Balls (17 page)

Just under a lot of strain.

But there must be another way,

To check out for a while.

Some other way to get rest, maybe.

You could go to your mother,

Or, your father.

No.

Wrong.

Impossible.

Can't.

Some place must exist, though.

There must be somewhere that you can go.

And with the midtown skyline coming back into view, a solution came to mind.

TEN

M
r. Schiller, you'll feel a slight pricking sensation and when you wake, it'll all be over, said a woman's voice.

Henry, looking up from a table under the bright operating light, said, Thank you.

The prick followed, and he was out.

ELEVEN

W
hen Henry woke, it was afternoon. He lay nauseous with his head raised on a pillow in a hospital bed, his abdomen in pain to the extreme, his testicle gone. His thirst was desperate. A nurse helped him to drink water from a plastic cup. Drowsy from the anesthetic, he fell asleep, till a doctor was there, describing the success of his surgery. To Henry, he looked to be only a hovering white coat, nothing more. However, his words were comprehensible. The testicle had been taken for biopsy. Pathology reports would come in a week's time and determine whether the cancer was benign or malignant, seminoma or non-seminoma, if there were any cancerous tumors in the lymph vessels, the seminal ducts, the epididymis or blood vessels, that is, whether the cancer had spread outside the testicle. If Henry were feeling up to it, he could have his CT-scans administered now. They would show whether spreading had occurred. The doctor would be looking in the retroperitoneum, he said, for enlarged lymph nodes, which, if discovered would indicate no less than a Stage II cancer.

Good, mumbled Henry. CT-scans. Let's.

Moments later, he was drinking barium sulfate with its hints of vanilla, butterscotch, and poison. The concoction allowed his organs and inner structures to be seen for observation. Once he'd had two servings, he would wait thirty minutes, then be taken over to radiology.

It was during his second glass of the stuff that Henry received a visitor. Orion Doherty, his bartender. Henry's vision had improved. He could see Orion's beard was closely shaven and his long, tangled hair trimmed short. But his black prescription sunglasses were the same. And, with the big belly, he still looked like Pavarotti or Francis Ford Coppola. What was he doing here?

You called me this morning, he told him, keeping a distance of several feet from the bed.

Did I?

What happened to you, Henry?

Unhesitating, he said, I had a testicle removed.

You what?

I have testicular cancer. They took out my testicle. Don't worry. I'm fine. He raised his cup of barium sulfate, as if to toast. The drink was already showing its effects. A warm current was passing through his body. He said, It was kind of you to come and see me.

You didn't give me a chance to say no, said Orion, quite seriously. When you called, I was in bed. It was six o'clock and I'd just closed the bar. You were raving. You said you'd almost killed a man and that the police might be after you, so you were going into the hospital to have surgery. I didn't know what you were talking about. You said I had to pick you up or else they wouldn't let you leave here. You were crying into the phone. What was I to say?

The story alarmed Henry. He said, You're sure that's what happened?

Orion told him, I'm sure. Who did you almost kill, Henry?

A waiter at JFK. We had an argument. I nearly strangled him to death. Then I came here.

Where were you flying?

Paris. I had things to take care of there.

Orion gave Henry's cheek a warm pat. His hand was the rough hand of a bartender. He said, You can tell me about it later.

The nurse assisted Henry into a chair and wheeled him to another room where a large machine, a CT-scanner, stood. More barium sulfate was administered, this time intravenously. On his back, and sliding into the scanner, like entering the eye of a Cyclops, Henry asked why he felt like he was urinating on himself.

A side-effect of the barium sulfate, said the woman administering the CT-scans. It'll pass.

Henry found that unbelievable. But changing the subject, he acknowledged how even John Glenn would feel claustrophobic in one of these machines. His comment was met with a feminine giggle, which briefly relieved him of discomfort. Next came the shrill, violent sound of the machine, like a jet throwing on its engines. And another, like a hammer coming down on a pipe:
Bang bang bang bang bang.

Henry closed his eyes, and to himself, sang:

Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bah-doo, bop-pop.

Orion took him home. He went to the pharmacy to get Henry's pain medication and stopped at the grocery, buying soup and yogurt, apple sauce, soft foods, as the doctor had recommended. He didn't leave the apartment, not even after Henry fell asleep, but stayed on the sofa. Henry, using the bathroom in the middle of the night, found him sleeping there. He was happy to see Orion. Getting to the bathroom on his own wasn't easy. The pain in his abdomen was severe. He had to support himself against the wall, taking small steps, one at a time. His apartment had an unfamiliar feeling, an emptiness which he attributed to Paula being gone from the country. At the toilet he decided to peel back the bandages covering his groin. Shaven bare, the skin black, blue and purple, at the sight of it he let out a gasp. His most precious area had been treated to the beating of its life. Like the eyes of the boxer following a match, it was monstrous. He felt he could sob for his testicle, gone from his body, in a lab and being picked apart, and in its place a prosthetic where he could not yet touch, the area too sensitive. He wondered how it would be to squeeze the prosthetic and feel no sensation there at all. The thought sent a ripple of despair through his body. Orion was asleep on the sofa. Henry shook him awake. Perplexed, in all his clothes, Orion leaned up.

Henry was saying to him, Please, stay for breakfast, would you? Don't leave so fast in the morning. Stay with me.

Okay, Henry. Okay. I will.

Thank you, Orion.

In the morning, Orion brought yogurt and coffee to Henry in bed. He was in too much pain to stand. His appetite was none. And now Orion was grating on his nerves. Henry couldn't stand to be taken care of. He didn't need help. He wasn't a child, but a grown man and could do for himself. Orion made it impossible to say any of this. To think, he'd offered to remain here for as long as he needed him.

Dahl called after eleven. He was glad Henry had decided to go through with the surgery. He had the results of his CT-scans. Great news. There were no enlargement of lymph nodes. The cancer had not spread to his abdomen, nor his pelvis. They still had to wait for the pathology report to come in, but the cancer was caught early.

How about that, Henry.

The doctor, having saved Henry's life, was clearly looking for him to share in his satisfaction. But Henry said, Doctor, I'm miserable. The pain is absolutely terrible.

I'm sure it is.

Henry, without saying another word, handed the phone to Orion. He said, Ask him if he has anything else to say, would you? and he closed eyes and fell asleep.

When he woke again he saw Orion in a chair, in the corner, reading through his songbook. Realizing Henry was awake, the bartender closed the book and placed it behind himself on a dresser.

Castrated New York.
A good song, Henry.

Henry, evading the topic, said, I'm supposed to be in Paris. A friend over at Brass Records…well, he's not really a friend…we go back a ways, is the thing…Anyway, he gave me a job there. I should probably call him. I'm sure he's furious I didn't show up to work today.

Would you like me to call for you?

Henry laughed, and doing so strained his abdominal muscles. Wincing, he said, No. Thank you.

I can explain everything to him.

The man's a beast.

How bad could he be?

Henry shrugged. Sitting up in bed, he began tapping against his chin with the end of his forefinger. He said, If you were to call him, you couldn't let him know that I've been sick. You'd have to lie. Otherwise he might form a low opinion of me. I'll explain later. The point is that I
need
Walbaum.

You
need
him?

To have a career, to make money, to be someone—I need him.

Orion angled his head to one side and told Henry, I thought near-death experiences brought that kind of thing into perspective.

Henry said, No. They don't.

Why exactly do you have to lie to him?

Sighing from aggravation, Henry spoke of Walbaum's philosophy of putting money on the ill. He doesn't do it. And I don't like to let people know about my health, anyway. So if you were going to call him, you'd have to lie. Could you do that?

For you I would, Henry. I could say you were hit by a car.

No. Too much. How about, my mother's ill? Zachary wouldn't argue with that.

So I should make the call?

Fine.

Henry read Walbaum's number aloud from his cell phone, while Orion dialed. A look of great discomfort formed on Henry's face. To watch Orion speak of him with Walbaum, to overhear the discussion of his mother's health, his own absence from Paris, his future, would be too much for him to stomach. One of them should leave the room. It couldn't be Henry. He didn't have the strength. He told Orion to leave.

Get out of the room. Please, Henry was saying.

Orion was already on with Walbaum's assistant, though, and, at the next moment, with Walbaum. In the doorway, with his hand set on his waist, Orion identified himself. He said he was calling on behalf of Henry Schiller, that Henry's mother was ill, and for that reason Henry hadn't made it to Paris. He'd spent yesterday in the hospital. His mother wouldn't be fully recovered for some time. Her condition was a serious one.

That's enough, Henry told him. You don't have to let on anymore.

Orion, holding up a finger in protest, said Henry would contact him within a few weeks, once his mother was better. For a while afterwards Orion did the listening, with the phone held to his ear. His left arm rested across his sternum. There was something unnerving to Henry about its position. He didn't understand why any of this was taking so long. What could Walbaum possibly be telling Orion? What important information did he have to relay? The tension was stifling. He should have never let Orion call. He should have sent an email. But perhaps an email was too informal. Backing out required a phone call, even one placed by a person other than himself.

Now Orion lowered the phone to his chest. His eyes and mouth expanding with urgency, he said, Henry, the guy wants to know what your mother has.

What she has?

Her illness, said Orion, fervently.

Tell him it's a parasite.

Orion nodded his head in agreement. Into the phone, he said that Henry's mother had a rare parasite. Yet Henry had never said anything about the parasite being rare. Who'd said anything about
that?
Not Henry. Once Orion was off with Walbaum, Henry, lying flat on his back, let him know that he'd made an egregious error. The word
rare
had made it all seem like a lie. Any idiot could hear mendacity in
rare parasite
compared with plain old
parasite.
Orion denied that this was true. Besides, he told him, Walbaum wasn't upset by Henry's mother's illness and the delay it was presumed to have had on his departure for Paris. If anything, he was concerned.

Sure, said Henry. What you don't realize is that the man sets traps for people. You…you stepped right in one. Don't you see? He plays you one way and another so you think you're safe. Then he…he…

Henry fell back into his pillow. Orion watched him lose power, grief filling his eyes. He said it was time for him to go open the bar. If there were an emergency Henry could call him. Otherwise, he would talk to him soon.

Henry didn't expect Orion to leave so quickly. But he did. Well, anyway, Henry couldn't worry about the hurt feelings of another man. Not now. As for Walbaum, the relationship was all but ruined—
over
—on the mention of a
rare parasite.

Bastards, every one of them.

To put an end to these thoughts, he took two pain-killers and went to sleep. For sixteen hours he lay unconscious.

And from vivid dreams interminably long to the sleeper, Henry opened his eyes. It was morning. He came slowly with teeth-gritting discomfort from his bed to the bathroom. The stool-softeners, recommended to him by Dahl, weren't helping. On the toilet a desperate pain assailed him. He couldn't push. Couldn't engage the abdominal muscles. But if he hoped to complete this evacuation, he had to do just that.

Owww, god. No, I can't. I can't. Maybe later.

Standing from the toilet, lifting his red pajama bottoms, he considered a shower. What he wanted more than anything, though, was to speak with Paula.

I miss her so much. I have to tell her I've been ill. She has to know. I should email her.

His computer bathing him in white light, on the bed, he began. He wrote pages about his health, and on his own future. Their future. He told her he would marry her. And mentioned his willingness to follow her anywhere. To become anything, professionally. He would get a
real
job was what he meant, and support her financially. Support her in all ways there were to support a person. He would change. Be better than he was. Accepting his limitations, he would set goals which were within his reach. Seek a more positive outlook. Think less about his own needs. Serve others. Relax.

He started over, erasing all that he'd written. His eyes glistening with tears, he smiled, rereading a passage about how much he believed in her talents. He removed those pages referring to Moss. Too negative. Assuring her that he would fly to Europe before long, he included an itinerary of their travels. They had to get to Ghent, but shouldn't only focus on the western half of the continent. What about the Ukraine? And he would like to see Romania.

Hours passed, and he didn't break from his writing. Then looking over all he'd said, he became suspicious. Caught up in a good time in a distant land, he reckoned the mind forgot what was left behind at home and shuddered at the thought of being dragged back to it against its will. Saying so much was the wrong thing. Wasn't it?

Be simple. Don't tell her much. Just the important parts. Or, maybe you're better off speaking on the phone. That way you can make sure everything said is understood. So then tell her you must talk on the phone. She has to call you.