know your royal decision in the morning. I’m going for a walk.” He started up from the table, but I grabbed his arm. We were both weeping. The wrist I grabbed was trembling.

  “Stay,” I said, shakily. “Stay forever if you can stand it. Nothing would make me happier.”


  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive,” I said. “I won’t even thank you.”

  He sat down again and took a deep breath. “That’s more like it,” he said. “I think we’ll be happy.”

  “I’m happy already,” I told him, and it was true. Tillie scrambled up my pants-leg and vaulted onto the table. She walked right into the middle of Don’s breakfast plate and began to nibble on some crumbs.

  “She’s absolutely spoiled,” Don said. “We’re going to have to set down some rules around here.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Who cares? Let her be spoiled. In fact, let her run amok if she wants to!”

  Don howled with joy. “Yeah! Let her run amok! We don’t have to answer to anybody, do we, Tillie, old girl?” The cat ignored him. I went around the table and embraced his shoulders.

  “It’s going to be all right,” he announced cheerfully. It’s going to work out fine.”

  “I know,” I told him. “I think you could be right.”

  41. Dreaming of Innocence

  For almost a year and a half, Don Rath and I lived together in harmony. We had fun every day. I had disability payments and also some money from investments I’d made with my radio prize money, and Don was making a passable wage as a part-time therapist at a nearby veteran’s hospital. At first, I thought this choice of occupation rather a peculiar one for him, but he seemed to thrive on it. Early every morning he’d trundle off to the hospital, returning at noon or thereabouts (there were occasional emergencies) full of stories, and quite exhilarated by the contact with his patients. Sad as many of their situations were, Don had the gift of discovering value in each of them and giving them hope. There were very few older veterans in that particular hospital; most of the residents were Vietnam vets, and Don seemed to have a special affinity for those “boys” (as he called them) and a special compassion for and insight into their problems. There were difficult and intractable cases of course, as there are in any such facility, but on the whole I think he felt that his success rate was high and that he was learning a great deal from the experience. Certainly, it was a drastic change from college teaching, and change is what he constantly assured me he was searching for. With two of us paying our very reasonable rent, there was no need for him to work more than he wanted to.