Pee-Shy

by Frank Spinelli

  Several days later, Maria returned to Alabama because the children had to go back to school. My father deteriorated rapidly the day after they left. On July 12, the doctor on call at the rehabilitation facility contacted me. “Your father is experiencing progressive shortness of breath,” explained Dr. Sheva-mundi. “I’m going to transfer him to the emergency room.”

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s a good idea.”

  Standing in my living room with my cell phone up to my ear, I looked at Chad, who was listening from the bedroom doorway. “Toe surgery,” I said. “This is the kind of stupid shit that’s going to kill my dad. Why didn’t they just chop it off? He doesn’t need that toe. He’s seventy-seven.”

  When I arrived at the emergency room later that day, I found my dad in one of the beds closest to the nurses’ station. He looked pale and was breathing heavily through an oxygen mask. Wires were attached to his chest to monitor his heart rate. I reached out and held his hand. He opened his eyes, recognized me, and smiled. Then he closed his eyes again and shook his head.

  “Can you believe how big Maria’s boys got?” I said. “Matthew and Michael are taller than me.”

  He nodded, gasping. His lips were turning blue. Shivering, he pulled the mask away from his face. “I need to pee,” he said. His words faltered between wheezes.

  I informed a nurse, who brought over a urinal. Pulling the curtain to give my father privacy, she said, “Your mother and sister are in the waiting room.” I thanked her but decided to wait until he was done, knowing my father had an enlarged prostate, which made it difficult for him to urinate.

  Suddenly, an alarm began to sound, indicating his oxygen saturation was dangerously low.

  “That’s not good,” said the nurse. “I’ll go get the doctor. Your dad’s going to need a catheter.”

  Within minutes, his condition declined as his lungs filled up with fluid. A team of physicians swarmed around his bed. A skinny, dark man emerged from the huddle and asked me whether I was his son.

  “Yes, I am,” I said. “I’m also a doctor.”

  The man’s eyes went wide with panic. He addressed the other physicians in a language that sounded like gargling. Then he explained that they needed to put my father on a ventilator.

  I rushed to my father’s bedside. “Dad,” I said. “They need to put you on a breathing machine. I’m going to get Mommy and Josephine. I’ll be right back.”

  He nodded and closed his eyes. I never saw him open them again.

  Later that evening, after I left the hospital, I rode the ferry back to Manhattan, staring out at the dull, rolling water. Moonlight shimmered on the undulating surface. I couldn’t believe this was how my father’s life was going to end. Like the vast ocean around me, his life had reached heights and depths he couldn’t have possibly imagined, yet suddenly the limitlessness of his existence was drawing to a close, even as this boat approached the dock.

  Just then, I received a text from Chad asking me about my father. I was unable to respond. I knew if I called him back, my eyes would well up, the tears would fall, and once they did, I would be unable to stop crying. Instead, I remained stoic, staring out at the waves. Minutes later, I received another text from Chad. This time it directed me to a link for the Animal Haven shelter, where an eight-week-old Beagle-mix puppy was available for adoption. His name: Hoffman. Staring at his picture, there was a familiarity in his big brown eyes, and I knew that this puppy would be ours.

  My father will die. This puppy will be ours. Life goes on. It must.

  As a doctor, I have had many experiences with death. I grow detached from the dead once life leaves their bodies. Perhaps that’s why I was able to sit quietly, staring at my father in his coffin as my family wept. His three grandsons and one granddaughter stood at the entrance of the funeral parlor, too afraid to get a closer glimpse of their lifeless Popi. I didn’t blame them. Why should they remember him that way? Like them, I wanted to recall the sarcastic, overbearing, hardworking man who devoured every day as if it was his last. Eating foods he shouldn’t, drinking wine he made himself (which tasted like vinegar), and smoking cigarettes, cigars, and even a pipe whenever he chose, because life, to him, was to be lived and not feared. Each day could be his last, so he lived it surrounded with the people he loved most. Several days after the funeral, Chad and I adopted the puppy, now renamed Hoffman Angelo. Our family was now made up of three.

  IN THE FALL, AS THE WEATHER COOLED DOWN, I walked Hoffman, the wind nipping at my cheeks like beestings. Leaves were changing, falling. Days passed when I didn’t think of Bill. I wanted to forget him. It was my hope that one day I would become so consumed with Chad and Hoffman that the past would just fade. Yet events in the news acted as subtle reminders of Bill.

  On September 26, 2009, Roman Polanski, the Academy Award–winning director of The Pianist and iconic films such as Rosemary’s Baby, Chinatown, and Repulsion, was arrested during a raid on his hotel in Switzerland. He had been running from American authorities for a 1978 warrant issued after a statutory-rape conviction. Over the years, Polanski tried to appeal the conviction but was unsuccessful, even after the victim at the center of the case asked for the charges to be dropped.

  At my next session, I confided in Dr. McGovern that for many years, I was an admirer of Polanski’s work, particularly his earlier black-and-white films. Even after I learned of his arrest, I felt protective of him, and subconsciously, it bothered me that I would defend a pedophile just because I thought that, as an artist, he should not be held accountable. His art far outweighed his flaws.

  “So, by that logic,” she began, “should Bill not be held accountable for what he did because he was a highly decorated police officer?”

  “Of course not. I know my reasoning doesn’t make sense. That’s why I’m so upset with myself. I should be angry that Polanski fled the country after his conviction. I should want him to pay the consequences for what he’s done, regardless of how long ago it took place or how honorably he’s lived his life since. I know how I should feel. Yet there is this sense that I’ve been tricked into feeling sorry for him, just like I used to feel sorry for Bill. I find myself defending Polanski just like I used to defend Bill. It makes me so angry.”

  “Have you heard from the police?”

  “No, not for a while. I’m beginning to think it’s over. Maybe that’s why this Polanski case is bothering me so much. I just wish somebody would tell me what’s going on.”

  “You know you don’t have to wait for the police to contact you. Go over their heads if you’re not satisfied.”

  Spurred into action, I took Dr. McGovern’s advice and contacted the Pennsylvania District Attorney’s office the next day. When the receptionist answered, I was ready to argue my way into speaking with the attorney handling Bill’s case, but that wasn’t necessary. Within minutes, Walter Sayer, the assistant district attorney, answered the phone.

  “First of all, I have to say that I cannot comment on any active case, nor am I implying that there is a case open pertaining to Mr. Bill Fox. The district attorney’s office does not discuss ongoing cases. Second of all, I want to personally apologize for all that you have been through, and I want to thank you for being so courageous and coming forward at this time. Mr. Fox lives in Liberty, Pennsylvania. You live in New York City. This is a part of the country you might not be familiar with, doctor. We have to proceed very carefully because jurors here lack the gumption to comprehend that a former police officer could do such a thing to a child.”

  “I understand that my situation is beyond the scope of the statute of limitations. Would it be reasonable to assume that another boy has come forward in order for your office to open an investigation?”

  “No,” he said. “We don’t necessarily need to have a boy who is currently being molested to come forward. We can act on what is 404(b) Evidence. That refers to anyone who has made a complaint of molestation. The complaint must be investigated.”

  “So, there were no othe
r boys?”

  “Doctor, you have to understand that this is western Pennsylvania. It’s like Deliverance country. You don’t want to mess with folks here, particularly the men. If we were to walk into a room full of boys from Liberty and ask them if they ever sucked a dick, no one would raise their hand. Now, I’m not gay, Dr. Spinelli, and I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you to grow up being gay and then molested on top of that, but it’s a hundred times worse if you came from Liberty.”

  “So, what you’re saying is Bill is going to get away with it because the boys he’s adopted aren’t going to admit they sucked his dick?”

  “I’m saying that’s probably true, and more than likely, these boys would suck his dick and keep their mouths shut about it just to avoid being placed in another foster home.”

  “That is the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “That’s Liberty. I just want you to be prepared, because this process takes time,” continued Mr. Sayer. “You can call me directly in a month or next week if you like. I don’t mind. Cases like this usually go one of three ways: Some we process because we know the guy did it and we want to see justice served. Then there are those cases we don’t take on because we think the kid lied, and that’s a small percentage. Finally, there are cases where we know the guy did it, but we can’t prosecute. Those are the cases I hate the most, but I want to prepare you for the possibility that, one day, you might call me, and I’ll have to tell you that we’re not going to prosecute Mr. Fox.”

  Dread came over me. Everything turned gray, just like a Roman Polanski film. I was Catherine Deneuve, enveloped in a metallic world of black-and-white. All the colors and sensations faded away. I felt helpless. It was over. Done. The credits were rolling, and the ending was bleak.

  CHAPTER 35

  Stroke in Evolution

  I HAD A BAD HABIT OF TRYING TO DO TOO MANY THINGS AT ONCE. One afternoon, I was cleaning a patient’s ears—Mr. Edwards’s ears were always impacted with wax—when my cell phone began to ring in my lab coat. Unable to ignore it, I reached into my pocket as I held the speculum in his external auditory canal. I saw a Pennsylvania area code.

  “Ouch,” screamed Mr. Edwards, pulling on his earlobe. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I’m so sorry. Let me just have another look?”

  “No, I’m done for today,” he said, standing up. “You’ve caused enough damage already.”

  As soon as he left, I listened to the message from Trooper Iverson. He said, “Dr. Spinelli, it’s been a while since we last spoke, but I wanted to bring you up to speed on the status of our case. When you get a minute, if you can give me a call here in our barracks, I’d appreciate it.”

  Dialing the number, I prepared myself for the worst. I was reminded of the conversation I’d had with Mr. Sayer five months earlier. His pessimism concerning this case forced me to give up any lingering hope that Bill Fox was going to be arrested.

  When Trooper Iverson answered, I immediately recalled the slow-tempered way he spoke, as though he was carefully choosing each word. “Dr. Spinelli,” he said. “I wanted to update you on our case. Yesterday, we arrested Mr. Fox on twenty-one counts, including rape, child molestation, deviant sexual intercourse, and intimidation of a minor. The judge set bail at a hundred thousand. Mr. Fox declined to post and remains in prison.”

  I could barely squeeze out a response. “Excuse me? Could you repeat that?”

  “Three victims came forward and testified,” he continued. “All three were his adopted sons.”

  I began writing whatever words came into my mind, but was distracted by a steady throb in my temples. I was entombed in white noise. I could no longer hear Trooper Iverson.

  “Dr. Spinelli, are you there?”

  “I don’t know what to say,” I said finally. “Thank you so much for calling me. I was sure the case was going to get dropped, especially after I spoke with Mr. Sayer.”

  “Well, that’s the thing with these cases. You have to be patient. It was only a matter of time until we collected enough evidence for the attorney general’s office to agree we had a sufficient amount for an arrest warrant.”

  Slowly, I felt myself coming out of my state of shock. “Thank you again for all your hard work.”

  “We have you to thank, as well. If it wasn’t for you, who knows what would have happened.”

  Hanging up, I stared down at the notepad. The only two words I’d written were BOY BONDING.

  Chad was in Boston for work. I texted him immediately. Then I contacted so many people I lost track. I was so excited that I wanted to run into the waiting room and tell everyone my former Scoutmaster and child molester had finally been arrested. Instead, I grabbed a chart and called the next patient.

  On my way home from the office, I bought a bottle of champagne and two bottles of white wine. By the time Chad arrived, I was already drunk. He slowly made his way into the apartment, stopping only to pet the dog. His reaction was nothing like I had imagined. I expected him to be as thrilled as I was. Chad’s participation in this entire ordeal was crucial. Over the past three years, I’d often told him that if I hadn’t had him in my life, I wouldn’t have found the strength to face Bill. Was it foolish of me to think that Chad was able to sustain the intensity that I had been building up for the past thirty years? In those minutes after he opened the door, all I could feel was my own disappointment. While he unpacked, played with the dog, and then sorted through his mail, I felt a rising anger burning inside my chest.

  “I’ve already spoken to the local newspapers. I’m thinking I should write a statement. Maybe I should call Nancy Grace?”

  He remained impervious to my suggestions.

  “What’s the matter?”

  He offered a weak smile, a condescending look he’d perfected. “Nothing.”

  I pointed to my glass. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Sure.” His succinct responses only infuriated me more. I stood up, opened the refrigerator, and stared at the bottle of champagne. For a second I considered opening it, but then I reached for the open bottle of wine instead. By the time I poured Chad a glass, he was already sitting at his computer, thoroughly engrossed in one of his favorite websites. I handed him the wine, and he drank, still staring at the computer screen.

  “Cheers, Frank!” I said sarcastically. “Congratulations!”

  Chad looked over his shoulder. “What? I already congratulated you earlier.”

  “You know this is bullshit.”

  Chad stared at me. He had an uncanny ability to remain at ease, as if losing his temper was a sign of weakness and retaliating with anger, an affront to his unflappable nature. “You know what’s bullshit?” he said calmly. “Coming home after a long business trip and finding you drunk.”

  “Give me a break. Okay, so I’m drunk. I thought you were going to be home early. Forgive me for starting without you. You know, I wasn’t expecting flowers from you or even a card, but you didn’t even think of champagne. Anything! You know how important this is to me.”

  Chad stood up. He walked directly past me and into the bedroom.

  “Where are you going?”

  He stopped. “It’s always about what I don’t do for you.” Then he walked in the bedroom and slammed the door.

  I wanted to rip Chad’s computer off his desk and throw it on the ground. I picked up a book instead and began reading. I read the same line over and over, glancing intermittently at the bedroom door, hoping Chad would come out and apologize but knowing he wasn’t going to. Had I still been the old me, the man I was before I started seeing Dr. McGovern, I would have never considered giving in first during an argument. That Frank thrived on stalemate situations.

  As more time passed, I began to wonder whether Chad was the least bit curious about what I was doing. I stared at the clock, counting down the seconds, hoping he’d concede first and redeem himself, but with each passing minute, I grew angrier until, finally, I stopped counting because I realized
I was playing a self-defeating game.

  I marched into the bedroom. Chad was lying on the bed, reading a magazine with Hoffman reclining over his abdomen. They stared at me as though they had forged an alliance of silence.

  “You’re a jerk. I want you to apologize for not being more excited for me, for us, about Bill’s arrest.”

  Softly he said, “Okay, I’m sorry.”

  After I walked out of the room, I started to sob. Chad followed behind and hugged me. I cried on his shoulder. The outcome had finally taken its toll on both of us. It was not vindication that I felt. It was regret. Regret for those who could have been spared.

  THE NEXT MORNING, I WOKE UP before my alarm went off. I had a busy day ahead of me, including a full schedule of patients and a noontime lunch presentation. I arrived earlier than usual so I’d have time to search online for reports of Bill’s arrest. Surprisingly, I found articles in two local Pennsylvania newspapers. In the comment section below one of the articles I read a post from a man who identified himself as a former victim. I replied to his message and left my contact information.

  At 10:30 A.M., I received a call from Chad. “I don’t feel well.”

  “You’re probably exhausted and a little dehydrated. Remember, you came home late last night after a four-hour train ride. Then we polished off a bottle of wine. Have something to eat, drink plenty of water, and no more coffee. That’ll only make you feel worse. Do you have a busy day?”

  “Yeah, I have a conference call in ten minutes. I’ll let you know how I feel after.”

  “Eat something,” I insisted, sounding frighteningly like my mother.

  Half an hour later, I received a text from Chad: I feel like I want to throw up. Without a second thought, I went home. Perhaps I was channeling my mother or perhaps I’d lived with Chad long enough to know he hardly ever complained. When I arrived at the apartment ten minutes later, I found him lying in bed. A brown pool of vomit was on the floor next to him. Hoffman was in the living room, whining nervously. When he approached me, I ordered him to stay back, fearing he might lap it up. I began cleaning.