The Ringer

by Bill Scheft

  Who knows why, but he breezed past twenty—don’t question the Universe—and kept his pace and form steady until fifty, when he stopped, surprisingly refreshed, nothing left to prove. Sheila caught it all in the mirror on the wall facing the treadmills. Some second wind. She watched him bound up and walk around in a small circle, hands on his head, each inhale inflating a smile. So, this was College Boy.

  They both did forty-five minutes on the treadmills, although only thirty-six at the same time. The reflection of each other’s company and its stirring silence was broken occasionally—“How’s it going?” “What incline are you at?” “What should I do here?”—but neither of them wanted interruption. And it was crowded enough since they had been joined by the endorphins.

  College Boy waited until Sheila was out of sight to crank his machine up to eight, then nine miles per hour and do a precooldown two-minute sprint. None of that “Ooh, such a big strong man” nonsense. And he rather she find him dead of a heart attack, slumped over the machine, treadmill belt still churning, than have to witness the actual coronary. And besides, she’d already had her laughs for the day watching him stretch.

  Q-Dog’s T-shirt was completely soaked through, and the shorts had the requisite crescent puddle below the waistband. Great, he thought, where am I going to find a laundry tonight? I’m not letting her touch this stuff.

  College Boy slipped off his sneakers and wandered in Q-Dog’s damp socks towards the sound of the shower in the darkest part of the gym. Suddenly, the water stopped running. Maybe somebody needed a towel. He danced into the changing room and turned left. No one. And then, his back got colder, damper, the way it can only get from another cold, sweaty shirt pressed against it.

  Sheila was leaning against the post that separated the two changing rooms. Bare feet, no shorts, arms only recently pulled through the shoulder loops of her leotard. Face flushed, the beginning of a spectrum of red that arced from her ample mouth to her cheeks and tumbled in three more shades down to the still wet darker ends of that great hair. She had fully intended to shower. Maybe he’d be there at the end with a towel. But when she sat in the changing room and heard him running, she changed her mind. And when she heard him stop, that’s when she wanted to run. To him. Nah. That would have scared him. So, Sheila kept the shower going, stayed hidden in the dark, then switched it off and let sweat find sweat.

  There aren’t too many better places to have sex than an empty gym. The mats. The benches that you can adjust. The benches you can’t. Bars of varying heights. All those towels. And if the College Boy and Sheila had thought about it, they might have really utilized the facilities. Given an alternate meaning to “circuit training,” “reps,” “squats,” “pumping iron,” and any other workout-inspired double entendre of your choice.

  But they didn’t think about where they were. Serious Fitness, Inc., Gym/Personal Training/Carnal Playground. They never made it out of the changing room. Hell, they never made it past the post against which Sheila was leaning. All of which made perverted sense. From Day One and since, for all their maneuvering, College Boy and Sheila had never gotten past each other.

  They took turns peeling off their last layers of sogginess, then bathed their faces in one another. Their clothes lay in a dank heap on the floor, all turned inside out. Eventually, they would be in the adjoining pile. When each had shuddered their last, they stared with gasping smiles for what felt like the first or millionth time.

  “All right,” panted Sheila. “No funny stuff in the shower.”

  They made out in the car like kids until she pushed him out in front of the entrance to the Yale Club. (How long had it been since that had happened?) It was almost eight. She’d be back to get the two of them at one tomorrow.

  College Boy had hoped to return to the room and find Mort asleep, or better, awake but slightly disoriented. Ah, no. He got off the elevator and saw Willie, their favorite room service waiter, heading back down the hall with a full tray.

  “Is that from us, Willie?”

  “Si.”

  “Wait here.”

  Morton Martin Spell was on the toilet, singing “I Get Jealous.” He had been there a while.

  “Mort, how did you get there?”

  “I knew somebody in admissions, you little shit. Now help me up so I can be left to die in bed the way you planned things.”

  If such a thing is possible, Mort was surly and abusive in the best way. Somehow, he had ordered dinner for himself. Somehow, he had made it to the toilet without a trail. Okay, so his timing was off. The food got there and he couldn’t get up. The nephew got there and he hadn’t planned his escape. But he had done two things with nobody’s help. Two things on the way to everything else. Morton Martin Spell, respected journalist and author, would not give himself the right to be proud. But he would let himself be nice and angry.

  After dinner and until he dropped off during “George Michael’s Sports Machine,” there was a lot of “Don’t think you’ll get away with this.” And maybe College Boy was looking at it all through a lens ground in postcoital optimism, but it was all good. Anger was strength. Paranoia bred energy. Combat looked like hope. All good.

  And forgive College Boy if he suddenly tacked hopeward, but during their four o’clock sojourn to the bathroom that morning, he could have sworn Mort was 10 percent steadier. Ten percent. Just enough to notice.

  He walked into the studio at 5:35. Dan Drake did not look up, even after he dropped six Hershey bars in front of him.

  “How long can you hang out?”

  “Eight?”

  “We go till ten here.”

  “I know. But I have to get back to the Yale Club before my uncle wakes up. And I wrote something, Dirt King stuff, if you’re interested.”

  “I’m not interested, but we’ll do it anyway.”

  Dan Drake glanced through the three pages of Yale Club stationery and in two minutes made the thing 50 percent better. Fifty percent. Just enough to notice.

  “Closing Arguments from The Dirt King” aired after the 7:35 local news break. During the first ninety minutes of the show, College Boy had resumed his former role of in-studio laugher. He even chuckled at a couple of remarks from Jason, the news reader. Jason seemed to possess that custom blend of absolute focus and utter cluelessness to Dan Drake, who kept luring him into what he thought might finally be a serious discussion of the news and what always ended with some question like, “Did they serve pie at the state dinner? Check that out for us.”

  Dan Drake gave a long, flawless introduction to “Closing Arguments from The Dirt King” that ended abruptly, on purpose, a favorite disarming tactic of his. It took College Boy a few lines to get his impression in stride and a few more to slow down. But there were a couple of real FM morning moments (“I have no affiliation with organized crime. The only ting I ever whacked was the weeds in Sheep Meadow. And myself when I did time upstate…. I never put a rake up anybody’s ass. That was a creation of the media. And besides, it is physically impossible to put a rake up somebody’s ass. Except your sistah…”), and Dan Drake loaned a cup of credibility with three or four high-pitched tee-hees and two “Good Lords!” Twenty minutes later, after an extended fake heated phone exchange with Charles Grodin (“What the hell happened to your career? You can’t even do a movie with a good-looking dog.”), before throwing to the eight o’clock national news break, Dan Drake gave his only acknowledgment to College Boy’s presence, a combination compliment and guilt shot as College Boy moved for the door. “Folks, while we break for news, I’m going to find out if we hired a new audio guy. Because a few times this morning, it has actually sounded like we’re doing a radio show. This must be a mistake.”

  College Boy gave a titular look for a cab, then planted his right foot hard, cut, and busted it crosstown. He knew his body well. It would take twenty-four hours for the horrific soreness from yesterday’s cardiovaginal romp to check in and trash every muscle, tendon, and insertion. He still had ten hours, eleven with
adrenaline. So, he ran. Loose. Free. No sweat. Plenty of wind. Good wheels. Happy wheels.

  College Boy walked in on Mort at 8:15, who was trying to pretend he’d been up much longer than five or ten minutes.

  There had been a few times in the last three days when Mort was sure the trip to New York had been nothing less than a dump job. Thrice, thrice! he had awakened alone in some room (right, the Yale Club), the note from his nephew too far away and scary to ponder. Now, here was the kid, upon him suddenly, ready with some pre-smother-with-the-pillow bromide like, “You slept good, Mort.”

  “You slept good, Mort.”

  “Sorry if I disappointed you by waking.”

  “Huh?”

  “What’s your story?”

  “Uh, I was out getting you a paper.”

  “Well, where is it?”

  “No luck. Why didn’t you tell me the Herald-Trib folded?”

  “Go climb a gum tree…and smile on your own time.”

  Mort’s dump job scenario was reignited twice more during the morning. First, when College Boy received a phone call just after ten, stayed on for twenty minutes, never said more than “What can I tell you?” and “Okay, I’ll try,” and made no mention of it afterward, although he was clearly happy. The second time came two hours later, as they were starting to get ready to leave for Dr. Zing.

  “We have plenty of time. Sheila will be here at one and the appointment is at two.”

  Sheila. The redhead. She was in on it, too. “What appointment?”

  “Dr. Zing.”

  “Who?”

  “The doctor we saw Friday.”

  “I remember somebody with a dish of ballmarkers from Century Country Club on his desk.”

  “That’s the guy.”

  “He should remind people they aren’t mints.”

  “Yeah, he should.”

  “What’s after the doctor?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Shall I be going home?”

  “Hopefully.”

  “Check that word.”

  “Ideally.”

  “How are we getting back to Salem?”

  “Can’t help you with that right now, Mort. Haven’t gotten that far.”

  You bet the kid hadn’t gotten that far. He was still a shovel and a bag of lime short. Maybe that’s what the redhead was out buying. Or whoever it was he’d been talking with on the phone. What can I tell you?…I’ll try. Try what? To bury your seventy-six-year-old uncle with Parkinson’s in the woods off the dogleg No. 5 at Century C.C. and use his money to restart the Herald-Tribune?

  Well, the kid had been pretty damn good to him.

  That was the problem and blessing to this particular spate of Mort Spell paranoia toward his nephew. Gratitude kept loosening his grip. So, he went along. He would be pleasant and distant and hope the kid had a change of heart. Maybe that’s what all the smiling was about.

  Mort didn’t smile until he walked into Dr. Zing’s office and saw a familiar face. For the last however many years, the only indelible people to Morton Martin Spell were handsome men in their midforties. The faces of his prime.

  “Mr. Spell, I hope you remember me. I’m Dr. Blair Cahill.”

  “I certainly do. You’re the last man I got along with before I was shipped overseas.”

  “How have you felt the last three days, Mr. Spell?” Dr. Zing asked.

  Mort continued to talk to Dr. Cahill. “I think a bit better. It’s hard to tell. But we forgot the weighted bat and I seem to be managing without it.”

  “The heavy spoon,” College Boy muttered. Dr. Cahill smiled.

  Dr. Zing tried again. “Do you feel depressed?”

  Mort turned. “What did you shoot the other day?”

  “Thirty-nine. My best nine ever.”

  “It’s great to play by yourself, isn’t it?”

  College Boy and Sheila dropped their heads snorting. Dr. Zing picked up a pad and pretended to write while mouthing “not depressed.”

  “Mort,” coughed Cahill, “how would you characterize where you are now?”

  “Well, I don’t walk as well as I’d like, I’m still shaking, I’m not able to swallow when I need to, and I need bullpen help when I go to the john. On the other hand, I never thought I’d get back to New York. Although”—he turned toward College Boy and Sheila—“I’d prefer not to be left here.”

  “I’m not sure what that means, but you can go back to Boston today. You’ve been getting some bad advice for a long time, my friend.”

  “Well, we can’t all have your barber. By the way, you’re looking awfully well today.” Mort Spell hadn’t said that in months. He shook hands with Dr. Cahill and hung on while he lowered himself into the nearest chair.

  Dr. Zing took College Boy and Sheila out to the waiting room. “I’m taking your uncle off the Depakote entirely. And forget the Halcion. If he has trouble sleeping, and I don’t think he will, give him a Benadryl. We won’t cut back on the Wellbutrin for a while, maybe a month. You can call me anytime, but I’m not planning on seeing Mort for six weeks. Until then, I’ll set you up with a neurologist at Mass General. You’ll see him in a month. After the next visit here, Mort will have his own geriatric psychopharmocologist in Boston. I just want to see him one more time, and I need six weeks to come up with a response for that crack about me playing alone.”

  Now College Boy and Sheila were looking for a place to sit.

  “So,” said College Boy weakly, “Depakote was the problem?”

  “Certain antidepressant, anticonvulsant medications can create Parkinsonian-like symptoms. Like tremors. Your uncle had all of them. Up and down the block. By the time Dr. Levitz had him see the neurologist, there was no other diagnosis.”

  “So,” Sheila blurted, “he doesn’t have Parkinson’s?”

  “Only a neurologist can say that for sure. After all this, he may still have PD, which is why I kept him on the Sinemet. But we’ll know more soon, and by the time he sees someone at Mass General, we’ll know almost everything. Either way, the Depakote does not help.”

  “Why the fuck would you give it to him in the first place?”

  “I can’t answer that. I’m not Meyer Levitz. You can ask him, but I’m sure you know what that’s like. I suspect he found out about Mort’s behavior at Mount Sinai—you know, the biting—and thought he’d try this combination.”

  “That prick.”

  “Mr. Sussman. C. B., isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who told you?” said Sheila.

  “He did.”

  “Oh.”

  “C. B., feel good about this. I do. If Mort is not better in two weeks, markedly better, bring him back down here. But you won’t have to.”

  Laughter came from inside Dr. Zing’s office. They went back in, where Dr. Cahill and Mort were examining a three-foot-long plastic shoehorn inscribed: CENTURY C.C.—1989 FALL FROLIC. FIFTH CLOSEST TO PIN.

  “Mike, Mort and I want to know why this thing isn’t locked in a trophy case somewhere,” said Cahill.

  “Well, sometimes I have trouble getting my shoes on.”

  “I think he’s had enough of us.” Mort put his hand out for Dr. Zing to shake and used the leverage to get himself to his feet. Much better than asking for help. “I’m sure it was a hell of a shot. Thanks for putting up with me.”

  The two doctors worked like a dance team. Zing grabbed the opportunity to tell Mort all about the shoehorn-winning shot, while Cahill took Sheila and College Boy off to the side.

  “Nice to meet you both finally. We’ll try for better circumstances next time. There’s one more thing. I told your uncle if he wants to get better, he needs someone in the house during the day. A professional. Someone who can cook him meals, bathe him, keep the house clean, and make sure he takes his medication.” He stopped and looked at College Boy. “You’ve done yeoman’s work, but you can’t be expected to know what a professional caregiver knows. The responsibility cannot rest solely with you.
Not when he can afford it. And besides, with two people there, you’ll outnumber him.”

  College Boy smiled like he knew better. “He won’t go for it.”

  “I think he will. I shamed him into it. I said, ‘Mort, you retire to a big house and the two of you don’t have a full-time housekeeper? I’m shocked. You can forget about me visiting.’”

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked me if I knew anybody. I guess the key word was ‘housekeeper.’” Sheila squeezed College Boy’s arm. “I told him I’d give you a list of agencies. I lied about that. Hawthorne Hospital should be able to hook you up.”

  College Boy had long ago run out of space within him to take all this in. His gravy boat overfloweth. Who knew today’s doctor’s appointment had been for him? Who knew this whole trip had been for him? Who knew anything? Okay, he knew Sheila squeezing his arm felt good. That he knew. Now College Boy, in the uncharted depths of good fortune, somehow thought better than to flail. Maybe it was Sheila squeezing his arm. So, he bobbed. That felt good, too.

  Dr. Zing helped Mort on with his coat in the waiting room. “How are you getting back to Boston?”

  “You better ask the doctor.”

  “He means me,” College Boy said. “Ah, ah, we’re…”

  Sheila interrupted. “They’re taking my car.”

  He looked at her and thought about flailing. She winked. “He’s promised to bring it back soon. Two weeks tops.”

  Mort and Sheila waited in the Hyundai or Honda outside the Yale Club while College Boy packed. She promised Mort she would come by Vinnin Estates periodically to check on his new full-time housekeeper. Mort confided he was tired of Chinese food.

  She kissed Mort good-bye, but not College Boy. “You have to come back for yours.” He brushed the back of his hand against her shoulder and told her he’d call that night from the China Sails parking lot. She didn’t have the heart to tell him Mort was tired of Chinese food. Instead, she looked at the wrong wrist and said she had to go.

  Sheila was a good two blocks away when the Yale Club bellman came running out carrying a bright orange box.