by Herbert Gold
Sergei was born with a high fever. Discreetly, the pediatrician noted that the medical personnel at the Haight-Ashbury Free Clinic would have induced birth immediately if Mrs. Lincoln…
“Washington,’’ said D’Wayne.
“… if Mom had gone to the clinic at once when the placenta broke. Premature release of waters generally calls for prompt intervention...”
It was not his place to blame anyone. Sometimes these things are not fully explained to Mom, given the shortage of time and occasional lapses of training in volunteer staffs at the Free... but it was not really waters in the sense of H2O, but rather, a necessary insulation and source of nourishment, indicative and causative of infection when... The pediatrician, Willis Farley, M.D., according to his badge, had found there was no point in rushing with bad news about the limited resources for keeping moms fully informed in outreach medical situations.
So to sum up, here were the matters to consider at this point in time. On the one hand, a nurturing institution with trained personnel could give proper custodial care to little Sergei Moses…
“No!’’ Amanda shouted, and D’Wayne stroked her damp hair.
“On the other hand, it will be difficult, of course at this preliminary stage we can’t be certain, every case is different, development can take an exceptional course in the nurturing process. For reasons we don’t fully understand, the body of an infant sometimes shows remarkable powers of regeneration…”
“Training, stimulation, and exercise,’’ the resident murmured, and the pediatrician glared at him to shut up. Dr. Farley was handling this.
“Sometimes the mom and dad situation seems to influence part of the brain, which is not fully mature anyway in the developmental stage, and the amygdala, for example, can be guided... governed... sometimes. The limbic system may be mostly intact, partially. Damage in certain cases can be largely overcome, at least in part. Medical science, despite all the promising advances in recent times, still registers unusual and unpredictable outcomes, if mom and dad choose to devote yourself fully…”
“A hundred per cent,’’ said the resident.
“And you are obviously a close, concerned family,’’ Doctor Farley noted, patting Amanda’s shoulder and nodding approvingly toward D’Wayne. His look was congratulatory, on the edge of fond, although tired of making eye contact. The resident, with an effort, managed not to echo Dr. Farley with “a close concerned inter-racial family.’’
Dr. Farley’s judgment was correct about Amanda and D’Wayne and also conformed with the protocol for expression of opinion concerning relationships on the part of Staff at San Francisco General. A white mother, a black father (“Please, Doctor, African-American,’’ he learned seven years ago from a Filipino, make that Filopin-a nurse), the mixed-race couple legally married at City Hall and still living together: Dr. Farley had seen an increasing number of similar cases. He had adjusted. The Lincolns or Washingtons, whatever, were determined, probably; loyal, perhaps, for the time being; maybe foolhardy with the rushed decision-making of young irresponsible hormones.
“But you should understand,’’ Dr. Farley explained, “although damage may be, to a certain extent, ameliorated...’’
The resident, a tall young man with stringent blue eyes, unflinching, surely a star in his college sports programs, perhaps a quarterback, both a scholar and an athlete, was gazing keenly upon the young mother. He intended to be more than an observer gaining useful experience. He was a born leader. He already had his degree. He would assist the pediatrician in charge of the case whether the older man wanted his help or not. He felt it like a personal responsibility, also an opportunity, from the perspective of a healer at the beginning of his career, soon to be in private practice, to suggest, urge, point out a more desirable outcome for the young couple. It was incumbent on him. He planned ahead. “You can arrange to visit almost as often as you like in the early years. Later, as little Sergei Moses matures, there are excellent advanced custodial institutions, more like a school, where they have really great programs. If you like, you can plan visitations on a regular weekend schedule.’’
Amanda was crying. D’Wayne was crying. Amanda, who had been removed from her father, would never let her child be taken from her. D’Wayne, who had never met his father, shared her determination for his own reasons.
As a leader of men (and, on wine-tasting weekends, women), the resident sensed it was time to inject a note of optimism into the game plan. The former quarterback was chafing for action in the huddle. Aware that the pediatrician was in charge, like a coach, the resident stood on the field, bedside in this case, bearing his own insights. These unfortunate parents should be fully informed, no holds barred.
“The fusiform is less active. Technically, it’s diminished. There are recent developments in dealing with the situation. Let’s visualize the mini-columns that extend through the layers of the neo-cortex – in layperson’s language, stacks of neurons…”
He extended his hands to bring them along with him. Now that he was putting into layman/woman’s language, he paused for acknowledgement from the African-American dad. D’Wayne stared. Dr. Farley was jotting notes on a pad, probably something about an overly aggressive resident. Finally D’Wayne nodded.
Encouraged, the resident proceeded with a relatively optimistic scenario. “In some cases, an overabundance of myelin presents…”
This was not a complete thought. It was developing without the good cheer the resident had intended. He was distracted by Amanda’s steady tearfalls. He was wondering how her amygdala would present if they could MRI it. Flooded, most likely, showing red on the scan. He cast his sincere blue gaze upon D’Wayne. Couldn’t he tell his wife to shut up?
Dr. Farley glanced at his watch. Actually, he lifted his wrist and frowned closely at it. He had rounds to make, and he really needed to have a word with the resident. He said to Amanda and D’Wayne: “I respect your first impulse. You have time to review your decision. There is much we don’t know yet. Science is not an exact science, so I’m only offering you an overview. Consult, get other opinions, that’s your option. Much can be done in some cases if you are bound to proceed on the path you have indicated as a first frequent reaction.’’
An unspoken maybe was left in the curtained alcove as the pediatrician, sighing, patted Amanda’s shoulder, shook D’Wayne’s hand, and left. The resident lingered to give D’Wayne an athletic, non-multicultural handshake. No high fives today, no ‘’Peace, bruh.’’ Both doctors were relieved that a painful duty had been accomplished and now they could move along to better moments in the turmoil of San Francisco General on Potrero Hill. Furrowing his brow, the pediatrician was considering how to remind the resident that he was there as an observer, not an interrupter, and that he should only butt in his stupid two cents when he was invited to do so.
Dan Kasdan was giving Amanda and D’Wayne an evening respite at the multiplex; they deserved it. Alone with Sergei thrashing and shrieking, a grandfather couldn’t do what Kasdan frequently did in his own flat – screen the call with his answering machine, answer it later or not. If Amanda were there, he could turn toward her and the shamed mother would run to respond, not wanting the grandfather to be upset. It was Amanda’s duty to attend to the thrashings. When he was home, D’Wayne did his best.
It was not only for Amanda that a craving for cash stirred in the court translator who seemed to have been permanently remade as a layabout by San Francisco’s decades-long Summer of Love. He wanted it, he wanted it soon, he was old enough to remedy the delay caused by prudence, carelessness, layabout habits. And then, if all went well, he would ease himself into age and prostate results with no more shame for what he had done and not done. As to conventional conscience about the Ferd Conway matter, he could handle it alone in his rent-controlled apartment; there was plenty of company in the neighborhood for handling matters of conscience. He followed a philosopher’s rule, justifying hatred because, without hatred, the
re was no joy in revenge. And if somehow he made an error and the police came for him, hey, he was just a crotchety old guy with no previous felony on his record who happened, due to family stress, to slide off his rocker. A clear mental case. He knew a motherly psychiatrist who would be happy to testify about early-stage dementia, Alzheimer’s only provable upon autopsy, but elements of rage, failure of impulse control, and paranoia definitely indicative. Harvey Johnson would testify to his previous stable nature, even excessively stable, followed by abrupt personality changes.
A possibility occurred to Kasdan amid Sergei’s din. Another of Ferd’s clients, for whom Kasdan translated, had only been trying to upgrade his equipment when he was arrested. He had tapped a piece of pipe, rag-wrapped so as not to disturb the passersby, against the window of a parked Miata, so why did the (word deleted) cop have to handcuff and pat him down, pinching his private parts, Your Honor? If all he was doing was tending to business, reaching for a purse left on the seat of her two-seater by a Mill Valley dummy, why was he carrying a Smith & Wesson Model 10 .38 caliber revolver? Answer: Because he wanted to get rid of it. Question: How did he plan to do that? Answer: Trade it in. Question: For what?
Answer: Because his sainted mother raised him never to lie to a man in robes, even a judge, even if Your Honor is not a priest... pause for confession to take effect... for a Glock 19 9-millimeter semi-automatic. Question: Who was going to sell it to him? Answer: A cop, dude never mentioned his name, wearing a blue uniform or maybe it was green, but it wasn’t no (same word deleted) robes – “Strike that, Your Honor.’’ From the bench: “Objection sustained. Please try not to libel the San Francisco Police Department. The park police wear green, son.’’
And why did you want that Glock?
“Man, I live in a rough neighborhood, you call 911, you don’t get no protection before your kids is shot, maybe you too when they spray pretty good…”
Kasdan tried to translate idiomatically, sometimes succeeded, sometimes omitting inessential disruptive language.
“… and the mother-fucking Glock is light, see, so you can reach quick and protect your loved ones.’’
Under pressure Kasdan couldn’t always use state-of-the-art idioms, but the essence of explanation and plea was always clear. Like this devoted father, he too wanted to succor his family. There were difficulties in his projected single use of a Glock or another small pistol. Kasdan wasn’t familiar with guns; he didn’t even own a weapon yet; they made noise, didn’t they? Aren’t silencers mostly valid only in gangster movies? Weren’t the walls of Ferd’s condo of somewhat flimsy dot-com speculative construction, therefore alerting Ferd’s neighbors to a despairing bankruptcy or domestic dispute?
Yet-to-be-determined was how to go about matters.
Sergei was shrieking again. In this exercise he was tireless, never bored with the typhoons that wracked his body. Tempted simply to cover his ears, Kasdan could not allow himself to do this; he said, “Oh dear son, please, please;’’ a turmoil like his grandchild’s wracked him with alternating chill and fever. Oh, the child was suffering.
Someplace within these nervous explosions, too wild for him to feel anything but the storm, a belief must have been hidden within the human creature Sergei that he deserved better. He deserved a better fate. The mashed nose, the lips that bled although only a few teeth were pushing through his gums, the rolling bloodshot eyes demanded something better. In recent times, Dan Kasdan also bit his lips in his sleep and awakened with blood on his pillow.
Kasdan’s role was not to be a counselor studying birth injuries and genetic malfunctions. His place was that of a grandfather holding firm until the parents returned to relieve him. He brushed the child’s face with his fingertips, trying to channel health and comfort into wet skin, slippery with malfunction and fathomless resentment, things gone wrong through no fault of Sergei Mose – this child, this grandson, this baby, this damaged beloved message to the future.
Street sounds no longer existed; nor did the weed tree in the alley, bending in today’s steady winds off the Pacific. Only Sergei and Dan were present together in the universe. There were sounds of eruption, these were Sergei sounds; sounds of swampy boilings, risings, overflowings – Sergei’s sounds. The firing of ganglia in meat circuits seemed unstoppable, fed by furious life forces. Kasdan marveled at this. Sergei seemed to recapitulate all the accidents which resulted in solar systems, planets, a moon, Spanish interpreters. Kasdan’s own universe would not come to an end with this red-faced child of his child, this turbulent proof that even Kasdan could never be alone in the world. It was a gift he knew he had not earned.
Since the best thing was not available, he looked to find redemption by doing the wrong thing. Perhaps it would not be the worst thing.
So he told himself.
The child slept. Kasdan held him in his arms, flared nostrils, flattened nose, lolling tongue, the child at peace. Sergei could count on his grandfather.
Now the rest of the universe returned. Sounds so penetrating they were almost visible pierced the walls. Like a crotchety housebound retiree, Kasdan pulled a curtain aside to peer into the street. Boys were tottering under immense drums, slapping at them; banners held aloft on wooden poles almost reached to the second floor; girls, doll-like in red and white plastic boots, were marching down Ellis while parents, uncles, and aunts expressionlessly admired them and non-Cambodian kids rushed to gawk and jeer and debate about which of the girls they would be happy to push into an alley. Whatever the community was celebrating, their neighbors also wanted to be out there and joining in; like gay and proud, black and proud, Hare Krishna and proud; Americans and not ashamed, whoever, no matter. Noisemakers clacked, slammed-down firecrackers popped under feet like tiny grenades, sparks flew, and families dug chopsticks into rice arranged with shiny pink and green dyed items on little white paper boats.
Smells of caramelized soy and burnt sugar wafted through the Tenderloin along with this carnival gaiety. Sergei shared the excitement by jerking his legs. He smelled a set of stinks he liked. He extended his arms and legs and shrieked. Whatever it was, he wanted some.
Kasdan carried him to the window. The wide-brimmed hats of tiny grandmothers made them look, from above, like humanoid mushrooms, sprouting from a cement terrain without rice ponds. Brave mini-gangster kids were chanting – no, rapping – but if it was a community prayer rap, it now included homegrown USA elements, motha-fucka motha fucka, absorbed into their ancient language from the world they had entered. Non-Cambodians were also out in force, some selling the Street Sheet. A social work graduate student was trying to hand out copies of the Tenderloin Times in English, Spanish, Vietnamese, Tagalog, and Cambodian on separate pages. Having traveled here to share the San Francisco multicultural experience and learn to better appreciate Syracuse and Dallas, tourists stared at the Tenderloin Times and shook their heads. It was free, but they knew there was a catch someplace; and anyway, they preferred cuisine to periodicals. There was no such thing as a free whatever-it-was.
A proud boy of ten or twelve, hair slicked down, a leash made of intertwined red, white and green nylon strands clutched in his fist, was tugging, to keep it in order, a small, shiny-coated white piglet. Although meant to be in a parade, it darted from side to side. At that age, piglets are anarchists. A cluster of kids chased it along the sidewalk. The piglet kept its nose to the street, having better things on its mind than the admiration of children. Where there is the smell of food, there is often the incidence of food. “Look, Sergei,’’ Kasdan whispered, “You never saw one like that before, did you?’’
The parade passed. Kasdan had always wondered why the Tenderloin Times included no Cantonese page. The crowd began to thin out, leaving behind the normal population of runaways, last-stop hookers and panhandlers with Styrofoam outstretched and eyes perished long ago.
Kasdan shut the window. Sergei was being good. Kasdan dipped a spoon into the open jar of Safeway honey (didn’t remember opening it) and le
t Sergei gum the spoon. He had been good for minutes in a row; he was still busily calm. Kasdan hoped he would draw the logical conclusion: When your limbs stop jerking and you give up the screaming and you allow your grandfather just to hold you without threatening to fling yourself onto the floor, sweetness comes into your life. There were juicy sliding sounds and a couple of new teeth clicking against the spoon.
Peace be with you, dear Sergei Mose.
Later Kasdan fed him from the Gerber’s cornucopia, an open jar of something proteinal, smelling like peanut butter, an open jar of mashed prunes, an open jar of apple sauce. A veritable Gerber’s feast, my grandson.
Kasdan lifted the apple sauce jar to his own face and darted a tongue inside. “Mmm, good, want some more?’’ He held the spoon to Sergei’s mouth, but the lips were pressed shut and Sergei dribbled out an oozing sample. Oh, excellent, you make your non-wants known. “Okay, okay, no problema,’’ Kasdan said aloud. There was something comforting in carrying both ends of the conversation. Communication was pure.
Sergei stared unblinkingly at his grandfather, then blinked slowly. Maybe this lazy unblinking regard, like a lizard’s, followed by the slow blinking, was some kind of Morse code developed back in reptile times. “Good, good,’’ Kasdan said, “want some honey?’’ He was beginning to interpret the child like one of his court-assigned clients. Honey made him blink and almost smile. Kasdan dipped the spoon into the jar and Sergei licked, his teeth clicked against the spoon, and surely that was a smile. It was a burp. Sergei shut his eyes. He slept. A sleeping child nestled against his grandfather’s shoulder.