Pee-Shy

by Frank Spinelli

  “We’re doing the right thing, aren’t we?”

  Collier nodded. The next thing I heard was the familiar sound of Bill’s phone ringing and his voice when he picked up.

  “Bill, it’s Frank Spinelli.”

  He snorted with frustration and muttered, “Hey.”

  “Are you busy?”

  “Actually, yes, I’m in the middle of making dinner.”

  In the background I heard male voices carrying on a conversation. “Sorry,” I said. “I won’t take up much of your time. I was in Staten Island this past weekend. I thought about you and wanted to call . . . to see if you gave any thought to what we talked about.”

  Silence.

  I glanced at Collier for help. He held his hand out and nodded slowly for me to be patient.

  “Shut up and go in the other room,” I heard Bill shout. “I’m on the phone.” After several seconds Bill began, “Listen, I told you I can’t remember that far back. There were over three hundred boys in that troop. I can’t remember every one of you.”

  “You can’t remember, or you don’t want to remember? Did you have sex with every boy?”

  He sounded annoyed. “I didn’t say that. It’s just that I can’t remember that long ago. I was a cop for years. You think I remember every person I’ve ever shot or every person I arrested?”

  “I’d think you’d remember having sex with an eleven-year-old boy. I know that would be something I’d remember. I’ve read accounts of other men who enjoy having sex with boys, stories very much like your own. I’m telling you this so that you understand that I didn’t imagine it. It happened, and you know it.”

  “You need to move on. The past is past. You can’t change that. You can only change the future. What are you? Like forty-five or fifty?”

  “I’m forty-one to be exact.”

  “Well, in any case, you are a smart, successful doctor. You need to move on. You ought to put the entire incident out of your mind.”

  For a moment, I felt stunned. I looked at Collier. He wasn’t monitoring the recorder. He was staring directly at me. Then the full import of Bill’s statement struck me. I hesitated. Then I said, “I want to move on. Believe me, Bill. There is nothing I’d rather do than move past all this, but I can’t. It’s not that easy, you see. I almost forgot all about it. No, wait! I didn’t forget. I chose to live in denial for the past thirty years, but then I discovered something. I found your book. I saw that cover with you and your son. Then it all came back to me. I thought about what you used to do to me, how those parents let you go free, and how you were allowed to adopt all those boys. I can’t let it go now.”

  “Well, I don’t know what you want me to do.”

  “Like I told you last time, Bill, I don’t want to make trouble. I just want to hear you say it. Tell me now that it happened and you’re sorry for all of it.”

  “Is that what you want me to say?”

  “Yes.”

  “If what you say is true, then yeah, I would be sorry.”

  Did you really just say that?

  I was speechless. Bill’s words echoed in my ear but with no remorse. In fact, he spoke them with slight indignation.

  There was so much I wanted to say, yet I couldn’t. All the lines I’d rehearsed throughout the years, speaking them to myself in the mirror, all seemed suddenly useless. Memories don’t change. Pedophiles don’t change. They go on, year after year, molesting other little boys until someone stops them. It occurred to me that everything was now completely up to the police. I had done all I could.

  “Thank you, Bill. And if you ever wish to talk to me again, you know how to reach me. Good-bye.”

  Collier nodded his head. “I knew he’d trip over his own words. You did good, doc. Now I’m going to take these tapes to the Pennsylvania Police. You won’t have to do this again.”

  HOUR AFTER HOUR, I LAY IN BED AWAKE, my hands hot in between my thighs as I wished away the need to urinate. The room was dark except for the red glow of the digital clock. It read 12 A.M. Chad was snoring gently. I found it the most comforting distraction, like a puppy listening to its mother’s heartbeat. Down the hall, there was a party. I heard loud music, the sound of people singing “Happy Birthday.”

  I replayed my conversation with Bill over and over in my mind. I couldn’t believe Bill had allowed himself to yield to my request.

  If what you say is true, then yeah, I would be sorry.

  As I drifted off to sleep, I saw Bill standing in my waiting room. In my dream, I punched him, saw my fist go into his mouth, and watched his head whip back like a Pez dispenser. When it snapped back, I saw my face instead but shattered like a cracked mirror.

  Then I woke up.

  CHAPTER 32

  Home for the Holidays

  “SOCIAL ANXIETY MANIFESTS IN DIFFERENT WAYS,” explained Dr. McGovern. “Running late, arriving in the wrong place at the wrong time, and being unable to speak are just a few examples of how anxiety can influence dreams.”

  “What does that have to do with me?” I asked. “Why am I experiencing social anxiety?”

  “Frank, you have a lot on your plate right now. In addition to maintaining a full-time practice and a fairly new relationship, you’ve just moved in with your partner and you’re working with the police to apprehend the man who molested you. You don’t think that’s enough to keep you up at night?”

  I laughed despite the seriousness of her tone.

  “Part of my concern with everything that’s going on with Bill is that it brings up intense anxiety. Jonathan’s fuzzy recollection of the past and Bill’s inability to remember that far back frustrate you. On one hand, you want to help the boys who are living with Bill, but on the other hand, there is a deeper need for you to have someone corroborate your story. So far, no one has really done that, and this stirs up intense anxiety.”

  “And what about my dream with Bill?”

  “The one where you punch him in the face?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s talk about that for a moment. Do you think you found closure after your last conversation with Bill?”

  I felt that gnawing sensation develop below my ribs. “Just thinking about it makes me anxious,” I admitted. “It’s just that I don’t believe in closure. I think it’s bullshit. You don’t forget the past. You carry it around with you like herpes. Sometimes it flares up, and other times it remains dormant. But it doesn’t go away.” I began rubbing the area below my sternum with my fist.

  “You don’t think you felt closure with Bill? You told me that you felt sorry for him, that he was no longer brooding and sexual but more old and pathetic?”

  “Yes.”

  Dr. McGovern sat up and planted her feet on the floor. I knew that when she did this, she was about to make an important observation. “Frank, how do you feel toward your parents?”

  I shifted uneasily in my chair. “My parents? Are we really going back there?”

  “Trust me.”

  “Okay, I suppose I’m angry with them, too. I’ve always been angry with them, but at a certain point you have to let go. For years, I was a very resentful young man who hated my family, particularly my mother, although my father got a free ride. I’m an adult now. I have to stop being angry or it will eat me alive. I have so much more to be grateful for: my work, Chad, and the life we have together. I won’t carry that anger around with me. Otherwise, I will miss out on life.” I was breathless and on the verge of tears.

  “Yes. This life you have with Chad might not have been possible unless you passed through this experience. But getting back to your dream, who is it you see when you look into Bill’s face?”

  I thought for a moment. “Me?”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “You say you’re not angry anymore, but if you would just allow yourself to feel that anger, then maybe you could get past it.”

  I pulled a tissue from the box beside me.

  “I think you still harbor a great deal of anger, not only with yourself
but also toward your parents, particularly with your mom.”

  I was crying now.

  “After you told them what Bill had done, their actions—or better yet, their lack of reaction—left you feeling angry with them for not protecting you when you were little.”

  My chest was spasming with tears, but she continued.

  “Frank, it was easier for you to get over your experience with Bill. It’s easy to hate him because he was the villain. It’s harder to get past the resentment you feel toward your parents because you love them. I think that dream with Bill brought up those unresolved feelings.”

  “I know you’re right. If I didn’t love my family, I wouldn’t care so much. My life is all about family. We’re always together for every holiday, Sunday dinner, and even on our birthdays. You know, my mother still makes us a birthday cake every year. I’m forty-one and she still has to make me dinner, and then afterward, my family sings “Happy Birthday” as my mother carries out a cake with candles on it.”

  “There is no doubt you love your family,” she continued. “The hard part is getting over the resentment.”

  We remained silent for several more moments so I could collect myself. I blew my nose and disposed of the tissue into the trash can next to me.

  “How has it been living with Chad?” she asked, navigating the conversation away from my dream.

  “Overall it’s been great, but I won’t deny that it has been difficult at times. Everything has to be negotiated. I promised myself one thing before I moved in, and that was, no matter what, I was going to try and say what bothered me in the moment. No holding back. I even told Chad this, hoping he would do the same.”

  “How did he respond to that?”

  “Let’s just say we’re still in negotiations.”

  When Dr. McGovern smiled, I felt all my anxiety fade away, as if we were no longer doctor and patient but just two friends having a chat in her living room.

  “You mentioned the dreams earlier,” she interrupted. “What about your difficulty with urination and living with someone?”

  My body went tense as I was reminded again where I was. “Interesting you should ask. It waxes and wanes. It’s still very difficult for me to urinate in public, but the other night, we were in the apartment. I had to go really badly. Chad was in the bathroom undergoing his transformation process: He has this nightly routine that begins with a deep-cleansing facial scrub, followed by a glycolic acid peel, which he applies to his face with an eyedropper. Then he does this whole other process with his teeth. Anyway, he was in the bathroom like twenty minutes. So I just walked in, stood quietly over the toilet, and peed. I saw him glance over at me in the mirror. He said, ‘Look at you, peeing in front of me.’ I stared at the tile and said, ‘Shut up and ignore me,’ which he did. I guess that’s progress?”

  “Sounds like it to me.”

  AS THE HOLIDAYS APPROACHED, I decided to put a hold on my pursuit of Bill. Chad and I were making plans to spend time with both our families for Christmas. One Saturday night, I received a call from my mother informing me that my father had fallen off the ladder hanging Christmas lights.

  “Why was he hanging Christmas lights in his condition?” I asked.

  “You know your father,” she shouted into the phone, her voice trembling. “I went shopping. When I came home, I found the ladder up against the house, and he was in the den watching television. Later, I noticed he could barely walk. I asked what happened, and finally he told me he fell off the ladder. I think he hurt his hip. I don’t know what to do with that man. He doesn’t listen.”

  That Sunday when I visited my parents, I insisted that my father show me where he was injured. After nearly twenty minutes of arguing, he relented. “Goddamned people!” he shouted. “Why can’t you just leave me in peace?”

  Standing in the kitchen with his pants down around his ankles, wearing old, stretched-out boxer shorts, my father could barely stand on his own. His legs trembled as he tried to support himself. My mother had to brace him as I knelt down to look at his hip. I was shocked by how old he’d gotten. His once strong, muscular thighs had deteriorated into thin, flaccid limbs. There was a large bluish area of pooled blood, about the size of both my hands, over his left hip, which looked like an orange peel in texture.

  I stared at the blue patch, shaking my head. “Dad, why didn’t you go to the doctor?”

  He ignored the question and stared straight ahead.

  “You know you’re on a blood thinner. You have to be very careful. Any time you fall or get hurt, you have to go to the doctor. Do you understand?”

  “Goddamned people!” he yelled as he hoisted up his pants. My mother tried to help him, but he pushed her away. As he hobbled into the den, it was clear that, at seventy-seven years old, my father’s body was failing him. And like so many people, he found the complex process of aging as confusing as it was depressing. I knew he still saw himself as a young, vibrant man, but he was slowing down. No matter how many times I tried to explain this to him, he never fully comprehended what was happening. Even after he’d had a heart attack and undergone bypass surgery, he repeatedly asked his doctors when he would be his old self again, denying the fact that he was growing old and ignoring us when we told him he had to take it easy.

  Years passed, and I watched him sink deeper into despair. After he lost most of his hearing and the world around him slowly faded out, he became crankier. My mother tried to pull him out of his depression, but he was stubborn. This resulted in a daily ritual of arguments. Most days, she left him alone, as he wished, sitting silently in the den, watching old movies with the volume turned up so high you could hear the television from their front porch.

  At 3 A.M. that night, I awoke abruptly, thirsty and hot under the covers. For a moment, I couldn’t remember what I was dreaming. The room was dark. The door to the bedroom was open, revealing a dim slash of white light. I looked around. There was a dark figure crouched down at the foot of the bed. I remained quiet, trying to absorb this figure, my eyes moving anxiously over it, but the details were fading in and out. I shook my head, trying to remember what I’d taken to go to sleep.

  You’re losing it, kid. It’s the Xanax.

  I heard Chad churning beside me.

  I whispered, “Are you up?”

  “Yes,” he groaned.

  “Come here,” I said, pulling him toward me. My insomnia was apparently contagious. Chad curled up against me. “I know we were planning on visiting your family in Scottsdale for the holidays, but would you mind terribly if we stayed in New York?”

  “Of course not. We can spend next Christmas with Roxie and Vern.”

  “Really?” I asked, turning to look him in the eyes. “That would make things so much easier.”

  “Then it’s settled.”

  “Hey, do you want me to tell you a story?”

  Chad nodded eagerly, driving his face farther into the recess between my arm and chest.

  “Okay, once upon a time, there was a little boy who wanted to be Evel Knievel”—here I made a revving noise—“and every day he practiced jumping so that one day he could jump the Grand Canyon.” Driving my index and middle finger along the side of Chad’s ribs, I continued. “He jumped over buses.” My fingers leapt onto his shoulder. “He jumped over trains.” They careened up Chad’s neck. Then I changed the rev to a low putter. Chad giggled into my armpit. “He practiced every day in the hopes that, one day, he would make it to the Grand Canyon. Meanwhile, in Arizona, there was another little boy, who dreamed of living in New York City. He rode his bicycle in the desert every day.” I drew a circle with my fingers on Chad’s left buttock. “And he even rode his bicycle to the Grand Canyon, in the hopes that one day he could ride it all the way to New York City. And do you know what happened?”

  Chad shook his head repeatedly, tickling me.

  “Well, that boy from Arizona made it all the way to New York City, and there, he met the boy who wanted to jump the Grand Canyon.” I reached
for Chad’s hand and held it in mine. “They found each other and fell in love.”

  Chad was silent except for the faint sound of air passing in and out of his mouth. I reached up toward the ceiling and stared at my fingers, fading in and out, hoping the Xanax would cast me adrift once again into the sea of sleep.

  The dark figure crouching at the foot of the bed remained a quiet fixture in the room.

  EVEN THOUGH WE DECIDED NOT TO TRAVEL, the holidays were still stressful. Maria and her family came up from Alabama. My mother insisted that we all stay at her house. That meant ten of us under one roof. Chad and I slept on an AeroBed in the den. To keep my sanity, I’d escape to the basement and check my e-mails. I was surprised to see one from Dean. Attached to his e-mail was a link to a leather goods store. He was shopping for a jacket to wear for an upcoming appearance. Dean wanted to know which one I preferred.

  If I had to map the arc of my relationship with Dean I would have plotted that e-mail somewhere along the downward slope. This seemed inevitable considering where I was in my life. It was hard to maintain a close relationship with someone I’d never met. Yet I couldn’t deny he’d helped me through a very difficult time.

  “Here you are,” said Chad, standing in the doorway.

  “You found me.”

  “I thought you ran away. We’re getting ready to go to midnight mass.”

  “We wouldn’t want to miss that,” I said sarcastically. “How are you holding up?”

  “If I eat one more thing, I’m going to throw up.”

  “Don’t even mention the word food,” I said, getting up from the couch. “And thanks for being such a trooper. Even though my father won’t say it, I can tell he’s very happy we’re all together this year.”

  AFTER THE NEW YEAR, I CALLED DETECTIVE COLLIER.

  “Doc, I was just thinking about you,” he said. I didn’t believe him, but it was nice to hear his voice. His Staten Island accent was comforting, like running into an old friend.