My Famous Brain

by Diane Wald

  As for me, I eventually went back to my talk show work every weekday evening. I was “Doctor Mac” to my faithful listeners, and I enjoyed the anonymity this afforded me—to those people I was whole and sane and helpful. Doing the show was easy, it was fulfilling, and, for the most part, it was fun. This evening schedule left Don and me the afternoons to be together if we wanted to, and we often did want to—in fact, more often than not. I think my illness had aged me in a funny way: I probably did not look much older than my years, but, having been through so many personal crises in so short a time, I felt like a much older man.

  Don, however, seemed to grow younger and younger as the bustle of city living and the pressures of a full-time job fell from his shoulders. He felt like a son to me, and that was a gap that needed filling: I didn’t see much of Harry and Mark. They were off on their own for the most part now, and while they did come up and visit every now and then, they never stayed long, and they seemed uneasy around Don. I worried that Frances (or someone else) had filled their young heads with some stupidity about him, but when I questioned the boys, I could tell I was wrong. I guess it was natural for them to be somewhat uncomfortable with a slowly dying father and his caretaker-roommate. It was not any kind of normal situation.

  Afternoons with Don came to mean a great deal to me. Without him, I would have been essentially housebound, or at least it would have taken a great deal of organization and effort on my part to get myself out into the world. But with his usual good humor, Don became my guide. My vision, though it remained more or less as it was at the time of my surgery, was undependable and foggy at times. Don would take me shopping, on picnics, on long drives in the hills, or simply on little walking expeditions around the neighborhood. The small but fierce Tillie would accompany us on these journeys, wrapped in a little walking jacket attached to a leash. It had taken some time to get her used to the harness arrangement, but eventually she learned that it meant fun outdoors with her humans. We couldn’t risk losing our beloved companion.

  Unfortunately for Tillie and Don, my energy level was rather low, so we never went too far, but Don managed to fill these excursions with such a wealth of informative detail that I felt as if I’d gone very far indeed. He knew so much about nature, it astonished me. Our conversations were a delight to me.

  But I’m not sure I was too delightful myself. I talked about death a lot, and I worried sometimes that Don would become weary or wary of the subject. He treated it, however, as a philosophical problem, not a clinical or personal one, and so we were able to investigate the topic at our leisure. Once I commented on how funny a picture the two of us must have made: one “elderly” middle-aged man and one youthful middle-aged man, strolling along with a cat on a leash, talking about beetles, phobias, acorns, children’s bicycles, Freud, dinner recipes, and death. He laughed. “It’s really wonderful, isn’t it?” he said. “We’re living every dedicated conversationalist’s dream.”

  Not that every day was rosy. There were times when I wanted nothing more than the luxury of being alone with my thoughts, and I don’t doubt Don had similar wishes as well. We came to intuit each other’s need for privacy, and sometimes Don would take off for a few days, or, by an unspoken mutual agreement, we would simply leave each other alone. I used these times for rest, which I needed more and more: it was gradually becoming awfully difficult for me to keep up with Don’s energetic, upbeat approach to living.

  I admired him exceedingly, but he sometimes wore me out. He did it on purpose, I know; he was not a Pollyanna by nature, he was trying to keep me alive by means of charm, cheer, and choice. By the latter I mean that he knew that to please him, if for no other reason, I would choose to take on the onerous task of living. But I think even he knew our game could not go on forever.

  I used my alone time not only to rest, but also to read. True, I could no longer make out the words in an ordinary book too easily, but I had obtained some large-print volumes from the nearby university library. Even that print was a little difficult to read, but read it I did, with the aid of a magnifying lamp, plus of course my own thick spectacles. I had to pursue this activity when Don was not around, because it had proven to be the one thing he could not bear to see me do. Once he had come upon me with my nose literally to the grindstone practicing this clumsy art and had been reduced to tears. He told me later that the effort I expended laboring over every syllable seemed to him too great a price to pay even for literature. He offered instead to read to me whenever I asked, if only I would cease torturing myself, and even though I tried to explain to him that being read to wasn’t the same as reading, I could tell it was something that made no sense to him at all.

  The fact was, my reading was becoming more important to me than anything else. If you’ll remember, I promised myself when I first realized I was ill that I would someday memorize one last book, and recite it as well, as a final celebration of life and a testament to my once-impressive powers. It was a prideful exercise, but I needed to indulge in it, and I felt the day had come to begin my task. Although I had no reason to suspect that death was actually on my doorstep, I realized that if I waited too long to try to satisfy this dream, I might not be able to read anything at all. Having Don read to me, or listening to a book on tape, simply would not work: there was some kind of magic inherent in the memorization that had to be activated by my own eyes, imperfect as they had become. And so I labored secretly, to spare my friend the pain of my pain, and to devote myself whenever I could to what I considered my last worldly mission.

  At first, the problem of what book to select was a daunting one. The university’s inventory of large-print books was limited, and while they did stock most of the classics, there was a dearth of the less-well-known masterpieces and practically no poetry or drama at all. I selected and hauled home a weighty copy of Moby Dick, but, respecting and enjoying Melville as I always had, I knew I did not want to memorize that book. I tried it on, but it did not fit. For weeks I was stymied; I wondered if I would have to give the project up. And then, while speaking with the university’s librarian, I learned of a wonderful service for the visually handicapped. There was a small company that, for a nominal sum, would create large-print books from any manuscript or volume; the only problem being that it took some time. It took months, in fact: the waiting list was quite long and the production process lengthy. Again, I was frustrated, for I did not know how long I had.

  But I reasoned that the more quickly I made my selection, the faster my adventure could begin. For two days I concentrated on that problem alone. I was so preoccupied that Don expressed some concern, but I calmed his fears by telling him I was just working out a personal issue with the boys, and, as always, he graciously allowed me my separateness. So many questions absorbed my attention. Should I choose a book I’d already read and loved, or should I test out an unfamiliar work, hoping that I might discover something new along the way that would add even more meaning to my project? Should it be a short work or long? Fiction, poetry, philosophy, drama? Something in English, or something in a foreign tongue (I could read French, Russian, and German well)? On the evening of my second day of rumination, I fell into bed despairing of ever making a choice. I should have known better than to despair when I could dream.

  With perfect clarity I dreamed of the book I wanted. In the dream I was young and healthy, and I reached with ease to the top shelf of my bookcase to remove a well-worn volume. I caressed the cover and read the title and author out loud: The Age of Innocence, by Edith Wharton. The perfect choice: I couldn’t imagine why I hadn’t thought of it before. When I awoke, I knew just what to do.

  I had originally been introduced to the book by Eliza. She adored it. When I told her I hadn’t read it, she was amazed, and, saying that she could not possibly relate to anyone who had not read one of her all-time favorite books, she’d gone out immediately and bought me a copy.

  To my dismay, however, sometime during my move, Eliza’s gift had been mislaid. I comforted myself
with the fact that it had been one of the few books she had given me that she had not inscribed with some wonderful words of her own, so it was only a book—an object—that was missing. I asked Don to procure another copy for me, which he did readily. I called the friendly librarian and copied down the address of the large-print firm. I sent them the book; I sent them the money. I also sent them a letter in which I humbled myself enough to say that I would more than appreciate any speed with which they could process my order, since I was a dying man who wanted to read the book before he died. The package arrived in less than two weeks. Bless them.

  I then began my work in earnest. Not willing quite yet to let Don in on all the details of my plan, I was forced to offer him little white lies in order to gain time alone with my reading. Slow going as it was, it brought me increasing joy, and nightly I would come upon little phrases and scenes that Wharton had drawn with such a fine pen that they sent tiny shocks of recognition and appreciation through mind and soul.

  So much of the book reminded me of my connection with Eliza. For example, Wharton wrote: “… there had been no farther [sic] communication between them, and he had built up within himself a kind of sanctuary in which she throned among his secret thoughts and longings.” And also: “I swear I only want to hear about you, to know what you’ve been doing. It’s a hundred years since we’ve met—it may be another hundred before we meet again.” The book was indeed a treasure that Eliza had known I would recognize.

  In order to keep my project from Don, I had devised a workable plan that satisfied his need to be sure I was not overworking my eyes and mind. I told him I needed an hour or so each night after my radio program to take notes on the tape recorder regarding each evening’s callers. This seemed to make sense to him, and indeed I suppose it actually would have been a smart thing to do—but I had no time for it.

  I was busy with what I’d come to consider, in all senses of the phrase, my life’s work. It was coming along famously: since the reading itself was so arduous, the memorization was really a breeze. I was delighted to find that my mind was still working so well, considering what my physical brain itself had to deal with. It took a couple of months, but I finally finished the memorization.

  For several days afterwards, I was able to carry on more or less normally, but every now and then I would visit that area of thought where I had carefully placed each sentence of Wharton’s masterpiece, lingering over particular phrases that were especially meaningful for me—or just beautiful. I loved, for example, the last part of the last sentence of Chapter Twelve. Young Newland Archer was taking his leave of his true beloved, the Countess Olenska. I could almost see him, almost hear his labored breathing. He “plunged out into the winter night bursting with the belated eloquence of the inarticulate.”

  I was dying to recite the book for Don.

  42. Don’s Dilemma

  I had my book lodged firmly in my memory, and all that remained was to choose a time to recite it to myself. If that went well, as I was confident it would, I would add a second plan to my “ceremony,” this one including Don.

  Like a child planning a birthday surprise for his parent, I daydreamed the whole scenario. “Donald,” I would say one morning, when the breakfast things had been cleared away. “If you are free this afternoon, I have a little surprise for you,” and Don of course would say that indeed he was free and that he looked forward to whatever I had planned. He’d try to tease the secret out of me, but I would have none of it. When, after lunch, we’d made ourselves comfortable in the living room, Don with his brandy and me with my tea, I’d casually ask him if he’d ever read The Age of Innocence. No, he would say, he hadn’t had the pleasure: could I lend him my copy? And I would reply that no, I had a better idea, and if he cared to hear the book, I’d be happy to recite it for him.

  He would be astonished, delighted, intrigued. He’d had no idea of this secret talent of mine. I knew he hardly believed I could do it (or that anyone could, for that matter), but I proceeded to prove him wrong. He was mystified, entranced, and begged me to go on and on, but the clock had reached seven and it was time for me to prepare for my radio program. Also, my voice was wearing out: he wouldn’t want me to go hoarse on my audience, would he? Of course not, he said, still sitting on the couch with his brandy snifter in hand and Tillie on his lap, a look of enchantment in his funny grey eyes. But would I go on reciting tomorrow afternoon? Naturally I would, I’d be delighted to do so. He embraced me, he told me how wonderful I was, and he praised the book as well, saying that now he wanted to read everything he’d ever missed, and would I draw up a list for him? That was my daydream; I could hardly wait to make it a reality. The recitation of Wharton’s novel would be not only a gift to myself, but perhaps my final gift to Don—something only I could give him, something worthy of him, something fine. But I did not rush into it; I felt I would simply know when the time was right.

  With the book securely under my mental belt, I felt armed and reassured, as if I’d set my affairs in order. I did not feel close to death, but I felt prepared for it; the only thing that could go wrong would be if I were to die quite suddenly, and the very nature of my ailment rendered that likelihood remote. During that period, I came as close as I’d ever come to living each day to the fullest, without regrets, without expectations, and with a grateful sense of simply being around. I wished I could have said the same for Don.

  I’d noticed his moods becoming increasingly introspective and grim, especially when he returned from the hospital each noontime. When I inquired if he were feeling all right, I was assured it was nothing physical, and told that he was sorry to be such a grouch, but that there were a few things at work that were preying on his mind. No, he didn’t really need to talk about them just yet, but he would probably want to discuss them with me at some future time. Would that be okay? I assured him it would, and I wondered about his formality, which seemed to me to suggest he was even more upset than I’d thought at first.

  Not long after that conversation, he broke down. Tillie and I were setting up for lunch one day when we heard his car on the gravel outside. The sound of it always sent Tillie into a little pirouette of joy, after which she would run to the side door to be picked up and petted by Donald, who doted on her. (It was odd, but the more she grew to resemble Cybèle, the closer the two of them grew; this pleased me enormously. It was as if two of my favorite beings were blessing me by their mutual regard.) That day, however, Don nearly tripped over Tillie, then looked at her without saying a word, and marched down the corridor to his room.

  I picked Tillie up and consoled her briefly, then followed him, cat in arms, to try to find out what was wrong. His door was closed. I knocked. No answer. “Don,” I said, “what’s wrong? Can I help you?” After a short silence, he opened the door and invited us in. He took off his sport coat and immediately lay down on the bed, gesturing towards his favorite overstuffed armchair, where Tillie and I took a seat. “I’m so sorry, guys,” he said, sighing. “I’m exhausted. I’m depressed. I’ve had a really shitty day.”

  I put Tillie down and she leaped up on the bed beside Donald, snuggling up next to him as if she knew where she was needed. He stroked her sleek back and shoulders silently.

  “Would you rather be alone?” I asked.

  Don sat up and propped himself against the pillows. “No,” he said. “I’d rather you’d stay. I want to tell you what happened today and get your opinion. Personally, I’m very confused. Professionally, I’m really stuck. You’ve had more experience with clients than I have, Mac; I think you can help me.”

  “I’ll try,” I told him, “but don’t forget how rusty I am. It’s been many years since I had a real practice, and my radio people don’t really count, you know.”

  “It’s your common sense and intuition I’m interested in,” he replied. “But, come to think of it, I’m starving. And I don’t want to loll around in here—it makes me feel even worse. Let’s talk over lunch.”

  So we repaire
d, all three of us, to the kitchen. I set Tillie up with a little dish of goodies and gave Don a sandwich. He just sat there, looking glum; ordinarily he’d be bustling about, unable to allow me free reign in what had become his kitchen. I sat down opposite him and began to eat.

  “So?” I said, “Let’s have it.”

  “Okay,” he said, wiping his brow with his napkin. “Mac, do you remember my talking about this kid called M. G.? He’s not a kid, really; he’s one of the Vietnam boys, but he seems like a kid to me. He’s a paraplegic who’s only recently regained his ability to speak. The physical therapists worked wonders with him, but it’s taken a long time. He’s bitter and unpredictable. I think I’ve mentioned him before.”

  “I think you have. Isn’t he the one who just got the motorized wheelchair? You were so happy about that.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I was happy, and I think he was too, at first. After a couple of days of practice, he was a real whiz on the thing, and used to take long rides through town every afternoon. For a while he’d take a companion, but after a couple of days no one wanted to go with him. The other guys said he was a real pain in the ass, and one went so far as to suggest that M. G. was heading for real trouble. We couldn’t get anything more out of him than that, and eventually everyone forgot about it. I was assigned to M. G. shortly thereafter, but it was clear from the first day that we were mismatched. I couldn’t even get him to speak to me. He ignored several appointments. Then this morning I was informed by one of the nurses that M. G. was on his way in to see me. In he came. The first thing he said to me was ‘Hiya, faggot.’”