The psychiatrist had absorbed the whole humiliating transaction, and Richard knew it was now no use. Even giving the right answers would not make him appear less pathetic. He devoted his attention to the window: 15-30-45-60-75-90-105.
Suddenly he felt his right foot being lifted. It was no muscle spasm; the doctor was down on both knees, pulling on his elasticized yellow slippers. This unsolicited kindness unnerved Richard, made his insides feel as chaotic and jumbled as a popcorn popper. Besides the orderly, no man had touched him since his stroke. No man had even looked him full in the face. Even Jetlag, his best friend, stood at the end of his hospital bed those first few days mumbling, “You need anything, Buddy?”—and carefully avoiding eye contact.
He had wanted to scream, “Hold me, help me!” But Jetlag, uncomfortable as a caged dog, had wanted to bolt, so Richard had let him go. He had let them all go.
With long sure strokes, the psychiatrist rubbed the blackness out of the left leg, then covered Richard’s lap with the terrycloth robe. “Is there some place private we could go, where there’s an ashtray?” he asked. “I’d like a cigarette.”
He knew the guy was a professional who could go for long periods of time without a cigarette. This head doctor was playing some devious game. Willing to play along, Richard pointed down the hall.
As the doctor began pushing his chair, it occurred to Richard he had become a lot like Heinz at the pound—completely unselective and more than willing to go off with anyone who was kind to him.
Halfway down the hall the doctor asked, “Do you worry about having another episode?” Then quickly added: “You shouldn’t, you know. It’s very unlikely.”
Episode? Must be another term for it. And he thought he had heard them all: shock, thrombosis, aneurysm, hemorrhage, stroke. When the medical experts couldn’t find a cure, they compensated with synonyms. (“No. Lightning never strikes the same tree twice.”)
Once they were inside the visitors’ lounge, the doctor closed the door with an emphatic slam. Richard appreciated that. Spared Vernice’s relentless scrutiny, he was even prepared for the obligatory question about football.
“You watch much sports?”
“No.” When he was first hospitalized, the nurses kept his TV tuned to ESPN and Sports Channel. But his vision had still been blurred then, and all those athletic endeavors were about as interesting as studying an anthill. So he had taken the TV wand and flipped from station to station, until his roommate complained and the remote-control device was taken from him.
With a rolling motion the curly-headed doctor pushed the sand-filled, circular-based ashtray over by the window and began exhaling little smoke rings. As they got larger Richard wondered if this was some type of exam where he would be asked what objects the smoke rings most resembled. At first, he thought, they looked like LifeSavers but they began to remind him of little sugar doughnuts (the kind that come twenty-four to a package). It didn’t matter, for the psychiatrist’s next question had nothing to do with smoke rings.
“Do you have any long-term goals, Richard?” Silence. The doctor rephrased the question. “If you marry, how will that change your life?”
“I’ll try and make the woman happy.”
“That’s admirable, but does your fiancée have any traits you don’t like?”
Richard grimaced. He was not going to get caught bad-mouthing his intended. You take what you’re given and make the best of it. That was his philosophy. He had always been loyal to his offensive linemen. For every time they’d left him vulnerable, he could remember the hundred times they’d plowed down the opposition.
For some reason his nonanswer upset the man. The guy half cringed and said, “This is awkward for us, isn’t it? I guess you know I was briefly married to Cheryl, and it’s hard for me to assess your competency for something I was not successful at.”
The husband! This was her husband? She still used his name, too. But he couldn’t remember it. God Almighty! He was going to marry the woman, and he couldn’t remember her last name. H-a-s-k-e-l-l? No, Haskell had been an English prof back in Iowa. He watched as the psychiatrist ground out his third cigarette and began to pace back and forth on the white tile floor. Richard was amazed. He could not remember names, could not frighten Vernice with his worst curses, but he had somehow managed to put this overeducated appraiser on the defensive.
“The whole fiasco was my fault,” the man stated. “Coming down the aisle, I knew it was a mistake. It was like taking on a full-time patient instead of a wife. Cheryl’s looking for another father. She doesn’t know what she wants.”
Richard did not find that such an unalterable shortcoming. It was simply a matter of telling her what to do. But he nodded sympathetically, while the doctor continued pacing. This transition from patient to person with opinions bewildered him. The high-school quarterbacks’ manual stated, “Luck is preparation meeting opportunity.” He had believed that until Easter Sunday when the woman came back. She had stopped visiting for no good reason and had started again the same way. Now he knew that luck was just luck. A bit of hymn began to tease him. “I was lost but now am …” “I was lost but now am …” Saved? Freed? Found? And then he remembered his fiancée’s name was Cheryl Freedman.
“That’s not to say she’s not a good woman. A shapely one, too.” Freedman gave him a conspiratorial grin.
Richard wondered if the psychiatrist/ex-husband’s whole performance wasn’t a sly way of testing his sexual appetites. Just in case he nodded appreciatively—though all he had noticed about Cheryl’s shape was that she was ashamed of it. And he had no appetites. Food did not interest him. At dinnertime he would tear the plastic wrapper from the bread and eat the single white slice, but nothing else. Sex was no different. It was women who had betrayed him. How could he be attracted to them? Though from the first he had known Cheryl was too meek and self-doubting to be part of that conspiracy. “Cheryl is not like other women.”
For some reason that remark silenced Freedman and ended the interview. The psychiatrist wheeled Richard back to his room, shook his hand, wished him luck, and left.
Richard remained with his back to the door, his bladder about to burst, and the belt to his bathrobe caught in the spokes of his right wheel. He could see the plastic urinal on his bedside table but could make no progress toward it. When he heard two pairs of feet advancing into his room, he urgently called, “Urinal, Vernice. Please.”
There was a cessation of sound and movement and then a man’s deep voice replied, “Okay.” A woman’s voice added: “I’ll wait in the hall.”
The man apparently thought Richard needed to stand up. After getting him the urinal, he pushed him into the bathroom, grabbed him under the armpits, and raised him onto his feet. The altitude or something made Richard feel acutely ill. “Can do it sitting?” The man eased him back into the chair.
When the urinal was emptied, the stranger washed his hands thoroughly, then picked the white washcloth off the rack and scrubbed Richard’s hand and entire upper right arm. Though he was large and muscled like the orderly, he was dressed in civilian clothes, and Richard did not know if he was staff or not. Frankly he was too tired and dizzy to care.
The man dried Richard’s diminished throwing arm and said, “Back three years ago me and my buddies flew down to Florida and saw you beat Miami in Miami. Won three hundred dollars on that game. Paid for my whole trip.”
Richard restlessly tapped his foot against the floor. “Help me into bed.”
“Oh, sure.”
His bed was his home, his refuge, and the chemically treated sheets felt like cold silk against the backs of his bare legs. Now safely in bed, he could smell the musky cologne of the man who had helped him. Though he generally distrusted scented men, this guy did not seem like a bad sort. Richard yawned and his useless left arm jerked reflexively.
“Got to get Rose, my wife,” the man said. “She’s real anxious to meet you.”
Richard nodded amiably and closed his eyes
. In a few seconds he heard the purposeful clicks of a woman’s heels. Without opening his eyes he knew Rose was tall.
“He fell asleep,” the man pronounced just as Richard was about to open his eyes and look at the wife.
“Looks so innocent, doesn’t he?” the woman whispered. “At least he won’t abuse her or run around on her.”
Richard decided his best bet was to fake deep sleep.
“Are you kidding? We can’t let her go through with this. She couldn’t take care of him. The poor devil is a deadweight lift.”
“She didn’t stop us. We can’t stop her. If she had raised one objection, when we were dating … Let’s go. Come back later.”
The man said nothing. He had probably heard it all before. Richard understood his resigned silence. Women could be very repetitious.
CHAPTER SEVEN
That dog, that damn dog, had apparently vanished into thin air. It looked as if it might take a private detective to find him. Cheryl had begun the search at the library by gazing at old newspaper pictures of the sad-eyed mutt, who appeared to be part collie, part German shepherd. The rest of her research was carried out at work in between secretarial duties—which was difficult because both Mr. Raymond and Mr. Derrigo were in.
And Derrigo was helpless. He might fry his own egg at home, but at work he was unwilling to dial even local calls. “Cheryl,” he would bellow, “get me Joe Krupa.” She would punch the numbers of Software’s local sales office, then transfer Mr. Krupa into Derrigo. But now he was roaring “Get me Bill Gamage” just when she had finally gotten someone at the bankrupt Connecticut Clippers’ business office to answer the phone. Cheryl held up two restraining fingers. But unwilling to wait, Derrigo placed the call himself. “D-E-R-R-I-G-O,” she heard him spell, the irritation of being forced to explain the obvious evident in his voice.
“I’m sorry,” the Clippers’ bookkeeper came back on, “we have no information on Richard Olsen.”
“Okay, thank you.”
“Cheryl,” Mr. Raymond was calling. His position was slightly inferior to Derrigo’s, and his view of the secretary more restricted. He could never tell when she was on the phone. Cheryl rose slowly and walked into his office. It was no use. She could not call around about Richard’s dog at work, and at home without the force of an international corporation behind her, she would stutter and stammer. The only alternative was to send letters. Despite extensive research at the library, Cheryl had been able to locate only two of Richard’s former teammates. Bob Knesch was with Pittsburgh and Joe “Jetlag” Johnson played for Miami. She sent the men identical requests to write or phone her collect if they knew the whereabouts of Richard’s dog. It was the best she could do.
Cheryl was wearing a silky white blouse and black slacks. The wide-sleeved blouse minimized her ample bust, and the dark slacks slimmed and elongated her. She always wore her most flattering outfits when Derrigo was in. It was just habit now, but right after her father died, Derrigo had been the most important man in her life. Not only did he stop at her desk during harassed moments and ask “How’s it going, hon?” but he also saved the end of the day for her—those seven minutes between the closing click of his Samsonite briefcase and the departure of his van pool. Some days this exclusive attention still made her feel important, loyal, and loved. But she now knew the man’s tactics were no more sincere than Raymond’s; he was just a better manager.
“What do they look like?” Richard had asked. She had been unable to explain Derrigo’s sad-eyed charm, how powerful and charismatic he looked in his brown suit coats, or how, when he removed them to reveal baggy slacks and a sinking posterior, he resembled agrarian ancestors with hoes more than an executive.
She finally answered lamely, “He wears brown a lot.” She had done better by Raymond, describing him as imperial, long-fingered, and gray-complexioned.
Richard had begun to call them Mr. Brown and Mr. Gray. He had a way of focusing on a single physical aspect and naming the person for it. The timid woman across the hall was Mouse. The chubby-cheeked aide was Chipmunk. Cheryl herself he often referred to as The Woman, as if she somehow embodied all female characteristics. It was even simpler than that. She had become his window, the sole object of his attention. And though this was not the type of romance she read about, she could not go back to the monotony of life without him.
At 4:23 Derrigo appeared at the side of her desk. “Well, we made it through another week.”
“Sure did.” Cheryl smiled and tossed her hair back.
“How’s Stu?”
This used to be her favorite time, and the reason she worked so industriously all day. Though never really married, Cheryl had been gratified that a man of Derrigo’s importance, whose photo regularly appeared on the cover of Computer Digest, took the time to remember Stu’s name. But now she blinked and looked at him, about to utter the usual “Oh, fine.” But cold, unfamiliar hatred prevented her from speaking. Regardless of his stature, how could Derrigo have lived with her through that awful time and not known she had been rejected and deserted. The bastard! For all his sad-eyed sympathy he knew her no better than her bank teller. She blinked again. “My husband’s not doing well. He’s been having awful, awful headaches. I’m real worried.”
Derrigo nodded with immediate comprehension. “Stress,” he said, “all this damn stress.” His programmed watch gave its high-pitched 4:30 P.M. bleep—time to meet his van.
Cheryl was glad Derrigo, the Catholic, commuted back to New York State. Her banns were to be announced at St. Peter’s, the local Roman Catholic church, that Sunday, and reading them might have confused him. At 4:40 Raymond also left. “Good night, dear.”
“Good night, Mr. Raymond.”
Richard gauged time by the TV set of the woman across the hall. When the Mary Tyler Moore rerun ended, it was time for Cheryl to come. But tonight she was late. The CBS News was on, and Richard was watching the door.
Her heart always beat crazily when he first gave her his easy, sloppy smile. He did not look so different from the newspaper photographs she kept of him. Only in approaching the bed could one see how his left shoulder slumped and how bent his arm was. Cranberry juice or some other pink liquid had been spilled near the collar of his bedgown. “You’re late,” he said.
Cheryl displayed a white bag. “I brought you french fries.” She set them on his nightstand, then sank wearily into the uncomfortable visitor’s chair, glad her evenings of sitting in it were coming to an end. “I’m getting Brown and Gray primed, Richard. Next week I’m requesting a leave because my husband is sick.”
“Yeah?”
Richard was eating the french fries a little too quickly. What appeared to be ravenous hunger, Cheryl decided, was more a matter of impaired reflexes. He refilled his mouth before it was emptied because his timing was shot. She ripped open one of the white packets of ketchup and said, “Want to dip them in here?” That added business slowed the eating process and kept him from choking. She knew better than to ask him to slow down or issue any commands. If she did, he would just ignore her.
He finished the french fries. “I shouldn’t have eaten them,” he said.
She looked at his long cadaverous frame. “Why not?”
“Shouldn’t have.” He was staring at his body with the same disgust with which she viewed her own. It was not the calories he regretted, she realized, but his own persistent clinging to life that shamed and embarrassed him.
She walked over by his bed. “You crazy man. You’ve got to eat. I need you.” She affectionately pushed a thatch of hair off his forehead. His hair was as fine as a baby’s, and she touched it often, perhaps because she had so little else to become attached to.
Generally it was a man’s car over which she got sentimental. Cheryl remembered how she used to feel about Stuart’s orange Karmen Ghia with the little sunroof. Even before they were dating just a glimpse of his car was enough to send her reeling. Even after all the disappointments that followed, the sight of one of t
hose orange Volkswagens made her heart pound and her palms get sweaty. It was strange how the distinction between the man and the car got blurred. Spotting a gray Cadillac like her father’s made her ache all over. Those big cars looked so safe and important and propelled her back to the time when she could call her father and the secretary put her right through. Now she did the same thing for Derrigo’s daughter.
Cheryl wondered what kind of car Richard had driven. All she knew was that he had signed it over to his mother shortly after being hospitalized. Stuart told her that. She had supposed there would be some legal complications in marrying an institutionalized man, but, according to Stuart, noncompetency had never been established; so Richard was free to make his own decisions.
She supposed it was kind of tacky to send Stuart. But he had said, “If I can ever help …” And she knew he would be professional. Besides, she had wanted him to challenge her motives. Was she marrying Richard in order to nurse a father who had died too quickly? To prove her unselfishness to a husband who had never given her the chance? Et cetera, et cetera. And she wanted an opportunity to defend Richard’s mental health, had even prepared a little speech: “I know the staff thinks he’s cracked, but it’s just his way of trying to maintain dignity.” She never got a chance to use it. Stuart had been absolutely awed by Richard’s intelligence, his willpower, and the strength of his feeling for her. That was the trouble with psychiatrists. They never did what you thought they would. She had believed Stuart with his heightened sensitivity would make the ideal spouse. She couldn’t have been more wrong.
The Way It Happens In Novels Page 5