The Child

by Sarah Schulman

  “I love you,” Stew said.

  “I love you,” David said.

  Love had come more easily to David these last few years. In his twenties he’d lost the love of his life, Tommy Jackson, to the abyss of alcoholic behavior. Tommy had acted badly, become ashamed, punished David, then become more ashamed and therefore punished David more. For ten years David had not been able to fall in love again. Now he had finally come to love a number of people. When there was something compelling about a man or boy, something endearing about his homosexuality, David found it easy to love him. There were fewer expectations now. Increasingly, he was leaning toward the temporality of happiness, and the memory of it. That was progress. That was it.

  As a younger man Dave might have longed for another fellow simply because of some bait–like a glance that revealed knowledge, or a particular gesture associating with a resonant scene in a movie or with Tommy. But these last few years he had successfully taken in the joy of obsession and had eliminated the compulsion for pursuit. The remembrance of male beauty was satisfying in its own right. Predictably, since he had come to that revelation, men and boys fell into his arms with greater tenderness and frequency. He’d learned how to keep his loneliness to himself.

  “I had to see you,” Stew said.

  “I’m glad. I could have picked you up in the city. Hey, Joe,” Dave yelled. “Get up. Stew’s here.”

  Joe shuffled down the carpeted stairs still in his pajamas. It was Saturday afternoon and he’d only gotten off the lobster shift at seven.

  “Hi, Stew.”

  Joe came over and gave Stew a kiss on the lips. Then the three of them had their arms around one another, and Joe and David lifted the boy up into the air.

  “I’ve got to get a Coke,” Joe said, waking up. “How’s school?”

  Joe scratched his balls. He could have been handsome with minor effort, but he didn’t care at all. Those officially positive attributes, like blue eyes, went unexploited. Joe accepted himself the way he was and attributed that to being from Canada, where people were not as neurotic as New Yorkers about anything.

  “Got any new videos?” Stew smiled.

  Joe laughed then and stumbled into the kitchen, door swinging behind him. Stew plopped down on the couch and glanced up at Dave coquettishly. Then he folded his jacket, carefully placing it out of the way.

  “Flirt,” David said, worrying about the danger, but then going forward as he always had. Personally assured of the appropriateness of his desires, he lowered the blinds.

  Joe came back with three Cokes and a stack of videos.

  “Here’s a new one.” He handed out the drinks. “Manrod in Space. It’s about those Russian cosmonauts that were stuck up in the fucking Mir. Then NASA sends up an American astronaut to rescue them and he’s.…”

  “Jeff Stryker?” Stew giggled.

  “Jeff Stryker? You’ve been watching vintage porn.”

  “He’s my favorite star. School sucks. Everyone hates me and I hate them. I want to get out of my house.”

  Dave had to nip that one in the bud. “If you leave home, you’ll be poor forever, right, Joe?” He looked over for some confirmation, but Joe was busy with the remote. “You’ll peddle your ass and be totally fucked up.” He did not want this kid moving in with them. “You gotta finish. You’ll graduate soon.” Dave saw the anxiety on the kid’s face and decided the message had gotten through. He sat down next to Stew on the couch. Softened. “High school is their party. Just get out and never look back.”

  Watching Stew relax, Dave remembered Tommy Jackson as a young man before he was ravaged by his addictions. Dave remembered a smiling, loving Tommy with the small slope of his back. Then David remembered Tommy at his craziest–how he would never pick up the phone and told the police he was being stalked, just because his friends were worried. How he blamed David for all of his problems. Shame overwhelmed love for Tommy, but not for David. Dave still believed, as he had for so many years, that if Tom would go to a twelve-step program, Dave could forgive him and they could be together again. They could move to South Carolina. Dave would give up everything he knew if he and Tommy could be together again. Joe would understand.

  “Not soon.” Joe snapped open his soda can.

  “Huh?”

  “Stewie is not graduating soon. Three more years, right, guy?”

  “Right. Put on the video.”

  “Okay, okay, Mr. Frisky.” Dave was ready for action. “I remember when I was like you. Boner–morning, noon, and night.”

  “I hated school,” Joe said, sitting down on Stew’s other side. “Everyone called me a fag. No one would stand up for me. No one. Let me tell you something, Stewie. Fags have to stick together. Never squeal on another fag. Never. I hated those kids, and I still hate every one of them. There is nothing bad enough that could happen to them what would be too bad as far as I am concerned.”

  “I want to kill them.”

  “No one is killing anyone, Stew,” David said. “Open your Coke.”

  They sat on the sofa, sipping their Cokes, watching Manrod in Space.

  “Hey, stallion.” Dave rustled Stew’s hair. “Look at the gonzo on that one.”

  “Yeah,” Stew said, putting his hand on David’s thigh and then on his crotch. Joe put his hand up Stew’s shirt and touched his nipples. Dave and Stew kissed. Stew unzipped his own pants, and Joe started sucking him off while Stew kept his hand on Dave’s dick. The dialogue from the video was inane.

  The phone rang.

  “Shit,” Dave said.

  “Don’t stop,” Stew said.

  Stew was hard again on the train going home, but he also felt squishy and silly. He felt happy. Listening to the low whine of the passengers, he knew that going to David’s house by himself, just because he wanted to, was one of the greatest moments of his life. He could get out now whenever he wished. He knew how. Childhood was over and the possibilities engorged him.

  It was getting dark and lights were starting to come on in the Westchester towns. He passed house after house with the TV flickering, so boring, just like his own fucking house. He was tired suddenly and a little cold. He wanted to fall asleep and pretended that he lived in one of those houses so that he could roll over into bed. Someday soon he’d have his own place, and then his friends could come over and jerk off, goof around, and make out. The ugly houses were passing. Every single person who lived in them was trapped. He knew it. They all had someone telling them what they could not do. Harping on their flaws. But now he’d figured out how to get away from all of that, all those monsters.

  The train passed through Harlem and he saw black people in their apartments watching TV. Then the train got to Grand Central Station and he had a hard time finding the subway. He got a little lost because of all the construction, but Stew didn’t mind. Three times he ended up back in the Great Hall of the station, finally staring up at the domed ceiling, the gold stars and planets painted on its slope. It was huge, old, and elegant.

  That was another thing he’d understood on the train. The problem with those houses in New Jersey and Westchester was that they were both new and shabby. Here in Grand Central Station he figured out that old and solid was better. It was like a slap, that realization. He woke up panicked. Not only was he free, but he had his own taste. It was a new kind of responsibility to be discerning.

  Stew saw an older, sexy guy standing around too, and went over to ask him for directions to the subway, the one to Penn Station so he could walk to Port Authority and then get the Greyhound back upstate. They talked a bit. Then Stew asked him for directions to the men’s room. It didn’t take more than five minutes of shaking his dick in front of the urinal for the old guy to come in after him and wave his dick around, too. It was a short, thick one. Too short. Stew thought about this guy fucking him and had an image of the top of his butthole plugged up tight, but then miles of empty space where the rest of that guy’s dick should have been.

  The guy came over and put his
hand on Stew’s shoulder. It was warm and old and solid.

  “I love you,” Stew said, without even thinking.

  “You’re under arrest,” the man said, zipping up his pants.

  At the stationhouse at Midtown South, there were three cops making cracks all night. After fifteen hours of freezing, starving fear, one cop took Stew’s mug shot and fingerprints.

  “Your parents are waiting downstairs,” the cop said.

  “Oh no,” Stew finally cried. He wanted to go back to jail.

  “Cocksucker,” said the cop.

  Stew cried.

  The cop grinned knowingly. He knew for a fact that this kid’s life was over.

  3

  Eva’s plan was to lie down on the examination table and offer up her breasts while simultaneously shaking hands with Dr. Pollack, looking him in the eye. Years of yoga made this an option. She wanted to assert herself and co-operate. Was this combination possible? If she could stand out in his mind, then–at night–he would lie in bed, suddenly having the revelation about her case that would save her life. She had to catch his attention so that he’d do a good job. If she acted like every other of his many patients, she would be treated like them. And that might not be enough.

  This balance was a tricky business.

  On the other hand, if Dr. Pollack turned out to be a terrible doctor, one who does a lot of damage, the plan would reverse. She would strive for him to ignore her altogether. Excess complacency was the way to disappear. Then he could not spot her as a moving target for his diabolical ineptitude. Neglect would be the best that she could hope for.

  Eva was waiting for a cancer diagnosis that she considered possible . However, she also expected to live. If her life was about to change, she knew she had been a good lawyer. But even her career paled in comparison to her two most excellent decisions: (1) Mary; and (2) No children. These were her gifts.

  The list of weaknesses was equally obvious. Eva felt she had spent her life not having fought hard enough for … whatever, you name it. Reflecting at that moment on forty years of assorted moments, it was clear to her that in sticky situations she’d often glanced longingly toward battle but ultimately gave in. Now, being responsible and aware enough to know she had to strategize her doctor, she wondered if she was going to have to face illness. That is to say, to finally be ready to fully fight for something without restraint. But did it have to be her life?

  “Hello, Doctor. My name is Eva.”

  “My middle daughter’s name is Eva. I have six daughters. Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

  The examination table was pushed up lengthwise against the wall. Before, while she was waiting, that wall had provided comfort for Eva’s aching back. But now the positioning became an issue of concern. If the table had been in the middle of the room, Pollack could have examined both breasts by walking around it. But since the examination table was against the wall, he had to sit on it, lean over the length of her body with his body, and reach over her to shift sides. It created a special, extra intimacy.

  Eva hoped this was not deliberate. Just bad interior design. Considering her brand-new commitment to the fight, if Dr. Pollack’s bad spatial planning was purposeful, so that he could cop a feel, she’d have to do something. Something. But even the idea of raising her voice made her hands clammy. So she tried guilt. Reminding him of his familial obligations. That he was a father, with children, and those children wouldn’t want him to do anything creepy.

  “No sons?”

  “My son is a beach bum. He spends all his time at Rockaway Beach surfing, hanging out with girls. Weight lifting. Your breasts are very fibrous. I can’t see anything on those mammograms. Let’s try a sonogram. Alicia, write down large breasts with significant markings.”

  “What’s a sonogram?”

  Eva now had more than two upsetting things to think about, which tended to be her limit. Something was wrong, of that she was sure. A man should not be a breast doctor, and she didn’t trust religious Jews. Plus the examination table was in the wrong place. Additionally, she was upset by the word large. It was embarrassing. Plus, she might have cancer. Today.

  If she had cancer, it was her own fault. She ate too much fat, and didn’t do Cardio-Step-Kickboxing, and had cigarettes at certain key moments. Also, there was the environmental pollution that she had never tried to stop, and bad genes she hadn’t investigated. But if this guy Pollack was a creep, she should stand up to him. On the other hand, if she was the problem, then everything was fine. This whole situation could potentially be normal if she was simply overreacting. Maybe within the realm of a world in which men were breast doctors, this was all okay. Normal. Maybe she was so out of it that she couldn’t recognize normalcy when it slapped her in the face. It was probably Eva’s own fault that she was uncomfortable.

  “I put this electricity-conducting gel on this tiny machine that fits into the palm of my hand. See?”

  Dr Pollack placed his shiny, lubricated hand on a wired piece of plastic that slid over her breast.

  This was clearly one of those multitudinous moments in which it was better, safer, cleaner, and smarter to conform. Otherwise, being distressed was confusing, and he would have the advantage. Eva should just worry about the cancer. She didn’t like this man’s hands on her, but that’s what she got for being such a fuck-up that she could only afford to go to a clinic. Even a clean, expensive one. It had an elite veneer, but still felt like a factory. At this point she should have been far enough along financially to have her own personal breast doctor.

  “I pass the machine over the breast and then.…” He ran his hand over her nipple. “… on the video monitor we can see a picture of the inside of your breast.… He skateboards, too.”

  The image came up on the screen.

  “Does your son have a tattoo?”

  She was sweating.

  “No, no, no tattoo. Absolutely not,” he sputtered. “Never. I hope you don’t have a tattoo.”

  As he moved his hands slowly on and around her breast, she looked at the hairs on his fingers. The doctor smelled of shaving cream. It reminded her of her own weak-willed, creepy, but never sexually inappropriate father–now dead for so many years. Her father was a Nice Guy. He never yelled. He was a nice, sweet man who let her down regularly in a soft, kind, persuasive, loving way. He was overwhelmed with the experience of not being a boy anymore. By the age of ten, Eva realized that her daddy didn’t know how to set the table. He didn’t know where the fork went. It was an emblematic moment. He died very comfortably. His last words were, “What did I do?”

  He got away with it.

  Eva wanted to cry, so she looked over at the monitor instead. She and Dr. Pollack watched little cysts come in and out of focus.

  “I know,” she said. “You can’t be buried in a Jewish cemetery if you have a tattoo.”

  “They made them have tattoos.”

  “I know about it.”

  This was the wrong track.

  “Look.” The doctor picked up a ringing phone. “You’re full of cysts. Hello?”

  He spoke into the receiver while leaning back against Eva’s supine body. His gooey, hairy hand still slid up and down her breast.

  “Mrs Pagano? I’m glad you called. Yes, I’m afraid I have bad news for you. The tumor was malignant.”

  Dr Pollack continued to move his hand, cradling the phone on his shoulder, both eyes on the video monitor. Multi-tasking.

  “Yes, Mrs. Pagano, you need to make an appointment for a double mastectomy.”

  Pollack became slightly absent-minded now, almost glassy-eyed, like he was playing a video game.

  “No … no … no. We won’t know until we see the nodes. I am telling you the truth, Mrs. Pagano. We won’t know your chances until we see the nodes … Mrs. Pagano, there is no need to count on the worst.”

  He turned to Eva and raised his eyebrows. Then he went back to the monitor. “Nowadays with radiation, chemo, and meds, you may have a good chance.”
>
  Eva felt like a mouse pad. By this point in the proceedings, she knew it was not only her fault that she was uncomfortable. Something was definitely not okay about the way the doctor was handling things.

  “Call the surgeon, and make an appointment. Who is your surgeon? … He’s good.… Yes, I’m telling you the truth. If I knew for certain that you were dying, I would tell you.”

  She had to get out of there. Eva looked over at Alicia. She was filing, oblivious. Eva stared at the appliqués on Alicia’s fake fingernails. So ornamented. Then she imagined her own bare, plain scalp.

  Standing up and running away while Dr. Pollack was sitting on her, talking on the phone with his hand running up and down her breast just seemed too hard to do. She eyed her shirt hanging on the door and calculated its distance from her arm. As soon as he hung up the phone she would make a break for it.

  “Mrs Pagano, I know this is quite a shock.”

  Then, abruptly, Pollack hung up.

  “Eva,” he said. “We need to aspirate two cysts and do a biopsy.”

  She felt relief and panic. Relief because Mrs. Pagano was gone, off into her own despair, so Eva had only her personal potential cancer to deal with. The word biopsy meant that she had to stay put. So she didn’t have to be rude, doctorless, earn yet another person’s disapproval while her problems stayed unresolved. Eva had been saved from disdain by the threat of death.

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, a core biopsy.”

  He thinks this is all okay, she gauged. The doctor did not feel guilty about his own behavior. Only she felt guilty about hers. He thought he was doing her a favor. Okay, as long as he was sincere, though wrong, she could go along with it.

  “Wait,” she said. “I have to call my insurance company.”

  “Okay. There’s a pay phone in the waiting room.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I need preapproval,” she said metaphorically and materially. “Or they won’t reimburse.”