A Complicated Marriage (52 page)

As Clem regained a semblance of normalcy, a heat wave hit and turned our apartment into an oven. That night I woke in a sweat of night fears—tightness in my chest (surely a heart attack), shortness of breath (surely respiratory failure). It was as if I had said,
It's my turn. Just for this moment, let me be weak
. Restored by light of day, I understood that my symptoms were also sympathy pains for what Clem had just been through. I wondered at their power as I grabbed a fistful of cash from behind the OED and went to get money orders to pay the overdue bills. Then on to the hospital, the air still oppressive, now called an “ozone alert,” a phrase I had not heard before, as the temperature topped a
hundred degrees.

That afternoon, the world intruded. The hospital phone rang. A man said he was writing a piece for the
Observer
and asked to speak to “Clem,” an informality that immediately alerted me. I said no. To his questions about his condition, I responded grudgingly, with a word or two. Then he abruptly switched course: money, James Powers . . . In a fury, I hung up. When the article appeared, it was so preposterously malignant that I could only shake my head. The gist: Clem, who had supposedly scammed artists of art and money in return for favorable reviews, had now been scammed by an embezzler. His hospitalization? That was just icing on the cake for the media buzzard.

Two nights later there was another intrusion, this one with a comedic touch. In the morning when I arrived at the hospital, I was startled to see that the all-too-familiar Vlaminck had been replaced by a small, dun-colored abstract painting. On the back it was inscribed to Clem and signed by the artist. Not one of Clem's more alert mornings; he hadn't noticed the switch. Evidently the audacious artist, a longtime Greenberg groupie, had come before the close of visiting hours and while Clem slept had left her mark. Unfortunately, the picture wasn't as interesting as the act itself. I reinstated the Vlaminck.

Then the day came when Clem was able to sit in a chair. He lasted only a short time and was chilled and short of breath, but what a victory. From then on, the steps toward home were incremental: physical therapy, a walker . . . But progress was slow and arduous, and Clem had no patience for it. As if reflecting his opposition, Clem's meanderings led him back to the Civil War and the Battle of the Wilderness: “Everyone is dead . . . It's the end . . . They prepare us to move out, but we're lying on the ground . . . It doesn't look good . . . I think it's all for nothing.”

Early one evening we sat quietly and watched as the last of the sun turned our brick wall a glowing pink. There was one of those lulls that occurred inexplicably, as if the hospital had stopped to exhale. I asked, “What would you like to talk about?”

“Your life after me,” he said. “What will it be like?”

Having expected another war story, I was taken aback. I could only say, “I don't know. How do you see it?”

“You'll have a new ascent,” he said.

And that was that. So brief, yet it was an exchange unlike any other. Future talk had never been our way. Our way was, “How are you feeling ?” “I had a dream last night about . . . ” “Did the mail come yet?” I pocketed his words of promise as I would a talisman that I could touch that day and in days to come.

Soon after, we got our week's notice for release and my attention turned to Medicare, aides, transportation home, equipment rental, visiting nurses, PT . . . How much paid for, how much out of pocket, the duration of the help . . . ? I was amazed at how much Medicare would cover: all the equipment, two weeks of home care, and visiting services for as long as Clem needed. I cleaned the house as if royalty were about to descend and tried to mute my thoughts:
Will Clem make it home okay, will the bed be delivered in time, will I be happy
?

Clem was weaned off the Haldol and Ativan, but the attempts to get him off the catheter failed. Like the oxygen, it was just part of him now. Without the drugs, Clem was restless and irritable, and I often yearned for the drifting Clem. He missed it, too. After all his time travels, he looked at his life and found it dull. “I don't care much whether the Rundles come by. For the life of me, I can't remember her name.” Val and her husband stopped by: “Something empty in what they had to say.” And about an old girlfriend: “She doesn't have enough genuine interest to afford interest to others.” And he summarized: “If this is what life has to offer, I'm ready to expire.”

September 8, moving day, we received an unexpected benediction. The Doctor of Doom sidled in. Now all smiles, he dubbed Clem the Miracle Patient. Clem shrugged. “What did you expect?” Doom had the good grace not to tell the smug miracle boy that he had buried him a month ago. And then we were ready to hit the road. On our backs were the bedpan, the cane, the linens, diapers, elastic stockings, gowns, bed pads—all the accoutrements we would have gladly left behind. For all the world we looked like fugitives from the Dust Bowl of the thirties as they headed west, hoping for a better life.

THE FIRST DAY HOME was the best of days and the worst of days. Clem had survived his ordeal. Now he could heal in the peace and comfort of the place he most longed to be. But the celebration was short-lived. Clem was breathing hard. My work and my questions started. Was the home oxygen equipment less efficient than that at the hospital? The nebulizer, too, seemed less effective. What else should I be doing? I realized I knew nothing. And Vilma, the home-care aide, knew even less than I did. She was unmotivated and roused herself to help only when asked and directed. As soon as I would leave the room, Clem would call me. “I am dying,” he said too often that first day.

The visiting nurse arrived. She was pleasant and reassuring about Clem's condition. She checked his vitals and the formidable array of medications on the bureau, to be taken once, twice, or four times a day. I had made a schedule and knew that several would soon be phased out and that others were only necessary “as needed”—a phrase I hoped I would be wise enough to assess. Though the nurse's visit seemed more about Medicare paperwork and getting forms signed than about Clem's condition, I was grateful for her presence.

The doorbell rang. A forty-ish woman in running shoes introduced herself as Ms. Kashlinski as she flashed an IRS badge. Even as a chill ran through me, all I could see were those running shoes. The badge said
danger
, the shoes said
nice girl
, and I let her in. She asked to see Mr. Greenberg. I took her down the short hallway to the door of the bedroom. She saw an old man in a hospital bed, a tube in his nose, the half-full catheter, a woman taking his pulse, and, in the background, a bland-faced black woman on a love seat.

I babbled about hospitals, embezzlement . . . She only nodded. I said
she should leave, and I gave her our accountant's phone number. At the door she said, “We should suspend collection.” Shaking, I shut the door.
Suspend collection
? Had they been ready to strip us of our possessions? Was the marshal waiting in a truck? Could a young woman in running shoes be a decision-maker? I called the accountant, who talked me down. “She knows all about the embezzlement. It's all part of the routine. It will be fine.”

The nurse left, Vilma went out for a break—from what, I didn't know—and, with the scenarios still whirling, I sat by Clem's hospital bed and held his hand, as cold as mine, as he dozed. When Sarah arrived an hour later, she said Vilma was sitting downstairs in the lobby, eating Doritos, and had told her, “Your father had a bowel movement.” Ah, the news flash of the day.

A few nights later, I patched myself together to go to an opening at the Gagosian Gallery of Alex Liberman's work. My first foray in months into high life and fancy shoes. The invitation had beckoned to me, so I grabbed the moment while I had the luxury of an aide to stay with Clem. I left Vilma a bloated list of do's and don'ts and phone numbers, more for my benefit than hers, because I was sure she wouldn't give them a second glance. Then Sarah and I were off, with the lilt of Clem's “be happy”—his signature way of saying good-bye—in our ears.

The opening was heavy going, a
who are all these people
? occasion, as if I had just gotten off a boat from nowhere. Those days, if it didn't tie into health, dying, or financial survival, it wasn't real. I cruised the rooms in a blur of déjà vu. This was the space, much reconfigured, where thirty years earlier French & Company had created a contemporary gallery of unprecedented size and beauty and engaged Clem, who, as their advisor, had filled it with his hit parade of Newman, Smith, Gottlieb, Louis, Noland . . . Now most were dead and those shows legendary.

At last I spotted a familiar band of art brothers: Alex Liberman, of the twinkling eyes, André Emmerich, of the charm and polish, and Si Newhouse, buttoned and glacial. At least some things never changed. I allowed myself a wry smile at the thought of Alex's having been at the top of my “audacious” list of job angels. A photographer snapped a
shot of Alex and me, and seconds later, as Richard Avedon approached, I was jostled out of the inner circle by a flurry of cameras hungry for a tastier target.

People asked about Clem. I nodded. “Yes, quite an ordeal.” “Yes, home now, recovering well.” “Yes, amazing, so strong.” Somewhere along the way I had lost the knack of chat. I passed by Frank Stella, but we only nodded. I thought of Princeton 1959, when we had first met, Clem giving the Gauss Seminar, Frank a grad student. Their thrust and parry, Clem's favorite pastime. The occasional dinners over the years, always lively. Even as they disagreed, an affinity. Clem, loathing his dependency on dentures, teasing Frank about not filling the gap in his front teeth. I wondered, as I had about so many others I had enjoyed moments with,
What happens to memories? Does Frank remember as I do?

Later, Sarah and I walked to Gagosian's townhouse for a postopening dinner. More a spa than a home; we gaped at the lap pool, Jacuzzi, sauna . . . For dinner I settled down next to Louise Reinhardt Smith, an outgoing, opinionated octogenarian whom I barely knew. We talked about the vigor of the old days and the predictable inanity of the new days. As we picked at course after course of overly produced nouvelle cuisine, she spoke about her first steps toward amassing her renowned art collection, and about the spits and spats of being on the MoMA board, and about how she had always had a thing for Clem. And I told her I had always had a thing for octogenarians.

Talking to her invigorated me. I looked around at the smattering of fashion glitterati perched like emaciated magpies on a couch: Diane von Furstenberg, Tina Brown, Anna Wintour, and Grace Mirabella. They didn't seem invigorated. As the party broke up, Jasper Johns came over to wish us well and tell me how important Clem was to him. I was reminded of what a nice man he was and always had been. Francine du Plessix Gray, Alex's stepdaughter, waved: “Lunch . . . lunch.” Another woman, nameless now, joined the chorus, which now swept the room: “Lunch . . . lunch.” As I bade farewell to my dinner companion, she said, “We must have lunch at Daniel . . . dutch.” And so the rich get richer.

Sarah and I hit the street with a disorienting thud and ran for the
Madison Avenue bus. Before sleep, all the lunacy of Alice's tea party danced in my head. As I drifted, a poem wrote itself. I turned on the light and jotted:

I might well have added, “And from there, where?”

 

After a week, Clem and I were on our own. Vilma was history, the physical therapist came once, never to return after Clem refused to cooperate, and the visiting nurse would show up on a monthly basis, as would Jerry, the male RN who changed Clem's catheter. Our routine was simple and revolved around food—a good thing, considering that over the summer Clem's weight had diminished to 125 pounds—medications, the toilet, grooming, and all my domestic puttering and pothering. Clem became increasingly resilient and resourceful. He mastered the despised walker, accepted the fact that where he went the catheter had better follow, and, though he wouldn't do any exercises, managed to get a bit of a walk, thanks to his insistence on eating in the kitchen.

I should add that there was also a daily ration of frustration and anger, all on my part, and all of which Clem chose to staunchly ignore. I knew he was on the road back when he said one day, “If I had a cigarette with my drink, I'd feel better.” The cigarette never happened, but I meted out a couple of drinks a day. He was never overly insistent, and even when he eventually figured out how to carry a drink while managing the walker, he usually found it to be more effort than it was worth.

For the most part, Clem's world was his hospital bed. It suited him, with its unforgiving mattress just the way he liked it, and high enough to get in and out of easily, and low enough for him to set his feet on the carpet as he read at his typewriter table that I had appropriated from his office. I often sat near him on a small “boudoir chair” that I had
bought from a graduating student at Bennington for $5. It had followed me ever since.

Now that the drugs had cleared his body, Clem read almost every waking hour. In addition to the usual history and philosophy, the
Times
, and the
London Review of Books,
he was now rereading Dickens and
Gulliver's Travels
. Novels, never his usual fare, now absorbed him with their language and stories. Every now and then he would look up over his glasses and say, “Damn, he's good.” I became addicted to mysteries; they swept through my mind and out again, inspiring and demanding nothing. I loved being in our bedroom, bigger than any I had ever imagined. Thirty-five years had filled that room with beds that had grown from double to queen to king, never seeming to be big enough to support the weight of two people needing ever more space. And now Clem floated, weightless on that narrow loaner bed.