The Art of Forgetting

by Peter Palmieri

  Once the last of the medical students percolated through the door, Lloyd entered the conference room. Bender was coiling a thin extension cord around a tiny cubical speaker. On the white board behind him, in cursive penmanship a retired grade school teacher would be proud of, a table consisting of two columns had been written under the heading, Personality Disorders. In one column was a list of psychiatric conditions, in the other, the names of popular, if somewhat dated, songs.

  Lloyd still remembered the significance of every song, how Uncle Marty had cleverly linked each one to a particular ailment as a teaching aid. Paranoid personality disorder was listed with Bob Dylan’s Positively 4th Street, schizoid personality with Simon and Garfunkel’s I Am a Rock, narcissistic disorder with You’re So Vain by Carly Simon, and of course, Tammy Wynette’s Stand By Your Man appeared next to the heading of dependent personality disorder.

  “You haven’t changed your lecture,” Lloyd said.

  The professor lifted his white-haired crown and looked at Lloyd with an expression of disbelief. “What are you talking about? It’s been completely updated – totally modernized.”

  “Those are the same songs you used when I was a medical student.”

  “Yes, but when you were a student I played forty-fives on a record player. Now I just plug my smartphone into this little speaker. There’s really no comparison.”

  “But it’s the same songs!”

  “Honestly, Lloyd, you don’t expect me to use hip-hop to unveil the hidden forces that drive human behavior. And don’t even talk to me about that Justin…” Bender snapped his fingers a couple of times

  “Timberlake?”

  “The other one…”

  “Bieber?”

  “That’s the one. Can you please explain to me, what the hell is that all about?”

  Lloyd laughed. Bender set the speaker on the lectern, stepped forward and grasped Lloyd’s hand in both of his.

  “Have a seat Lloyd,” Bender said. “I have a bit of news you’ll be happy to hear.” The two men sat next to each other in the front row of chairs upholstered with rough gray fabric. “You’ve got your IRB meeting. Next week, if that’s convenient for you.”

  “Hell yes, that’s very convenient,” Lloyd said.

  “You’ve been waiting for this moment a long time,” Bender said.

  “Forever, it seems.”

  “Well, you deserve it. I can’t tell you how proud I am.” The professor reached up and rubbed his nose with a hooked finger.

  “Then don’t tell me. Not until this thing goes to market,” Lloyd said.

  “Very well.” Bender’s lips stretched into a thin smile. His eyes looked at the floor as if there were a heaviness to them. “There is one thing you should know, Lloyd. The committee is headed by George Lasko. You know him?”

  “Sure. He’s some big shot cardiologist, a heavy hitter in electrophysiology research.”

  “He’s also the new Chief of Staff,” said Bender.

  “Should I worry?”

  “I wouldn’t take this process too lightly. Just because the FDA cleared you for phase one doesn’t mean you’re home free. Don’t treat this as a mere formality,” Bender shifted in his seat. “Lasko wants to add rigor to the medical center’s clinical research. He thinks things have grown careless over the years – protocols ignored, data massaged so heavy-handedly that it squeals. And then there was the debacle in the Department of Anesthesia which could have tarnished the reputation of the whole institution if word had gotten out. Anyway, he insisted on personally heading your IRB. He wants it to be a model for things to come.”

  Lloyd shrugged. “I can handle Lasko.”

  “He’s a driven man.”

  “So am I, uncle Marty. So am I.”

  Bender nodded and looked up at the white board. “So Lloyd, do you remember? Which one of those is your song?”

  “I don’t have a personality disorder, Dr. Bender.”

  “Of course not. But we all have tendencies, don’t we?”

  “Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answer?” Lloyd said.

  Bender laughed. “Forgive me. I’m so immersed in the Socratic method of teaching I’m sometimes unaware that I’m doing it.” He patted Lloyd’s hand. “Monday morning, Lloyd. Be prepared.”

  Lloyd stood up and squeezed Bender’s shoulder.

  “Don’t worry Uncle Marty. A rock feels no pain.”

  Bender smiled wistfully. “And an island never cries.”

  Chapter 5

  Lloyd rang the doorbell of the Burr Ridge McMansion and stepped back on the porch to survey the manicured lawns circling the cul-de-sac. Within seconds, Mark opened the door. He wore an enormous hunter green polo shirt and baggy khaki shorts that exposed pale, hairless legs. Rather than inviting Lloyd inside, Mark stepped out onto the porch and shut the door.

  “Great of you to come, brother,” Mark said, giving Lloyd a whack on the shoulder.

  “I’m not about to pass up Kobe rib-eyes.”

  Mark let out a stiff chuckle and looked out over the porch to the driveway. “You rode the Ducati. She’s a real beauty.”Lloyd knew Mark hated motorcycles. Called them donor-cycles and chastised Lloyd for riding without a helmet at every opportunity. Yet here he was gazing at the bike as if he were envious. “D’you see Spalding?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, his wife called, told me you did.” Mark faced Lloyd and narrowed his eyes. “Fascinating, huh?”

  “Amazing.”

  “Right?”

  “I gave him the Claparède handshake,” Lloyd said.

  “You pricked him? Was Beverly okay with that?”

  “I did it when she wasn’t in the room.”

  “Jesus, Lloyd…”

  “Relax. It was just a tiny pin-prick.”

  “That’s not the point.” Mark sighed. “So?” Lloyd raised his eyebrows. “So, did he remember?”

  “He sure did.”

  “So implicit memory is intact?”

  “I’m not sure that I’d say intact, but something’s there.”

  “That’s crazy, man. But great, right?”

  “Who knows?” Lloyd said. “Yeah, I guess that’s good.”

  Mark stood there smiling and nodding.

  “Okay, what the hell is going on?” Lloyd asked.

  “What?”

  “You’ve got this dumb look on your face like you’re about to make a wise crack.”

  “It’s just good to see you outside the hospital is all.”

  “Bullshit. You’re acting goofy. What’s up?”

  Mark leaned on the wooden porch railing and looked at Lloyd as if he were sizing him up. “Monica invited someone she wants you to meet. A girl.”

  Lloyd smiled, looked down at his feet and shook his head. “You know I’d rather meet women on my own.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. But this is a really nice girl,” Mark said.

  “That’s exactly why I like to meet women on my own.”

  Mark’s grin faded. “Look, Lloyd, I can’t fault you for polishing your meat knob with the best tail Chicagoland has to offer. And you just might own the world record for one-night stands. I mean, I love my wife and all but, shit, that’s gotta be fun… until you wake up one morning and you’re pissing needles. But you gotta understand, Erin is special.”

  “She’s a nice girl.”

  “She’s a class act.”

  “And she’s a friend of Monica,” Lloyd said.

  Mark crossed his arms. “Her cousin, actually.”

  “Oh, fucking great.”

  “Lloyd, listen to me. I’m your friend. Hell, I’m the only real friend you’ve got.”

  “I know. I appreciate the warning.”

  “I didn’t come out on this porch to warn you about anything, you dumb prick. I came here to tell you that sometimes life can hand you a friggin lottery ticket, a goddam Mega Lotto jackpot. But it’s up to you to take your ticket to the Seven-Eleven and cash in or you end up spen
ding the rest of your life sucking down a Big Gulp of regret.”

  “Well, my life doesn’t work that way.”

  “Oh, I forgot. You’re a fucking martyr,” Mark said. He unfolded his arms and rested his hands on the porch railing.

  “So is she hot at least?” Lloyd asked.

  “You know, Lloyd, I love you and all, but the way you act sometimes… you really don’t deserve to meet her.”

  “If she’s so great, why hasn’t Monica ever introduced us before?”

  “Because she just moved back from Boston and because she was married. She just got a divorce.”

  “I guess her husband didn’t think she was so great. But I love divorcees,” Lloyd said. “They have all this pent up anger. They just sizzle with sexual energy.”

  Mark walked towards the door. “I’ve got steaks to put on the grill.” He stopped, the door knob in his hand, and without facing Lloyd said, “Don’t fuck this one up, my friend.”

  “Now, that does sound like a warning,” Lloyd said.

  “No, that’s a threat.”

  Monica O’Keefe was opening a bottle of California merlot over the black granite counter as Lloyd and Mark entered the kitchen. A woman with shoulder length chestnut hair stood next to her. She wore a cream-colored silk crepe blouse, a knee-length mauve skirt and leather pumps.

  “It’s about time you guys come in,” Monica said as she pulled out the cork with a pop. She set the bottle on the counter and shuffled to Lloyd, corkscrew still in hand, and gave him a peck on the cheek. She surveyed him, her big brown eyes twinkling with motherly pride. She rubbed away the lipstick print she had just planted on his cheek with her thumb, then grasped his wrist and pulled him face to face with the woman who seemed to be studying him as if she were seeing an old friend. “Lloyd Copeland, meet my cousin, Erin Kennedy. Erin, this is Lloyd.”

  The two shook hands. Pretty. Definitely pretty. Not stunning, but very elegant, he thought. She smiled as she held his hand and said, “It’s so nice to see you, Lloyd.” Okay, she’s goddam stunning, admit it.

  “Nice to meet you, Erin.”

  “Actually we know each other,” Erin said, “but I guess you don’t remember.”

  “I’m sorry, I really don’t…”

  “It was a long time ago, in the old neighborhood on North Mason.”

  North Mason? Lloyd felt his heart stutter. That meant she would have known him when his father was still alive. Lloyd shook his head slightly and parted his lips to say something.

  Her eyes sparkled and her smile broadened. “It’s okay Lloyd. I didn’t expect you to recognize me. But I hoped you’d remember me. I remember you very well.”

  “Aaw, did you have a crush on him?” Monica asked.

  “All the girls had a crush on him,” Erin said. “He was such a beautiful boy.”

  “Was?” Lloyd said.

  “I still see a little of that boy in you, but…”

  “Go on,” Monica said.

  “Well, I guess you’re a man now,” Erin said in a level voice.

  “No he isn’t,” Mark said. “Trust me, Lloyd is still a little boy.”

  “You never told me you knew Lloyd,” Monica said squeezing her cousin’s arm.

  “Well we don’t really know each other, do we?” Erin said.

  “I’m just trying to picture you,” Lloyd said. “Which house did you live in?”

  “The one-and-a-half-story, red-brick bungalow with bay windows, which pretty much describes every house on our block,” Erin said with a laugh.

  “We lived on the same block?”

  “I’m Sean Kennedy’s little sister.”

  “Sean Kennedy? You’re Milk-Duds’ sister?”

  “Milk-Duds?” Monica asked.

  “God, I hate that nickname,” Erin said.

  “Cousin Sean? Why’d they call him Milk-Duds?” Monica asked.

  “He got caught stealing candy once from the corner grocery,” Lloyd said. “This old Greek, Mr. Demetrios, owned the store. Must have been a direct descendant of Archimedes ‘cause he had the whole place rigged up with little mirrors so he could see every corner of his shop while he sat at the cash register. We didn’t know this until Sean put a box of Milk Duds in his pocket. Didn’t he end up doing time in juvenile hall?”

  “No. Nothing ever came of it,” Erin said.

  “But I thought –”

  “Mr. Demetrios never filed charges,” Erin said. “But my dad decided to scare him straight, so he got your father to come over in his Chicago PD uniform, slap hand-cuffs on him, toss him in the back of the squad car and haul his butt off to the precinct to have him booked. Your father played along until Sean was in tears. Then he bought him an ice-cream cone and phoned my dad to come and pick him up.”

  “And now he trades futures at the Mercantile Exchange,” Mark said. “I guess once you start down a path of crime, there’s no turning back.” His wife swatted him on the arm.

  Lloyd smiled at Mark’s joke but a jolt of electricity traveled down his spine. She knew my father! Lloyd had always felt like he had lived two lives: his childhood on the North Mason corner of Chicago and the new life that began when he moved with his mother to the suburb of Des Plaines after his father’s death. Lloyd rarely acknowledged his old life. He didn’t so much hide it but simply ignored it, tucked away in the far corner of the attic of his consciousness so as not to be an encumbrance. The thought of those days always plunged him into a deep melancholy but now, being in the presence of someone who knew him as a child, who knew the real Lloyd, was oddly liberating, if terrifying.

  “You remember all that?” Lloyd asked.

  Erin touched his elbow, “I remember your father. I’m so sorry Lloyd.”

  Lloyd looked over Erin’s shoulder as if he were distracted by something outside the kitchen window. He avoided eye contact thinking that somehow, she might be able to see through him, peer past his façade.

  “Wait a second,” Lloyd said. “You were that girl always riding the purple Big Wheel.”

  “So you do remember,” Erin said.

  “You had freckles all over your nose and you wore your hair in pig-tails.” He faced Mark. “She was this scrawny little tom-boy who always tried to tag along wherever the boys went.”

  “I think I preferred it when you didn’t remember,” Erin said with a frown.

  “Well, you turned out just fine,” Lloyd said.

  “I’m still trying to burn every photograph taken of me before the ninth grade,” Erin said.

  “Aren’t we all,” Mark said, “except for Lloyd, of course. He was such a beautiful boy.” He rolled his eyes.

  Mark lifted a covered metal platter holding thick cuts of marbled meat from the counter. “Well, I hate to interrupt the stroll down memory lane, folks, but these steaks won’t cook themselves. Shall we adjourn to the patio?”

  “It really is nice to see you again after all these years, Lloyd. I sometimes wondered how you turned out,” Erin said.

  “Disappointed?” Lloyd asked.

  Erin winked. “The day’s young.”

  Chapter 6

  Monica and Erin set the wine bottle and glasses on the patio table which, like the rest of their furnishings, appeared to have come straight out of a Crate and Barrel catalog. Meanwhile Mark and Lloyd approached the oversized, egg-shaped grill. While Mark slid the platter of steaks on the grill’s service table, Lloyd lifted the heavy cast-iron lid, leaning back when a wave of heat rolled off his face.

  “You know what you’re doing?” Lloyd asked.

  “Oh, ye of little faith. You’re about to have the best steak of your life, brother,” Mark said.

  Mark skewered the first steak with a long barbecue fork, the meat drooping heavily as he tried to position it strategically on the scorching metal. It landed askew with a loud hiss, a crumple forming through its middle when the leading edge stuck to the grid. Mark poked at it with the fork and until it stretched flat. He grabbed the remaining three steaks with his bare han
ds and tossed them on the grill as if he were dropping rocks in a well.

  Lloyd laughed. “You look like your bowling steaks.”

  “That’s how the pros do it.”

  “Yeah, professional bowlers,” Lloyd said.

  Mark lowered the lid of the grill and wiped his hands on a small towel. The two men took their seats at the patio table where Monica was pouring wine in large stemmed goblets.

  “Mark, why don’t you propose a toast?” Monica said.

  Mark lifted his glass. “They say new friendships are like silver, and old friendships are like gold. So an old friendship that feels like a new friendship must be like... what?”

  “Diamonds,” Monica said. “Like big, fat diamonds on an engagement ring.”

  Lloyd glanced at Erin. She looked back at him, smiled and rolled her eyes. He spied a dimple forming in her cheek.

  “That was subtle, honey,” Mark said. “Real subtle. Well, to new friendships and old friendships rekindled.”

  “Cheers!” Lloyd said. “I thought you’d never get to the punch line.”

  The four clinked their goblets together over the center of the table and sipped their wine. There was an awkward lull as they savored the wine, the moment lingering as if everyone had suddenly run out of something to say.

  “Erin just started working at the medical center, Lloyd,” Monica said. “You’re practically colleagues.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you’re a doctor,” Lloyd said.

  “I’m not,” Erin said.

  “But you are a doctor,” Monica said.

  “I have a Ph.D. in medical ethics,” Erin explained.