Referred Pain: Stories

by Lynne Sharon Schwartz

  He had daydreams of cutting the plate with a miniature saw so that only the two teeth and their wires remained. Late one night after a rehearsal, he placed it on a carving board in the kitchen and held a sharp knife over it. He lowered the knife until it grazed the pink surface and kept it there for some moments. But his nerve failed him. Dentistry was a tricky business—he was living proof. He didn’t trust himself to do the job right.

  The knife in his hand felt good, though, and he gripped it until an idea struck him.

  “I think we need some time together before you go off,” he said the next night. “How about if we went to Italy first? Just a week, say. Maybe Rome? I’ll put it on a card. Then you can go on from there.”

  Lisa hesitated an instant. “That sounds nice. But what about your father? What if he gets worse and they need you?”

  “I called this morning. It’s fine.” Go now, his mother had said, while things aren’t too bad yet. “Okay? I’ll make all the arrangements. You’ve got enough to do.”

  He had feared, when Lisa said, Get out of my life, that she meant it literally. But she seemed to have forgotten her harsh words. On the plane, they raised the armrest dividing them and fooled around under a blanket. Koslowski felt calm, in command of his distress. He had a plan. Okay, so maybe no reputable American dentist would make a removable bridge—hard to believe, but never mind. Dr. Eng had let drop that such a device might be extant in Europe. Rome is in Europe, Koslowski syllogized. Ergo, he would get the bridge in Rome. Europeans, with their long, complex and bloody history, would not be daunted by the unlikely danger of someone swallowing a small plastic object. Or by the risk of bizarre lawsuits.

  Their first day in Rome, while Lisa slept off her jet lag, he called the American consulate and got the names of three English-speaking dentists; he envisioned a mellow, urbane Italian, someone like Dr. Fisher, the dental surgeon. A man who would bring old-world esprit to his case.

  Only one of the three could see him immediately: Dr. Habemeyer. Habemeyer? That didn’t sound Italian. But he would not be foiled; no doubt there were reasons why an Italian might be named Habemeyer. After all, he was an American named Koslowski, which most people initially mispronounced.

  “I have an appointment tomorrow,” he told Lisa as they spooned up coffee granitas in an outdoor café opposite the Pantheon. He avoided the word “tooth,” dreading her ire, yet he had to account for his absence.

  “What kind of appointment?”

  Her reaction was a surprise. “An Italian dentist? That’s cool! Maybe he’ll fix you up so you can forget teeth and get back to your life. Can I come? I’d like to see what an Italian dentist’s office is like.”

  With Lisa along, the excursion felt almost like a lark. They took a circuitous route, strolling through the piazzas and climbing the Spanish Steps. Their destination turned out to be an august old building in the heart of Rome, studded with magnificent stonework. They stroked the wrought-iron curlicues of the elevator and admired the elaborately carved ceiling of the waiting room. The shapes of the ancient velvet-covered chairs blurred in the dim light. How far from the streamlined plastic waiting rooms Koslowski had grown accustomed to! The receptionist, even with her minimal English, was courteous, as if he were an honored guest. Ah, the old world. For a forgetful instant he wished he had been born here.

  Before long he was summoned, leaving Lisa behind to leaf through an Italian fashion magazine. The dentist had pale mottled skin and wiry tufts of sandy hair. He spoke English, as the consulate had promised, but not with an Italian accent. German, unmistakably. Laurence Olivier in Marathon Man flashed to mind. But this was no movie, and anyhow it was too late. The dentist waved him to the chair.

  Prejudice aside, Koslowski found Dr. Habemeyer’s manner graceless, his probings clumsy. He interrupted the examination several times to bark into the phone, dealing at length with what appeared to be personal matters. Yet with all that, he offered a lucid analysis.

  “I understand your situation. You have three options regarding this space. One: leave it alone. Two: have a permanent bridge made. Three: get implants. Each of these options has advantages and disadvantages. The first option is self-explanatory. The second option would mean grinding down two more teeth—”

  Koslowski shook his head vigorously.

  “However,” Dr. Habemeyer continued, unregarding, “the two teeth left in back might not support a bridge.”

  He began describing implants and their attendant surgery, but Koslowski’s mind fogged over at the very thought. “Can’t you make me a removable little bridge?”

  “Certainly.” Koslowski’s heart skipped a beat. “I do it all the time, but it would be expensive and would take several weeks. How long will you be here?”

  “Six more days.”

  “In that case,” said the dentist, as if it were the most casual thing in the world, “I can cut this one down to what you want.”

  Koslowski almost sprang from the chair. Cut it! Just what he had so often contemplated with the kitchen knife. And he had thought it a rash notion born of hysteria.

  “Yes! Cut it! But,” he added boldly, “be careful. It cost a lot of money.” He gave a weak little laugh.

  Merely raising a bushy eyebrow at the imputation, Dr. Habemeyer produced a miniature saw, the embodiment of Koslowski’s fantasies, set the plate on a plastic tray, and began sawing away. Vengeful pleasure warmed Koslowski’s innards as he watched Dr. Eng’s work being destroyed, or at least humbled beyond recognition. Dr. Habemeyer dusted off the remains, which resembled what Dr. Blebanoff had so unceremoniously removed from his mouth, and Koslowski opened wide. A small click signaled success. The cost, millions of lire, translated to seventy-five dollars, which he paid gladly.

  He sailed out of the office holding Lisa’s hand. On the hot street he picked her up and swung her around.

  “Richie! I haven’t seen you this happy in months.”

  “I’m delirious. It’s a new world.”

  “All because you have a bridge that fits?”

  “Yes!”

  “Well, that’s great. I’m really glad. I wish everyone’s problems could be solved so easily. What was the guy like?”

  “A mad scientist type. Not exactly a winning personality, but okay. German. Imagine that!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, of all the dentists, a German is the one who helps me. It felt creepy to have his fingers in my mouth.”

  She didn’t answer right away. “Okay, I get it, but I really hate when you talk like that.”

  “Oh, come off the p.c. pedestal. Can’t you relax even for a minute?”

  “Can’t I relax? I’m not the one who won’t let go. Doesn’t it ever end?”

  “Listen, let’s not spoil things, okay? He was fine. He was terrific. So maybe his grandfather gassed my grandfather, but what the hell? He fixed my teeth. I’m so grateful I’m ready to overlook everything.”

  Lisa stared as if he were a stranger. “You are truly appalling. But … let’s just drop it for now. Where to?”

  They gadded about Rome all day and ate a splendid dinner. Koslowski chewed carefully because the bridge was slightly loose and jiggled on contact with food. At night they went dancing; with no words, with music and wine, they unearthed the old affinity. They held hands on the way back to the pensione, and Lisa mused aloud about the women she’d be interviewing: their shame, their reticence, their future. What would become of their babies, who would be forever marked?

  “You’re just the right person for this,” he said. “You’ll do a terrific job.”

  “Maybe, but that’s not really the point. It would be better if it didn’t have to be done at all.”

  She saw him off at the airport—she’d be leaving for Bosnia the next day. They embraced, but when Koslowski turned back for a last look, she was already hurrying away. He stood a moment, willing her to feel his glance, then went on. Well, she couldn’t help being preoccupied. He tried to imagine what await
ed her, but he was so relieved to have the gap filled, the mad growth—madder in the absence of the tooth—held in check, that the suffering of others eluded him. He would think about the Muslim women tomorrow.

  On the plane, he helped a blonde girl across the aisle hoist her huge backpack into the overhead bin and nodded to his seatmate, an elderly man in Bermuda shorts who was already half asleep. He plugged in the earphones and took refuge in Schubert: Death and the Maiden.

  Its final movement was interrupted by a voice in his ear: “Good afternoon, folks, this is Captain Riley. I hope you’re having a pleasant flight. I just wanted to alert you that we’ve lost the use of an engine and will be landing in Paris in about half an hour. We’ll keep you posted if there are any new developments.”

  Paris! Koslowski unplugged. Could this be dangerous? Probably not. These big planes have engines to spare. Assuming the pilot was telling the whole truth. He glanced at his neighbor, fast asleep, and wished Lisa were beside him. No, if anything bad were to happen, better that she was safe. A flight attendant approached, pushing the laden cart: service as usual. He bought a beer and found the crossword puzzle in the flight magazine. No point in worrying—it was out of his hands. Maybe they’d be held over in Paris and he could have a quick look around.

  Moments later he glanced up and noticed the blonde girl across the aisle, the one with the enormous bag. She sat rigid, staring straight ahead, her hands twisting in her lap, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  Koslowski leaned toward her. “Hey, what’s the trouble? Can I do something?”

  She turned slowly, just her head, not her body. Her hair was the gold of legend, short and straight, curving into her neck. Her face was creamy, her eyes green and wet. She wore a white tank top and khaki shorts. Her lips trembled. “It’s nothing.”

  “Come on.” He smiled. “It’s something. Is it what the pilot just said? Are you scared?” She was just a kid, traveling alone. The Indian woman beside her was asleep.

  “I think I’m going to die. I’m sure of it.” She wiped her cheeks with a fist.

  “No way. We’ll be in Paris before you know it. There’s no real danger.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do. These planes have four engines, and they’re designed so they can run on two.”

  “What if another engine goes?”

  “That’s not too likely. They build them carefully. The pilots don’t want to die either. Look, there are two empty seats. Let’s sit there, and you can help me with this puzzle.”

  Still trembling, she followed him. What if she were right? Koslowski thought. Well, at least death in a plane crash would merit respect, unlike dental work. Headlines all over the world. His parents would change their minds about how lucky he was. He turned to the girl. No, she didn’t seem the type who would enjoy macabre wit.

  “They said Paris in half an hour,” she wailed. “It’s more than that now. We’re going so slow, it’s like we’re hardly moving. Like we could just drop out of the sky.”

  It was true; they were going very slowly. “Let’s not think about it, okay?” he said. “Let’s finish the puzzle. Do you know any geography? A mountain range in Russia?”

  The plane began its descent, which felt labored and ponderous. The girl—Jody, she told him with a sniffle—grabbed Koslowski’s arm, and despite himself, he tensed for the impact. It’s not going to happen, he thought. It’s not my destiny.

  A soft bump, a surge and roar, and the air filled with applause, with gusts of held-in breath. Jody fell sobbing into Koslowski’s arms. Around them, people hugged and congratulated themselves on being alive. Even the flight attendants, who had remained crisp and smiling throughout, looked relieved.

  In the airport lounge, a festive air reigned. Strangers chatted like old friends. Koslowski, in a gregarious mood, found that many of the passengers, including his former seatmate, were members of a senior citizens’ Baptist church group returning from a fifteen-day tour. Only Jody, pale and trembling, as if they still might perish, clung to him and spoke to no one.

  “God was with us,” a stout, white-haired woman said jovially. “We were praying with all our might. It’s all right now, dear,” she exhorted Jody. “Cheer up. The Lord takes care of his own.”

  Perhaps he could hand her over to this motherly woman? But it was clear she wouldn’t leave his side.

  He shepherded her through the process of lining up, first for buses to take them to a nearby hotel for the night (the plane would be repaired and depart the next morning), then for room assignments. The group was served a chicken dinner in the hotel dining room at large round tables. The mood was bright, with much mention of God’s will, and the meal, if not up to Parisian standards, was more than adequate. Compared to a malfunctioning aircraft, everything was fine, even Christian fundamentalism, even Koslowski’s teeth and the loose bridge. He drank two glasses of free wine, and Jody, too, perked up with a few sips. Minutes after they said goodnight in the hall, as Koslowski prepared to undress, came a knock on his door.

  Jody stood there in an embroidered powder-blue Chinese robe, clutching her room key.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “I’m still scared.” She stared up at him, open-mouthed. “Can I stay with you?”

  He took a deep breath. What did she mean, exactly? Could he refuse? He opened the door wider and she slipped past him.

  “I was just about to—”

  “Go ahead. Whatever. I’ll get into bed, okay?” She smiled coyly and removed her robe. She was wearing a peach-colored baby-doll nightie with a strip of white lace at the bottom and white ribbons at the top. Lisa slept naked or in his tshirts. It was some years since he had confronted a woman in a sexy nightgown. “What’s your name again? I was so nervous on the plane, I forgot.”

  “Richard. My friends call me Richie.”

  “So isn’t this better than being alone, Richie? I mean, it’s been such an awful day, I figured, why not …”

  “I’ll be right back.” He took his carry-on bag and escaped into the bathroom. How to appear on his return? Not stark naked, surely. He pulled on a pair of fresh boxer shorts, washed his face, smoothed down his hair. This was so unexpected, but as she said, why not? At this point he could hardly turn back. He was about to brush his teeth when he remembered the bridge. He couldn’t leave it in a glass of water for Jody to find if she went into the bathroom. He might hide the glass, but where? There was no medicine cabinet, no handy nook. He stared into the mirror—he looked overwrought. Grow up, he chided. Lisa would never know. These were exceptional circumstances. He decided to keep the bridge in for now; later, when Jody fell asleep, he could put it in water and stow the glass in a drawer. In the morning she’d have to return to her room.

  This problem successfully addressed, Koslowski felt better, on the brink of adventure. He grinned into the mirror, leered, winked. She was awfully young, too young, but no one could say he lured her. His behavior was irreproachable. Could he help it if she wanted him?

  In bed, she put her arms around him with a curious blend of shyness and boldness. “You must think I’m some kind of flake but, really, isn’t it nicer this way?”

  “Sure it is,” he whispered. “Much nicer.”

  Jody was very different from Lisa, whose lovemaking was forthright and passionate. He suspected this girl had known only a couple of college boys. She offered herself with confidence, though, as a coveted object, and wanted, passively, to be made love to. Koslowski obliged. She seemed impressed by what he had to offer.

  “That was fantastic,” she said. “Really fantastic.” He smiled in the dark. Dental work had not eroded this talent, although with Lisa, of late, he had felt distant, had withheld something. But the question of comparative suffering, of the subjective and objective apprehension of pain, of mountains and molehills, did not come between him and this sweet but irrelevant Jody.

  “You’re a beautiful girl. How old are you?”

  “Nineteen. Almost tw
enty. What about you? Thirty-five, I bet.”

  Thirty-five? Had he aged so much since his troubles began? What would she think if she knew he was missing two teeth? That he kept a little bridge in a glass of water? She might not find him so fantastic then. “Thirty-three.”

  “I never made it with such an old guy.” She giggled. “I’ve only done it with two, no, three, guys so far, no one over twenty-four. Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “But you’re with someone, right?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I can just tell. ’Cause you didn’t come on to me, maybe.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of that when we were up there. Besides, you’re so young.”

  “You think you’ll marry her?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What’s she like?”

  He shook his head. “What about you? What were you doing in Italy?”

  She had spent her junior year abroad—she attended a small college in Ohio—and stayed on for a few extra weeks. Her Italian was fluent, she declared, and spoke a few words to demonstrate. “Guess what I said.”

  “How can I guess? What?”

  “I like the way you fuck.”

  “Well, I’m glad,” said Koslowski.

  “Except for today it was a great year. What an ending! Anyway, I feel better now. The only thing bothering me is, we have to get back on that plane tomorrow. What if it happens again? Can we sit together? So if we die we’re not alone?”

  “It’ll go fine. Something like this is a fluke—it wouldn’t happen two days in a row. Is someone meeting you when you get back?”

  “My brother. He lives in New York and he’s going to drive me back home to Pittsburgh. Thank God I don’t have to fly there.” She yawned. “I’ve had it for one day. ’Night, Richie.”

  Once he was sure she was sleeping, he got up stealthily to remove the bridge and put it in the bathroom glass, which he hid in the night table. It was barely light when she whispered, “See you downstairs, okay?”