If nothing else, the day reminded me of how we gradually inure ourselves to tragedy. For it is a tragedy, my old friend, what is happening to you.
I am very selfish: I am more concerned about myself than you in this regard. You’ll get past this stage of awareness, and the disease will be its own pain-management regime. But me. These little outings remind me of how much anesthesia I’m going to need. Like the topical sedative that goes in before the big needle, everything I’ve done to prepare myself is going to be too weak to withstand the pain of separation that’s looming.
The end of my marriage is nothing compared to the end of our friendship—if that’s what you want to call it. It’s enough to want to burn the bridge and leave you on the other side. Too many good-byes lie ahead. How many times have you had to endure the death of James? How many times will I have to say good-bye to you, only to have you reappear like some newly risen Christ. Yes, better to burn the bridge and prevent it from being crossed and recrossed until my heart gives out from sheer exhaustion.
I am performing a complex brachial plexus procedure where the total plexus lesions have permeated all the nerve roots. The patient is under general anesthesia. His (her?) face is covered.
Things are not going well. I am attempting an intraplexual neurotization using the parts of the roots still attached to the spinal cord as donors for the avulsed nerves. But I miscalculate and hit the subclavian vein. Horrifying quantities of blood. I put pressure on it and call for the vascular surgeon, but it is too late.
I think about the faces of the family members in the waiting room. I also cannot help thinking, ashamedly, of the lawyers, of the internal hospital investigation that will inevitably follow. The tediousness of the paperwork that accompanies blunders large and small.
Then the room undergoes a sort of seismic shift and I am no longer in the OR. No patient anesthetized on a table. Instead I am gazing down at a bed with rumpled floral sheets. I am still perspiring, there is still an irregular drumming in my chest, but my hands are no longer encased in rubbery gloves, they no longer hold sharp implements. It’s a large bed with an oak frame. A matching dresser. An ornate red Oriental carpet. Nothing familiar.
I want the OR back, the soothing green walls, the steel instruments reflected large in the steel cabinetry. Everything placed just so. But this. This richly furnished, unsterile environment. It makes me uncomfortable. I want to wash my hands, suit up, try again. I close my eyes, but when I open them I am still in the same room.
Then I hear voices. With difficulty, I find the doorway to the room. I must scrutinize every inch of every wall before it finally materializes. Outside the doorway, a long hallway, painted a deep crimson, hung with photographs. And at the end of that, the way down. Soft plush material under my feet on top of polished wood, patterned with blue and green intertwined flowers.
I walk carefully, watching my feet and holding on to a long smooth piece of wood. I go down and I count. Twenty times I extend my right foot, place it on a lower surface. Twenty times I pull my left foot down until it is level with my right. And then again. The voices grow louder as I descend. There is laughter. I hear my name. I will proceed carefully.
There are two of them, a man and a woman, sitting in the living room, on the mission oak sofa. The woman has shoulder-length yellow hair, clearly dyed. It does not suit her. She is heavyset. Her pants are too tight to be comfortable, I can see the top button cutting into her belly.
The man stands up when he sees me. An older man. An old man. He opens up his arms. Jenny! he says, and without waiting, his arms envelop me. He smells good. His plaid shirt feels soft against my check, but his beard scratches. Snow-white hair with a bald spot on top. A gray, not white, beard. It looks dirty in contrast, gives him a slightly disreputable look.
Aren’t you glad to see your old friend Peter? asks the blond woman.
Oh yes, I say, and smile. Peter. How are you? I infuse my voice with warmth. I even force myself to take his hand. One must be cunning. One must play along.
Quite well, he says. Enjoying the sunshine. As you know, I was never a fan of Chicago winters. Although this one seems to finally be over. Here, sit down, sit down. Over here. He pulls over a beige chair, and I sink into its softness. He takes my hand again. It’s been too long, Jen.
How long has it been? asks the blond woman. She doesn’t wait for an answer. Your ears must have been buzzing! she says. Peter’s done nothing but talk about you!
She smiles. He smiles. I smile too.
Yes, they have been, I say. Indeed they have.
There is silence, rather awkward. Then the man speaks again, less heartily, more gently.
You don’t really remember me, do you? he asks. But he doesn’t have that pleading, hurt look that people generally have when they ask me this. That look that begs me to lie, to reassure them.
I immediately like him better. No, I say. Not a glimmer.
I’m in town to wrap up affairs, he says. I was here for the funeral, but everyone thought it best not to bother you. Unfortunately, things are a little tangled. Amanda never updated her will after the divorce. The estate has to go into probate. It’s going to take months to resolve, to find the next of kin who will inherit the house. That was really her only asset. But even in this market, it’ll be a substantial sum. For now, my hands are tied.
What divorce? I ask. What funeral?
He pauses. Well, I’ll just remember for both of us, he says, smiling. Then he turns sober. I understand you’re in a bit of trouble, he says. I wanted you to know that I believe in you. Without reservation. You clearly don’t know what I’m talking about. You probably won’t remember this. But on the chance that some things stick, I wanted to say it.
The blond woman makes as if to get up from the table.
No, no. There’s no need for you to go, he says. This isn’t a private conversation. It’s just something I wanted to get on the table. For myself, mostly, as it turns out. Otherwise, I would like to talk about good things, he says. Maybe it will spark something.
I’ll be the secretary, says the blond woman. I’ll write it all down. That way she can read it over when she’s in better shape. It might make more sense to her that way. She leaves the room, comes back with a large leather book, opens it to a blank page, picks up a pen. She writes something at the top of the page, pauses, and looks at the man expectantly.
Where shall I start? asks the man. Once upon a time. Yes, that’s the way to handle it. A myth-making event. Filled with archetypes.
I am interested. Go on, I say.
Once upon a time there were six people. Four adults and two children. Two married couples. One couple, older by about a decade, childless. The younger couple had a girl and a boy. The girl was very small, maybe two. The boy seven. Although not close in age, the two couples are close in friendship. He stops and thinks. What shall I tell you about them? No generalities. But one specific event. And he continues.
One day they decide to go to the beach. They pack some ham sandwiches, some hard-boiled eggs, apples, pears, and bottles of wine for good measure.
They decide to drive out of the city. Far north. To a state park on the lake that features large sand dunes that are mostly deserted on beautiful summer Sundays like this one.
There is a reason for this, of course. A huge nuclear power plant looms over the sand dunes, spills its excesses into the shallow water. It casts a pall on the scenery for anyone faint of heart. Which the adult members of these two families definitely are not. They joke about the relative warmth of the lake water, about mutant fish and the oversized shorebirds.
The two-year-old, relieved of all her clothes except her diaper, is taken to the edge of the water by her mother to wet her toes. The boy takes his shovel and bucket and begins digging random holes in the sand. The older woman and the two men settle themselves on beach chairs and talk. All is calm. An uneventful day at the lakeside. When they start feeling hungry, they break out the food, eat a few sandy mouthfuls, wash
it down with red wine. An idyllic afternoon at the beach among dear friends. Everything is perfect. More perfect than it will ever be again. He stops, apparently in a reverie.
The blond woman is writing furiously. What a lovely gift, this story, she says. Jennifer will enjoy reading about it later. But I am getting a glimmer. More than a glimmer, a Technicolor movie. It comes in bursts of images. Invoking all the senses. I speak quickly before it dissipates.
Yes. The sandy ham that crunches between our teeth. The acidic wine. The power plant looming overhead. The grown-ups perhaps drinking a little too much. Voices are raised. Laughter comes easier. The older man abstains: He is the driver but continues pouring. The other three drink past the point of pleasure. Past the point of honesty. To somewhere more primal.
That’s right, says the man. He opens his mouth as if to continue, but I push on, following the movie in my mind. I can feel the heat of the noonday sun on my bare arms. The sand against my thighs. Hear the cries of the mutant birds.
The older woman starts it. She asks the younger man if he has noticed anything different about his wife.
Different how? the younger man asks.
Her hair. Her clothes. A general glow.
I can’t say that I have. She always looks terrific. And he gives his wife an affectionate smile, gestures to the older man to top off her glass of wine.
The younger woman is startled. Something is happening that she has not expected.
You didn’t think, for example, that perhaps she has reason to celebrate? asks the older woman. That something has happened that she considers a good thing? Perhaps not news that every woman would welcome. But she isn’t an ordinary woman.
The younger man doesn’t miss a beat. He is a lawyer with a growing reputation. This is what he is like in the courtroom, in the boardroom. There is no curveball he cannot catch, no supposed revelation that he does not appear to have intimate knowledge of beforehand.
My wife is no fool, he says.
But you might be, the older woman says. She takes a sip of wine but doesn’t take her eyes off him.
I don’t follow.
Power is a strange thing.
It is. But what does that have to do with this conversation?
They say knowledge is power, says the older woman.
And that ignorance is bliss, says the younger man, derisively.
Does that mean you want this conversation to end?
The younger man considers. No, he says. I want to see where you are going.
The younger woman speaks up: Me too, actually.
The older man is the only one not getting it. The other three are facing off . The kids are squabbling over sand toys.
The younger man is the first to break the silence. So she knows. I haven’t exactly been discreet. If she’d asked I would have told her. It’s not important. Nothing can touch what we have.
The younger woman relaxes. She is relieved by his reply, and the tension dissipates from her shoulders. She shrugs indifferently. There was nothing I wanted to ask. Nothing that was worth the bother of asking. I did a little checking on my own. Found out what I needed to know. A trivial liaison, soon to end. That was the end of it.
The younger man smiles, an odd, almost proud, smile. Yes, our marriage isn’t so fragile.
It most certainly is not.
Ah, says the older woman. But this is not about the trivial. Not in the least. Sex is banal. I didn’t want to talk about sex. I wanted to talk about the thing that either holds families together or tears them apart. Something much more powerful than sex or even love. Money.
The younger woman stiffens again, her features becoming rigid. Don’t do it, she says.
The older woman addresses the younger man. You lock your office door. You lock your desk drawer inside a locked room. You keep your wife out. Why is that?
The kids, of course. There are important documents in there. I can’t have evidence of confidential memos scribbled over with a red crayon.
Because of the kids?
Because it’s standard protocol when taking sensitive documents out of the office.
But what would someone find if they managed to circumvent your locked doors and locked drawers? the older woman asks. What if someone knew you well enough to know where you would hide the keys?
They wouldn’t find anything that would interest anyone outside corporate financial litigation, says the younger man.
The older woman raises her right eyebrow. It seems like a practiced gesture somehow, a dramatic device used to control others.
The younger woman interrupts. Now, that’s not quite true. She seems incensed by the younger man’s dismissive tone.
The younger man meets her eyes. And so?
And so, says the younger woman, and repeats, knowledge is power.
Seems like you relinquished a little of that power. To your good friend here. Why on earth would you do that? Cracks are appearing in his equanimity.
Seems like I did, the younger woman says, without looking at the other woman. Seemingly foolishly.
So? asks the younger man, addressing the younger woman. So what? What are you going to do? Turn me in? That would be against your own interests.
Absolutely, says the younger woman. It was a struggle, but I decided to not disturb the status quo. Not to confront you. This discovery was just a little curiosity I took out of my pocket and looked at every once in a while. As my dear friend here says, it was a power thing. It made me happy.
This was always about us, not just me, the man says. He is gulping his wine. He reaches over and takes the bottle from the older man, who is frankly bewildered, and pours himself another full glass. What I took will not be missed. I made sure of that. I didn’t hurt anyone, didn’t rob children and orphans. Only institutions have standards. Small amounts siphoned off over time. They added up. But no harm done to any human. This will never come to light. And it’s for you as well as me.
I believe that, says the younger woman. I believe that you tell yourself that and mean it sincerely.
And for the kids.
I believe that, too, says the younger woman. She turns to the little girl, brushes sand from her forehead, smooths her hair. The boy is still engrossed with his shovel and pail. He is digging a hole to China. The discussion is over as far as the younger woman is concerned. She is ready to move on. But the older woman doesn’t agree. She stands up.
But this is not just between you. It is a question of morality. This . . . activity, must stop. Right here and now. No more juggling of books. No more victimless crime.
No one doubts that this is an absolute order. And no one doubts that the repercussions of disobeying it would be severe.
I pause the movie. Come back mentally to the world. I ask the old man, Why would Amanda do this thing? What was her motive?
Peter seems resigned to the direction the conversation has taken. Who knows? he asks. One never knew with Amanda. Revenge? Mischief ? Perhaps she thought she was doing the right thing: preventing a serious crime. Or saving her friends the humiliation of being caught, incarcerated. But you haven’t finished the story.
I no longer need the film to guide me. The rest has formed itself in my mind.
Back at the beach, I say. The older man is upset. His world is being shaken.
Apologize! he tells his wife. Apologize for your appalling behavior. I don’t care how drunk you are, you don’t wreck lives for the fun of it.
But the younger woman interrupts him, addresses the older woman directly. No apologies are necessary because no apologies will be accepted. None would be acceptable. You betrayed my trust.
You see? the older woman says. Trust does matter. Betrayal is a serious act.
The younger woman considers this. Fair enough, she says. She picks up a hard-boiled egg. But seven hundred years ago I would have taken stronger measures.
And what would they have been? the older woman asks. She is amused.
I would have buried this under a wanin
g moon in your yard, as medieval women did with their enemies.
And . . . ?
You would have commenced to rot. The younger woman pauses. Of course you are already rotten in mind and spirit, she says. Both men, the older and the younger, sit up and pay attention. This is serious. These are words that can’t be unsaid.
This would pertain to the body. It would start inside. With the heart. Then the other organs. You would start to stink out. The decay would reach your outer epidermis. It would start to disintegrate. And the scavengers would take care of the rest. Your eyes. Your genitalia. Your extremities—your ears, toes, and fingers.
The older woman laughs at this. She seems delighted. I always forget you studied medieval history before medical school. What a potent combination!
This is not an anecdote, the younger woman says. It’s a warning. You would be well served to pay attention to it. And she begins to put the picnic things away, as if a reasonable conversation between reasonable people has just concluded.
Magdalena is no longer writing. The notebook and pen lie in her lap.
What about the men? And the children? What were they doing while these things were being said? she asks.
They are the audience. The necessary audience. For these women are nothing if not expert dramatists.
But the children!
Yes, the children. Exactly.
But what happened next? she asks.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The effects of the wine wore off, they drove home together in one car, crowded elbow to elbow. The little girl was too young to have taken it in. The boy kept his own counsel. No adverse effects.
They arrived home, unpacked the car. The women kissed each other, kissed each other’s husbands. The husbands shook hands. They went into their respective houses. And continued as if nothing had happened.
So your marriage wasn’t over, says Magdalena. It is not a question.
Peter speaks.
It may have suffered a temporary hiccup. But no one moved out. No one served papers. The younger man and woman continued to exhibit the same respectful camaraderie. If it was an act, they performed it well. No one ever saw a crack in it.
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