Probation

by Tom Mendicino

  All I’m able to squeeze out of Matt is the blond’s a Jesuit from Wisconsin on loan to UNC–Charlotte for the academic year. He’s teaching a course on the French Deconstructionists for the comparative literature department. Matt studiously deflects any further questions, but I persist.

  “Why is this so important to you?” he asks.

  “It isn’t.”

  “Then why so many questions?”

  “I’m just curious.”

  “Curious about what?” he asks.

  About that priest, about you, about whether you are what you seem to be, controlled, engaged in life yet detached, distant enough to remain objective, not a prisoner to whims and urges, highs and lows. I’m curious about whether it’s all a façade and, just like me, you toss and turn in your spartan single bed, your beefy, hairy legs twisted in the sheets, kicking at the hobgoblins crawling out of the woodwork. Where do you hide from your demons? What’s the antidote for desire? Dropping to your knees for a rosary and a pair of novenas for the strength to resist temptation or a quick jack-off and a week without candy as penance?

  “Nothing…actually, I am curious about something.”

  “What?”

  “How do we end this?”

  “Haven’t you talked with your lawyer?”

  “Right. We show up before the judge. No arrests. Completion of counseling verified. Listen to a word or two of wisdom. Look abashed, no, look reformed, like I couldn’t even conceive of fucking up again, like I’m a whole different person than the loser who stood there a year ago. Record expunged and I rejoin the ranks of solid citizens.”

  “So there you are.”

  “But I’m still curious. What’s your role in all this?”

  “I submit a final report to the Court.”

  “Have you started it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it finished?”

  “No.”

  “When do I read it?”

  “You don’t.”

  “What does it say?”

  This line of questioning makes Matt uncomfortable.

  “I’m afraid I can’t disclose that.”

  I nearly jump out of my seat. One more question he won’t answer, one more secret he’s hiding.

  “Whoa, calm down.”

  “What do you mean you can’t disclose it?”

  “It’s a confidential report to the Court. It belongs to the State. That’s how it works. It’s not mine to give you. It’s the judge’s decision whether to share it. Your lawyer will have to file a motion to get a copy.”

  “Wait a minute!”

  “What?”

  “Who the fuck are you working for here?”

  “Well…”

  “Haven’t you been preaching to me for months that I’m your patient?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then give me the report. I have a fucking right to see it. I’ve spent too much time in hospitals and doctors’ offices. I know about patients’ rights. You have to let me see it.”

  “Andy, it’s not that simple.”

  “It’s not that fucking complicated,” I shout.

  “Andy, if you want to see your medical record, fine, but this is different. It’s a report that…”

  I realize I’m crying and reach for the box of tissue on the low table between us. They’re oily and they stink, scented to suggest floral bouquets. It’s nothing but frustration, this outburst. I’m tired of him shutting me out, blocking me off. He watches, silently, and the longer he observes, the harder I cry. I point to the closed door. He understands, knowing I don’t want to be humiliated.

  “Don’t worry. No one can hear you.”

  He waits until the tears have stopped and I’m dabbing my nose obsessively, worried about stray strings of snot.

  “I really wish you’d reconsider your decision,” he says.

  I shrug and mumble.

  “We have one more session. And you can do something for me.”

  “What?”

  “Write your own evaluation and report. We’ll see how it compares to mine.”

  I agree. I work on it all week. On planes, in hotels, at counters, in my little book where the customer thinks I’m scribbling measurements. I edit, revise, tinker until it’s perfect. The honest, unvarnished portrait of the salesman as a no-longer-young man. This is what I write:

  Subject: Caucasian male homosexual floating through his late thirties. Divorced, no children. Above-average intelligence and uninvolved in current occupation. Pleasant, unremarkable appearance. Average social skills, but no friends at present time and emotionally detached from family members despite current residence with mother with end-stage lymphoma for whom he acts as primary caregiver.

  Pathology: Subject demonstrates certain narcissistic qualities and exhibits tendency for self-obsession without self-awareness. Subject has difficulty forming intimate emotional relationships and his resultant isolation is further exacerbated by a fear of exposure. Subject’s prime motivation in personal interactions is to avoid reviving residual sense of shame created by paternal disapproval of his childhood mannerisms and conduct.

  Subject is currently in thrall to deepening depression over recent dissolution of his long-term marriage and the anticipated adverse outcome of mother’s treatment. Subject’s current medication regimen is yielding diminishing results. Subject has difficulty sleeping and self-medicates by increasing alcohol intake and using marijuana when available. Sleep, when finally achieved, is unsatisfactory, coming in fits and starts, seldom extending beyond four hours and often accompanied by hallucinatory images that force his eyes open and render him unable to fall back into unconsciousness.

  Subject is morbidly preoccupied, no, obsessed, with death and disease. His current personal situation requires him to spend endless hours in hospital cancer centers where he is constantly confronted with, no, assaulted by, evidence of the precariousness of life. Subject cannot differentiate himself from the fragile creatures surrounding him. Broken things, crumbling, shattered by disease, shriveling to dust, noses plugged with tubes and clamps, lips too dry and cracked to form words, they must rely on their hollow, bruised eyes to communicate their message: Now it’s our turn, soon it will be yours.

  Subject experiences panic attacks, hyperventilating as he compulsively calculates and recalculates the ever-dwindling pool of days and the shrinking distance between himself and the intubated and catheterized population of the hospital. Subject responds by seeking temporary relief and gratification in sexual contact. Subject’s panic intensifies at the recognition that his impulsive conduct could be accelerating his projected arrival time at his final destination.

  Prognosis: Poor. Subject’s few remaining meaningful contacts are falling away like fish scales. Subject is becoming delusional, with fantasies of drifting away, a Dowager Empress in Splendid Isolation, freeze-dried in the lotus position, afloat, miles above the chaos and cacophony of human interaction. Subject has conversations, dialogues with himself, as there is no one else to listen and respond. The sound of subject’s own voice assaults his eardrums. Subject is exhausted by the endlessly repetitive content. Me. Me. Me. Subject has reached the end of the journey, there’s no fresh laundry in his baggage.

  Subject is not, repeat not, planning anything dramatic or irreversible, being, after all, at his deepest core, a good Catholic boy.

  Recommendation: Ignore all of the above. Subject has not dropped to his knees in a public place in a year. Ergo, Subject has been cured of what ails him and should be set free.

  “Why do you insist on being so hard on yourself?” Matt asks after reading my assignment.

  “I think I’m letting myself off pretty easily.”

  I light a cigarette, self-conscious about my shaking hand, a side effect of drinking too much, secretly, alone with the lights off. Matt doesn’t comment on the slight tremor.

  “I’m going to break the rules for you. I trust you’ll keep this between you and me.”

  At last, a secret h
e’s willing to share!

  I race through the document and, astonished, reread his conclusions:

  The therapeutic regimen has been successful with the patient exerting appropriate impulse control. His sexual habits are unremarkable in the sense that that there has been no reoccurrence of public sexual activity. It is this observer’s professional opinion that the patient is unlikely to revert to prior behavioral patterns. Further therapeutic treatment is recommended to facilitate his successfully achieving his self-realization goals, but such further treatment should be voluntary and not imposed as a condition of any further court-ordered program.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Why did you do that, break the rules?”

  “I thought it needed to be done to reestablish your trust in our relationship.”

  “Do you like me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why couldn’t you just say you did it because you like me?”

  “Because that’s not why I did it. I did it because I didn’t want to risk invalidating the work we’ve done together over the last year.”

  “But you do like me?”

  “Yes, Andy. I like you.”

  “Well, would you sleep with…no, let’s not use euphemisms here, would you fuck me if you weren’t a priest?”

  “No. I’d still be your doctor.”

  “Would you fuck me if you weren’t my doctor?”

  “No, I’d still be a priest.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Go ahead and ask.”

  “Ask what?” I say, playing dumb.

  “Would I fuck you if I weren’t a priest or your doctor?”

  Does he really think I’m going to give him the opportunity to reject me?

  “Why does a fucking priest become a fucking doctor?”

  “He doesn’t. At least, I didn’t. I was a doctor who became a priest.”

  I’ve learned that meaningful silence can elicit more information than the most probing questions. He recites his curriculum vitae. College (Loyola, summa) and medical school (Georgetown, with highest honors). Residency training program (Penn, selection as chief resident, of course, let no one mistakenly believe these Jesuits take a vow of modesty). Board certification. Novitiate. Dual master’s in theology and health care ethics (Georgetown again). Ordination. Practice. Ministry. All black and white, clinical, just the facts.

  “Very impressive. But you haven’t answered my question. Why?”

  “Because I believe I have two callings.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I didn’t, at first.”

  “When did you learn it? I mean, how did it happen? Was it like Saul on the road to Damascus, were you knocked off your horse?”

  “Very funny.”

  “I didn’t mean it to be. Really.”

  “No. It was a decision I made after much thought and prayer and spiritual counseling, not unlike what we do here together.”

  “If you had to give one up, which would it be?”

  He shakes his head, signaling he’s done answering questions, and smiles.

  “Would you struggle with it?”

  “Everyone struggles.”

  “Even you.”

  It’s an affirmation, not a question.

  “Even me.”

  What is it you struggle with? I know I can’t ask you that question. Well, I can ask, but you’ll never answer. You’ll turn the tables, ask why it’s so important to me. And I would tell you I need to know if you and I struggle with the same thing, if you use that Roman collar the way I used Alice. Why would that matter? you’d ask, crossing your legs as you settle back in your chair. Because I need to know if, unlike me, you’ve kept your vows. I hope you have. In fact, I need you to. I need someone to be winning their battles.

  “Do you ever preach?” I ask.

  “Most weeks,” he says, telling me he’s an assistant weekend pastor of a small parish just over the state line.

  “Can I come hear your sermon?”

  “You don’t need an invitation to come to Mass.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Fine.”

  “Then maybe we could have breakfast. Go to the Country Buffet and pig out. My treat.”

  He smiles, neither encouraging nor discouraging me.

  It’s a pathetic scene, this needy little boy, begging his father for friendship, affirmation.

  “Can I come back next week?” I ask.

  “Of course.”

  “Would you like that?”

  “Yes, I would like that.”

  “God, what I must sound like.”

  “You’re hurting.”

  So are you. So are we all. But at least one hour a week I don’t need to do it alone.

  Bone Marrow Transplant

  I’ve got a hole in my hip.

  Sounds like a lyric from an old standard by Cole Porter or Rodgers and Hart.

  I’ve got a hole in my heart.

  I’ve got a hole where my heart used to be.

  It’s the kind of song you’d hear in a piano bar, a wrinkled old pixie with Vaseline teeth crooning away. I’ll write down the lyrics and send them to my furry blond friend in Honolulu.

  Anyway, playing here tonight…

  I’ve got a hole in my hip.

  My sister returns bearing gifts, a towel and ice. The last pack melted on my leg and all over the sofa and my boxers are dripping wet. She offers to go upstairs and fetch a dry pair, but I decline, saying they’d just be soaked in a few minutes. Then I relent, knowing I’m selfishly depriving her of the opportunity to play Big Nurse in the Nocera family medical melodrama.

  I reach for the remote and change channels. It’s late afternoon, the Day After. I’m exhausted. The oncologist says I should be feeling better tomorrow. I hope not. This provides the only acceptable excuse for dropping out. Soon enough, the routine will start all over again….

  …Up before seven, a quick j.o., swallow coffee from a paper container (blue, with a frieze of Greek soldiers, like the Parthenon) and chew on a powdered doughnut, sing along, loudly, to the car radio, find a parking space, take the “shortcut” through the ER (“Hey, Steve.” “Hey.” “Sorry, gotta run.”), squeeze into the elevator (chattering nurses in soft, blowsy smocks; young orderlies, all hard muscles beneath those loose green scrubs; octogenarians, beyond gender, being wheeled to MRI), stop at the nurse’s station, ask if she’s awake, ask what kind of night she had, ask when the oncologist is making rounds, remember forgetting something, take the elevator back down, hang around the locked door to the Gift Patch, wait another five minutes until it opens at nine, buy a couple dollars’ worth of peppermint patties, stall a little longer leafing through the tabloids (Oprah’s Diet Secrets!: she has a personal trainer and private chef on call twenty-four hours a day. William and Harry’s Secret Anguish: fading memories of their mother), stop for a pee then back up the elevator, give my mother a good morning kiss and ask how she’s feeling, unwrap one of the peppermint patties, watch her place it on her tongue, squirm at the dry sucking sounds she makes, hope that it relieves the rancid metallic taste of the chemicals battling the tumors in her body, fall into the chair beside her bed, the day all but done by nine twenty in the morning, nothing to do but stare at the four walls, the television, my mother struggling to stay alive….

  I never thought I’d miss having to make a six A.M. flight to Dayton or the eleven P.M. red-eye from Denver. But the situation has become desperate, necessitating THE LAST BEST HOPE, and I’m on leave begrudgingly approved by my Born Again National Sales Manager under mandate of federal law. I’ve appeased him by promising to be back in time to work the show at the Chicago Merchandise Mart.

  Ouch. Stupid of me to roll over on the goddamn hole in my hip.

  My sister is hovering in the corner of the room.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Do you need anything?”

  “No. Yes. Ca
n you bring me a beer?”

  She screws her face into a question mark.

  “Are you allowed?”

  “Of course I’m allowed. The treatment regimen is two Tylenol, as needed,” I say, exasperated.

  I could have told the oncologist the preliminary blood work wasn’t necessary. There was only one possible donor, the results were inevitable, the conclusion foregone.

  My mother and I are A Perfect Match.

  My bone marrow is being transplanted in a sterile room in the hospital in Charlotte. I’ve got a hole in my hip where they drilled for oil. Now my mother and I are closer than ever, not simply a Match anymore, but One and the Same, the very cells of our blood generated from a single source.

  “You ought to head back to the hospital,” I say as Regina hands me a can of beer. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Do you need anything else before I go?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “Do you want me to bring anything back for you?”

  “No.”

  Once she’s gone I hobble around the kitchen looking for something to eat. I settle on another beer. It’s oppressively hot, even for Gastonia in early summer. I flop on the couch. It’s almost four o’clock, Oprah time. She’s my new best friend. My mother and I both love her. I don’t even begrudge her the ability to summon exercise gurus and gourmet chefs with the snap of her fingers. Those big cow eyes and her nonjudgmental attitude are irresistible. But I’m beyond tired or fatigued. I feel crushed, sinking, with pains in my joints and the sinews of my muscles. A team of sled dogs couldn’t drag me to my bed upstairs. So long, Oprah, I mutter, plunging into a coma, dead to the world…

  …only to be rudely awakened hours later by a loud crack and the sound of a metal bowl spinning across the tile floor. I wander into the kitchen to investigate. My sister is standing on a kitchen stool, back toward me, head and hands deep inside a cabinet, muttering, swearing. I’m careful not to startle her since her balance is precarious. Dishes and glasses, canned goods and spices, boxes and jars clutter the counter.

  “What are you doing?” I ask when her footing seems sturdy and she’s not likely to topple and break her neck.