Pee-Shy

by Frank Spinelli

  Saying I’m sorry had become my epithet in any uncomfortable situation. For one reason or another, I had been apologizing most of my adult life, even in situations like this, where I clearly was not culpable. How could I explain to these strangers that the reason I was detained in the bathroom was because I was molested by a man who went on to adopt a son? That only infuriated me further. My anger now propelled me back up the aisle. When I returned to my seat, Eric was unconscious again. I eased myself back into my chair, but I was unable to sleep, even with the quiet hum of the airplane motors outside.

  Against my better judgment, I picked up the book and read on.

  NERVES COMPLICATED MY ALREADY ERRATIC MOOD on the day of the book event. A Different Light was much smaller than Barnes & Noble, and the location of the reading area was confined to a few folding chairs and a lectern by the store’s entrance. It was not the grand debut I experienced in New York.

  Beginning Bill’s book on the plane had left me on edge. I decided to abandon the lengthy speech that I had prepared and simply read a few excerpts. Then I took questions. When it was over, I remembered little of the event itself, except for a nagging expectation that Bill was about to walk in the store at any moment. Later that evening, we dined with Eric’s family. Throughout the meal, I had only one thing on my mind: get back to the hotel and finish reading Bill’s book.

  In the hotel room, Eric watched television from the king-sized bed and ate potato chips from a can. In the adjoining dining area, far enough away so that I couldn’t hear the television, I was busy copying names from the book onto a small, complimentary hotel notepad. I cross-referenced these names with addresses and phone numbers I found on the Internet. Once I’d established a legitimate list of contacts, I picked up my cell phone and began dialing.

  Eric bolted up in the bed. “Hang up, Nancy Drew,” he ordered. “You just can’t go and call people out of the blue and expect them to tell you where to find this guy. Are you out of your mind?”

  Sitting there at the desk with my laptop, notes, and Bill’s tattered memoir strewn everywhere, I saw how obsessed I’d become.

  Eric got out of bed and knelt down beside me. “Listen, I can’t imagine how painful this must be for you, but you need to be careful. If you’re really going to do this, then you need a plan. This trip is supposed to be a proud moment in your life, and you’re shitting all over it.”

  When I looked into Eric’s eyes, I saw my old friend Jonathan, and I began to cry. Eric put his arms around me. I rested my head on his shoulder and let loose with tears.

  “Honey, you were in love with this man,” he said.

  I pulled back, appalled by that thought, but Eric held me closer.

  “You were a little boy, but you still loved him. He rejected you, and that hurt. Reading this book now will only hurt you more.” We stared into each other’s eyes again.

  “I know, but I still have to do this.”

  When he nodded, I knew he understood.

  “Okay, then come hang out with me for a while. Enjoy this weekend for a brief moment, and I promise I will see this through with you until the very end.”

  I felt torn. When Bill molested me at age eleven, I became two different people: I was a boy who went to Catholic school, but I was also a boy who had sex with a man. Over the years those two boys grew up to become both a man who was a doctor and a man who was split off from himself emotionally. Now I was divided again, but this time I knew what I had to do: I had to find Bill. Staring into Eric’s eyes, the panicked look on his face, I made a decision to listen to his advice. I stood up from the table and walked back into the bedroom with him.

  “Do I smell sour cream and chives?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he answered defensively. “But they’re fat free.”

  “Did you save me any?”

  “Only if Nancy Drew can take a break from solving her next mystery.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Wheels Are in Motion

  BACK FROM SAN FRANCISCO, I found myself staring in the bathroom mirror, rehearsing lines as if I was in a play. Bill’s sister was in the White Pages. She still lived in the same house on Staten Island, just as Bill described in his book. Finding her couldn’t have been any easier had Bill simply drawn a map of her neighborhood with a big red dot over her house.

  I knew she’d lead me to him. I just had to strike the right tone.

  Hunched over the vanity—a gargoyle dressed only in black underwear—I repeated my lines: “Hello, this is Dr. Spinelli. I was a Boy Scout many years ago in Staten Island, and my Scoutmaster’s name was Bill Fox. I recently found his book and wanted to get in touch with him. Is this man your brother?”

  I had to know whether Bill was involved again with the Boy Scouts, and I was more than curious to see whether—and what—he remembered of me. After all, I was the reason he left the troop in the first place. Mr. Castro and the other assistant Scoutmasters may have protected my identity, but surely Bill figured I was the one who’d told on him.

  Staring at myself in the mirror with the phone in my hand, I saw that same little boy who ran to Bill every time he pulled his truck up to my house on Endor Avenue. But you’re not that little boy anymore, I told myself. I dialed her number before I could change my mind. Then I gripped the receiver tighter and breathed deeply in anticipation of her greeting. My plan was simple: engage her as much as possible and lead her to believe that all I wanted to do was thank her brother for inspiring a young boy from Staten Island.

  She’s going to be tough as nails, a real firecracker.

  The phone continued to ring.

  You can do this.

  Then it hit me. Eric’s second rule of acting: stay committed to your character. Play the part with genuine passion, and you will be resolved of any nervous energy.

  After the fifth ring, the answering machine clicked on. It was a prerecorded greeting provided by the manufacturer. Once the beep sounded, I exhaled and delivered my well-prepared, deliberately paced message: “Hello, this message is for Wendy. My name is Dr. Frank Spinelli. I’m looking for your brother, Bill Fox. He was my Scoutmaster from Troop Eighty-five in Staten Island thirty years ago. I recently read his book and thought I’d look him up and say hi. If you could give him my number, I’d really appreciate it. Thank you.” I hung up, pleased with my performance but somewhat concerned I hadn’t reached Bill’s sister.

  The next afternoon, I was in my office when I heard my cell phone ring in my lab coat pocket. I picked it up to silence it. Glancing at the number, I noticed a Pennsylvania area code. I stared at it briefly before dropping it back into my pocket.

  Later, I listened to the message over lunch in my office. Even though thirty years had passed, I knew who it was as soon as I heard that voice. The low register of his tone, the slight lisp—it was all still there, only fainter, older, more distant. “Hey, Frank. This is Bill Fox. Gimme a call when you get this . . . I’ll be up late.”

  A lump formed in my throat. I pressed PLAY again and listened to the message three more times. All I wanted to do was crawl under my desk, but Eric’s voice chimed in my head. “You have to be careful. You need a plan.” Knowing I still had patients to see, I decided to wait until the end of the day before I thought about my next step. An hour later, my cell phone rang again, only this time I recognized the number as Bill’s. I stared at the phone as if paralyzed.

  “It’s either your boyfriend or your mother,” laughed my next patient.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I only look at my phone like that when it’s my boyfriend or my mother,” he explained with a wry smile. “Just let it go to voice mail.”

  “You know what? That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  This time Bill didn’t leave a message.

  At the end of the day, I sat down at my desk and planned my next move. Before I returned Bill’s call, I asked myself what I was hoping to accomplish by speaking to him. What did I want? An apology? A confession? I didn’t know.

&nb
sp; LATER THAT NIGHT, I WAS ON THE COUCH napping when my phone startled me awake. When I leaned over to pick it up, I saw Bill’s number again. Now I was certain he was more than just curious. I let it ring. Once again he didn’t leave a message. I picked up the phone off the coffee table and saved his number under the name CHILD MOLESTER.

  A twinge of electricity zapped me in the groin. Earlier that day, I’d had trouble urinating at work. For some reason, it was getting worse. Usually, I didn’t have a problem using the restroom in my office or the one in my apartment. It seemed the closer I got to Bill, the more pee-shy I was becoming. That night I marched straight into the bathroom, pulled off my shirt, pushed down my pants, and began chanting.

  “Olga Koniahin, Olga Koniahin.”

  Whispering her name over and over with my eyes closed, my thoughts drifted to a home out in the woods in rural Pennsylvania. I saw a red truck parked around back. The grass was overgrown. The gutters were rusty and water leaked from the roof. Faded, cracked green shingles lined the outside walls. Somewhere inside, probably in the kitchen, an old man nervously hung up the phone. His heart, pounding.

  Then, like magic, the urine flowed effortlessly, but I kept my eyes closed and savored this image a few seconds more.

  ON HOLD FOR A PHARMACIST THE NEXT DAY, I heard my cell phone ring in the second exam room. Seconds later, Gloria walked in holding it up to my face. She looked terrified. The caller ID read CHILD MOLESTER.

  I hung up on the pharmacist and took my cell phone from her. We exchanged concerned glances. I decided at that exact moment to answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “Yeah, hi, is this Frank?”

  “Yes.”

  “Frank! This is Bill Fox.”

  “Hey, Bill, how are you?” I looked up at Gloria. She gave me a nod of encouragement.

  “Good, how are you?” I heard him pause, as though he was drawing in an excited breath.

  “Great.” Then I paused. “Hey, listen, Bill. I’m in the middle of seeing patients. Would it be all right if I called you after work?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Okay, talk to you later.”

  When I hung up, Gloria walked silently back to her desk. The rest of the morning, I could barely focus on work. Reviewing labs during lunch, I kept glancing at my phone, expecting Bill to call back again. I spent most of my lunch hour in the bathroom trying to pee.

  At 1 P.M., I resumed seeing patients, but I felt distracted. Even one of my oldest and dearest patients, Wylie, a writer from Louisiana, wasn’t able to hold my attention. “Okay, what’s wrong?” he demanded, pounding his fist firmly down on his own knee.

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “Frank, I’ve been coming here for over ten years. I know when you’re not paying attention to me, because Lord knows, it doesn’t happen often.”

  In the distance, I heard my cell phone ringing on my desk. This time, I jumped up and ran out of the room. Picking up the phone, I was relieved to see Eric’s name.

  “What’s up?” asked Eric.

  “Nothing,” I said. “What’s up with you?”

  “Why are you out of breath? Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m just busy.”

  “I just want to remind you that Scott is going to meet you at the train station on Twenty-third Street and Seventh Avenue at 7:30 P.M. Don’t be late, because my husband, Alexander Graham Bell, doesn’t own a cell phone.”

  “Oh my God, I forgot all about the show.”

  “You forgot about Xanadu?” Eric’s surprise gave away to shock. “I don’t believe it! You’ve been talking about this show since it went into previews. Wow, you really are overworked.”

  I rubbed my temples. “No problem. Tell Scotty I’ll see him later.”

  Once I hung up, I noticed Gloria standing in the doorway. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Tell Wylie I’ll be with him in a minute.”

  Gloria arched her brows. For the rest of the afternoon, her face retained that same uneasy expression.

  THAT EVENING, I PACED MY APARTMENT, humming the music to the song “Suddenly” and trying to get up the nerve to call Bill. The lyrics seemed to say everything: Suddenly the wheels are in motion. It seemed ironic that I would talk to Bill the same night I was to attend Xanadu on Broadway.

  In 1980, Maria took Jonathan and me to a matinee of the film starring Olivia Newton-John. Later that night, Jonathan slept over, and we stayed up late talking. In the dark we whispered stories about the times we spent alone with Bill. Jonathan finally admitted the truth, as well as that awful secret. My memory of that magical afternoon seeing Xanadu was forever tainted by what Jonathan told me. I was no longer the same boy after that night, and I never saw Jonathan again.

  Impulsively, I picked up the phone and dialed Bill’s number.

  It rang three times before he picked up. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Bill, it’s Frank.”

  “Frank!” he repeated, drawing out my name as if it had two syllables. “How the hell are you?”

  “Is this a good time?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re probably surprised to hear from me?”

  “Well, yeah,” he said. “But a lot of boys from Scouts have called me over the years.” The mere sound of his voice—low and husky with that lisp—was startling and confusing, yet slightly arousing. Initially he sounded distant, but with each breath, I heard the resonance in his voice growing closer as if he was approaching. I maintained my composure. “You really scared my sister, though,” he added.

  “Well, tell her not to worry. It’s just that I found your book recently, and I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Oh, that’s nice.” He sounded sincere. “Well, if I can be frank, Frank? After my sister gave me your name, I looked you up in some of the old photos I have. Honestly, I can’t put a face to the name. You were in Troop Eighty-five, you said?”

  I flinched. I felt as though I had been smacked across the face. “Yes, I was.”

  “Hmm,” he grumbled. “I think I remember you. After I got your message, I pulled out the ol’ scrapbook. Did you go on that trip to DC?”

  I felt a pulse of excitement. “Yes.”

  “Did you go on the three-mile hike or ten-mile river trip?”

  “Yes,” I repeated.

  “You know, I remember your name. I’m just having trouble placing the face.”

  Do you need a picture in your ol’ scrapbook of me wearing my uniform with my pants pulled down to my ankles? Would that jar your memory?

  “Maybe you’ll remember this,” I began. “One time, I was left behind in the school parking lot because there was no room in the cars. My mother made such a big stink that you offered to drive me up to camp yourself the next day after you got off work.”

  He paused. “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Do you remember a boy by the name of Jonathan Duran?”

  “Hmm, name sounds familiar.”

  “His father and mother were very involved in Scouting.”

  “Yeah, I think I remember him. You have to understand that three hundred boys went through my time as Scoutmaster. That’s a lot of kids.”

  “You don’t remember taking me on errands after school?”

  Bill was silent for a moment. “I’m gonna have to go back and look at those old photos again.” I sensed sincere regret in his voice.

  Instantly I felt like that little boy again, anxiously waiting for him by the door of my parents’ house. I decided to change the subject. “How’s Nicholas?”

  “Oh, Nicholas is all grown-up now,” he said proudly. “Got married and has kids. They live in California. He’s a police officer in Santa Barbara.”

  “Wow, you must be so proud. After I finished your book, I kept thinking what a great thing you did, adopting him. Do you see him much?”

  “Not really. He didn’t live with me very long, went back to live with his mother.”

  “That’s interesting. Reading your
book, I just assumed that you were still very much a family. You must have felt awful once he left to go back, after all the trouble you went through to adopt him?”

  “You’re not going to believe this.” He chuckled. “But I’ve adopted a total of fifteen boys over the years.”

  I felt light-headed. “Fifteen.”

  “Yeah,” he continued. “I still have three living with me, but they got what you call mental disabilities.”

  A sharp, stabbing pain struck me in my lower abdomen so abruptly that I nearly dropped my cell phone. I grabbed my belly as the pain changed. It felt as though my bladder was twisting upon itself like a magician’s cheap balloon animal. Without uttering a single word, I ran to the bathroom still holding my phone.

  In the mirror, I saw myself as a surgical resident again, working in the emergency room at St. Vincent’s. The paramedics had brought in a man in the late stages of AIDS, suffering from severe urinary retention due to metastatic lymphoma. The urologist came down to the ER immediately, took one look at the distraught man writhing in pain, and ran to the supply closet. He returned with a surgical tray. “We have very little time,” he said. Opening the tray, he revealed a funnel-shaped object. “Put some gloves on, and get the Betadine solution.” I obeyed, watching him pull back the patient’s hospital gown to reveal an emaciated abdomen. What looked like a small beach ball pushing against his skin was actually his bladder. Taking the sharp, pointed end of the funnel, the urologist etched an X several times into the patient’s skin directly below the belly button—as though he were engraving his initials into a desk with a protractor. “Go ahead. Do it.”

  “But without anesthesia?”

  He glared back at me and slapped the instrument into my palm. “Now!”