The Portable Veblen (17 page)

“I want orange!”

“With black stripes. Like a tiger. I’ll ask! Jesus, have I told you about my adventures in the tiger trade?”

Paul was about to burst with boyish respect. “No.”

“Let’s just say it ended in an airport, and involved a tiger pecker and a balloon.”

Since that epic meal, Finger had remembered Paul’s birthday, taken him to see a few welterweight championships and a tennis benefit featuring Roger Federer in San Francisco, sent Paul bottles of Ardbeg Corryvreckan Islay single malt Scotch whisky, 4 Copas Tequila Reposado, and Parker’s twenty-seven-year-old whiskey (“Jesus, Jon, this stuff is two hundred bucks a bottle!”), and even offered Paul some kind of vacation package to Cancun should he and Veblen wish to honeymoon there.

“Yuck!” Veblen said when he shared the bounty. “Are you allowed to accept this stuff?”

“We’re friends,” Paul said. “We genuinely like and respect each other. You can’t fake something like that.”

(His father would’ve attacked him for saying that. He loved that Veblen nodded respectfully and believed.)

At a recent meeting, Jon asked him: “So was it Cloris herself who brought you in?”

Paul delved, with unabashed pleasure, into his professional courtship by Cloris. Finger listened, a deplorable smirk growing on his face, which made Paul slow down like he’d entered a sand trap.

Finger said, “Yeah, she’s pretty good at that,” and Paul frowned.

•   •   •

A
T TEN
Paul dragged himself to the FDR (family day room), with its daytime television and rough plaid couches, stuffy with
exhalations of abscessed teeth and old coffee, where at least twenty people had convened. Susan Hinks brightened at his arrival, and began making a herding gesture with her arms. “Everybody, Dr. Vreeland is here now. Please take a seat and we’ll get started.”

The faces in the room were neither padded in comfort nor forbidding. He saw chipped nail polish and worn vinyl bags, stubble and heavy cheekbones, thin hair, broad thighs.

“Good morning.” He stood stiffly just inside the doorway, telegraphing, he hoped, warmth and authority. “I’m Dr. Paul Vreeland, director of clinical trials at Greenslopes.” He cleared his throat, and noticed that James Shalev sat against the wall, clipboard in hand, jotting notes. “It’s—always a trial in itself to calibrate our personal expectations with the expected outcome of a medical procedure. Or trial. I’m sure this has been one of the most difficult times in your lives.” Murmurs of assent spread through the room, as he sought the proper notes to sound. “It’s come to my attention that some clarification on the nature of the trial might be helpful at this point.”

One man in the corner said, “Can’t hear you.”

“Sure. I’m here to answer your questions.”

A wide-hipped woman raised a small hand, like a schoolgirl. “Doctor, is it okay to bring our son’s pajamas and slippers and regular clothes so he can get out of that hospital gown?”

“Of course. That’s fine.”

“We tried to bring his pajamas but the nurses told us he had to stay in the gown.”

Paul said, “Then we’ll have a talk with the nurses.”

“He could wear his own pajamas and slippers at the VA in Bremerton,” said the woman.

Paul nodded. “There are always some loose ends at the start of a trial. Now, I’d like to explain that—”

A man with a thick, bristly neck raised his hand. “Doctor, can we wheel our son outside on nice days? It’s good for him to get some sunshine and fresh air.”

“Yes, by all means.”

A round-faced woman with long, shining black hair said, “Our daughter is the only woman in her row and we think women should have a room of their own.”

Paul cleared his throat again. “Let’s look into that.”

“It’s only right for women to have their own room, she’s sleeping in a room full of men,” said the woman.

“I take your point and we’ll look into it today,” Paul said, with pessimistic thoughts about the ability of anybody enrolled in the trial to know the difference between themselves and the opposite sex ever again.

“I’d like to know when you’ll get started, and how soon we’ll be made aware of the results,” said a man in a beige raincoat.

“That’s right,” agreed a few others.

“My husband’s getting bed sores. You need more physical therapists here.”

“I have a medicine skin for my husband. Do you know about those?”

“No, I don’t.”

“It’s sheepskin, and it helps keep the weight off.”

“I had a sheepskin for my son at our VA in Cleveland, and it was stolen right from under him,” said a woman.

Paul held up his hands. “How many of you understand what this trial is about?”

The room went silent.

“Would someone tell me what you were told?”

“We weren’t told anything!” called a man in the back. “We found out our son was coming here, that’s all. We’re from Oklahoma City. His doctor at the VA decided.”

“I was told my husband would be treated for his TBI,” said a redheaded woman holding the dense prospectus. “This is a clinical trial to help people with TBI, isn’t it?”

The people in the room began to talk, trading what they’d heard. As the volume rose, Paul shrank, his stomach bunched into a knot.

“People,” he said. “This is how it is. People!”

Two young women with pale skin and knitted brows were whispering to each other, and one raised her hand.

“Our dad’s here and we’ve read the papers,” she said. “And we know this trial is to test a device to be used within hours of brain injury. It’s not designed to help people who have already suffered TBI such as our dad and other members of this trial. Isn’t that true?”

Paul said, “That was well put. Did everybody hear that?”

The room fell quiet, mown down.

“We’re here because we know our dad wants to help any way he can, even if it doesn’t help him, because that’s the way he is,” she went on.

A woman in a heavy, rust-colored parka patched with duct tape raised her hand.

“We read the papers too. We understand all that. But for us it’s better to try something than nothing. It’s possible my husband could get some benefit from this procedure, isn’t it?”

More murmurs from the others. He heard someone say, “We thought so too.”

He was bulging with anger at their willful ignorance, stretching himself to hide it. He said, “I hope you’ll all take the time to read the prospectus again and understand that in this trial we do not expect—” The faces, from every side of the room, were tense, wrung out. “We don’t expect—” He felt the room closing in on him, every face trained on his. Hinks stared as if trying to cast a spell over his larynx. James Shalev scratched notes loudly onto his pad. Expectations were killing him! He couldn’t breathe.

“We don’t know what to expect until we’ve tried it,” he blurted out suddenly, and the room lightened many degrees.

“My husband was in a trial last year in Bethesda, for anticonvulsants, and another for tissue regeneration using progesterone,” said a young woman in a tight black sweater. “He woke up during the anticonvulsant therapy for about three hours and recognized me and asked about home and our dog, then he slipped back. It only happened once, but when everybody’s told you he’s never going to wake up, and something like that happens, it really gives you hope.”

“My daughter has a strong will, and we think she’ll pull through this,” said the woman who wanted her daughter in a different room.

“My husband too,” said another.

“Our son was told he might never walk after his injuries in ’05. He recovered and went back. He’ll make it through this if anyone can.”

“That’s right,” said someone.

Paul looked at his watch and nodded to Hinks. “Well, then, thanks, everyone, thank you again for your support.”

Someone clapped, and thanks came in murmurs. The woman with the son whose sheepskin was stolen came forward and shook his hand. Paul said, “Where was your son stationed?”

“Kirkuk.”

“Tough.”

“He was a runner, a bicyclist, a basketball player, an all-star Little League pitcher, and he loved to hike with his buddies in the Poconos. Summers, he was a camp counselor up at a place for disadvantaged kids. They loved him.”

To Paul’s surprise, his eyes misted over. Usually he hated hearing about beloved people, fearing no one ever talked that way about him. “You must be very proud of him.”

He turned to escape down the hall but the two young women came doggedly after him, surrounding him by the elevator.

“I’m Sarah Smith,” said one.

“I’m Alexa Smith,” said the other.

“That prospectus isn’t easy reading,” Paul said.

“We’ve been reading a lot of stuff like that since our dad was injured.”

“That’s not always a good idea,” Paul said, as the elevator doors parted. They followed him in.

Sarah Smith said, “But we’re the ones who care about him the most.”

He searched her face for signs of rancor, but there were none.

“We wanted to talk to you,” said Alexa Smith. “We’re worried he might be too aware of his surroundings to be in this trial.”

“What seems to be the problem?”

Sarah Smith said, “He seems really agitated and emotional, worse than before we brought him here.”

“You’re free to take him out,” Paul said.

The other sister spoke. “We told him that, but then he gets mad like he thinks we’re underestimating him. We wondered your opinion if he’s suitable.”

The elevator opened, and they followed Paul down the corridor like ducklings.

“All right,” Paul said, opening the door to his office. “I’ll look into it.”

“Thank you, Dr. Vreeland. We really appreciate it. He’s been through a lot and we don’t want him to be stressed out.”

“Sergeant Major Warren Smith is his name,” said Sarah.

They were sweet-looking girls, and when they thanked him it was with a measure of grief, and after they left he felt appalled by the whole painful masquerade.

He was sweating all over. Just then came a knock on his door, and James Shalev stuck in his large, onion-shaped head.

“Hi, Dr. Vreeland—nice job. A reality check but with a magical Frisbee thrown in at the end.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Shalev extracted his head and shut the door.

Paul did some kicks and karate chops around the room, venting generalized unease. And then his cell rang, and it appeared to be the fourth time his father had called in the past hour.

“Hey, Dad. Everything okay?”

“Fine, son. You bearing up? How was the trip to Cobb?”

“Okay. I’m at work, by the way.”

“Want me to call later?”

“I can talk a minute. Her mother’s a nut job, that’s all.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s a narcissist, a hypochondriac, a borderline personality, probably schizoid,” Paul said, sending his chair across the room with a violent punt.

“Whoa. So do we get some points now?”

“She calls Veblen every day, which is a drag.”

“Well, Marion’s mother called every day too. I didn’t like it, but it was important to her.”

“I have to live with it, huh?” Paul sank into his chair, expelling a stale gust of trapped gases from the cushioned seat.

“Oh, yes. Don’t try to tear a girl from her mother, she’ll hate you for it.”

“So what’s up, Dad? Anything else?”

There followed an awkward silence before Bill said, “We want to come down for your birthday. And, well, I hate to ask something like this right now, as I know how it really bugs the crap out of you. But your brother needs to hear something from you. We’re having a rough patch, and I know you can help.”

Paul slammed his coffee cup into the trash basket, sending angry streaks of latte up the wall.

“Dad, forget it. I have to go.”

“I’ll get him on the phone, and I want you to tell him that you’re marrying Veblen.”

“What, he’s worried it’s not going to happen?”

Bill cleared his throat. “It’s a little more complicated.”

“What, then?”

Bill said, “He claims
he’s
marrying Veblen.”

“Tell him yourself!” Paul yelled.

Bill began to speak in the drawl that historically made Paul’s chest constrict. “Son, we’ve tried. We’ve been talking about the wedding a lot because we’re so damned happy for you. He’s taking it all in, and this was just his way of joining into the spirit. We should have nipped it in the bud, but at first it seemed like a healthy dose of pretend. Take it from me, that night we met in the city, he saw right away what a terrific gal Veblen is.”

“Tell him the truth!”

“We’ve been trying.”

“Try harder!”

“We’ve backed ourselves into a corner. We don’t want anything going wrong at the wedding, you understand?”

“Couldn’t you assert my right to exist? For once?”

“Calm down, boy.”

“Can’t you see how lame and cowed you are?”

“The world is full of the cowed.” Bill’s voice trailed away. “He’s coming in right now with your mother,” he whispered. “He listens to you. Prevail where we’ve failed.”

All at once he heard Justin’s clammy breath smothering the phone, much as it had smothered his face when they were boys and Justin would lie on top of him to wake him up. “Pauly-wauly.”

“Hello, Justin.”

“Hello.”

“Looking forward to my wedding?”

After a pause, Justin said, “Yes.”

“It’ll be nice to have Veblen in the family.”

“Yes.” In a quiet voice he added, “I’m getting married too.”

“Ah, really. And who are you marrying?”

“Veblen,” said Justin.

“What a coincidence! Not my Veblen?”

Justin whispered, “A different one.”

“A different Veblen,” said Paul. “What’s your Veblen like?”

He could hear Justin fidget, the phone too close to his mouth. “She’s really little.”

“Ah. A really little Veblen. Good for you. Now I’m going to tell you something and you’d better listen. Stop fucking around with Mom and Dad and give them a chance to enjoy
my
wedding, which is
my
right, which is the only thing I’ve insisted on my whole life
not be screwed up,
do you get that?”

“Maybe. Maybe.”