Balls (11 page)

The man with the bourbon-wet mustache said, Orion, another bourbon for the jerk at the piano.

What about the chorus? said Henry, his right foot pressing down on the sustain. Do you think it has enough
umphh
to it?

It has
umphh
, said Orion, pouring him the bourbon. Setting the drink in front of Henry on the piano, he told him, You did it. Congratulations, Henry!

Henry wasn't convinced, but he let the subject drop. They made him play the song again. Four times
Castrated New York
was requested throughout the rest of the evening. At some point Orion locked the door and joined Henry at the piano, for he was an amateur pianist himself. The Italian men sang. As did the man with the bourbon-wet mustache. They went on into the early morning. And Henry did go home with the sun.

FOUR

A
t noon Henry woke. Light pierced through gaps in the old wooden shades. The succinct click of heels crossing through his apartment was what had roused him from sleep, though. Paula, it was her. Last-night's drinks were a powerful burning in his chest. He shouldn't consume liquor till his health returned to him. Dahl wouldn't approve. What about Henry? Did he approve?

I don't, he said, to himself. You have to keep your strength.

He could hear Paula stepping gingerly through his darkened bedroom.

Henry, she said, are you awake? Her voice was all gravel.

I am.

Good morning, she told him.

She went to raise the shades. A blue light swept into the bedroom, through the window a division of fire-escapes and low-rise buildings—a perfect June day. At twenty-one Paula's face could absorb sleepless nights and still turn out beautiful the next morning. Yes, she was beautiful, in a loose white dress, and newly showered. Henry could smell jasmine strong on her body. Her black hair was damp. She'd been quick to leave home and come here, Henry acknowledged, with satisfaction.

How was your evening? he asked her, pulling on his bathrobe, knotting the belt.

It was good. And yours?

Fine, he said.

He told himself that he wouldn't talk about
Castrated New York
. He must speak of only one thing, his cancer. He said to her, Come into the kitchen. Let's have breakfast.

In the bright room he scrambled eggs, he made coffee, he toasted bread and took bottles of jam from the refrigerator, a carton of milk, and set them all on the table beside the plates and flatware and folded napkins which he'd likewise arranged. He even squeezed orange juice. Pouring egg yolk into a hot pan, he decided once breakfast was served he would tell her everything. That would be the right moment for it. You had to pick the one, and be
right
, he noted. You only had the one chance to say it the first time.

But Paula was speaking from her seat at the small round table behind him.

Henry, she was saying, I have to tell you something.

A hot needling sensation burst through him. Was she going to end their relationship? Some part of him felt certain that she would. Concealing the full load of his distress, he asked her, What's on your mind, Paula?

Loud enough to be heard above the traffic on the street below, Paula told him, I'm leaving Monday.

His eyes focused on her with relief. Grinning, he said, Leaving? Where to?

Paula, her gaze calm, her hands folded, said, To Berlin.

Berlin?
Really?
to Berlin?

I'll be staying in Europe for a while, I'm not sure how long. Maybe the rest of the summer, Henry.

What do you mean?

I'm going on the trip, she clapped her hands together.

You're leaving
this
Monday?
for the whole summer? He was holding a wooden spoon to scramble eggs, and he threw it hard into the sink.

Henry—

This Monday?

It was the whole idea.

What
whole
idea? What are you saying?

The gift from my parents…it was arranged with Jeffrey Moss. I have three private recitals scheduled, first in Berlin this Tuesday, Vienna on Thursday and Paris, Saturday.

The pan was burning. Henry switched off the flame, averting his face from the rising smoke.

I'll be playing for the most influential people in the world. This is really
great
for me.

It
is
, but—

You're excited, aren't you?

I am.

These people will make my whole career.

That's wonderful. It is.

I know you're happy for me.

I
am
happy.

Because if you weren't…if you weren't happy for me Henry…

But I'm happy for you, Paula.

He had to stop himself from saying anything more. She must know the truth about his health. What was he even waiting for? Glancing down at her, he sensed the gravity of his mistake, each and every postponement of the truth, in the pit of his stomach. At once, he put himself in the chair next to her and scooped her hands up in his own. His eyes closed, he was going to say it all, right this minute.

Paula, he began.
Paula.

What is it, Henry?

Paula.

Henry, are you okay?

Pushing back the shoulders of his robe, going,
Haaaah, haaaah, haaaah
, in a fight for air—it had dawned on him that Moss would be with her on this trip, he was hyperventilating—he said, It's just, I…I didn't realize…that…that you'd be leaving so soon. I…I…I have this procedure Monday to correct the
bulge.
They're going to suck fluids from my back. I have to leave soon and meet with the doctor.

Paula gently touched her lips, her conscience awoken. She said, God. Right. I hadn't even thought about that. You said it isn't serious.
Is
it serious?

Yes, it's serious. I mean…yes…it's not too serious, but
serious
.

How serious? she asked him.

I mean, you don't have to worry. It's nothing they can't fix.

It's just fluid?

Yes, he answered her.

And you can handle it alone?

I can.

You won't need me?

No, Paula.

He jumped from his chair, and went to the stove, took the pan, turned it upside down and whacked it twice against the garbage can under the sink. The eggs had been over-cooked. Paula liked hers soft.

I'll make them again, he said.

You don't have to, Henry.

No, I will. I do have to.

From the stove he stared back at her, in fear. Quiet in her chair, Paula sat with her legs straight out and ankles crossed, her glass of juice tipped slightly forward below her upturned nose. And what was she thinking about? His gullibility?

Do something.

He said, Moss, aloud.

Again.

Moss, Henry spoke the name. His voice wasn't especially loud, but he was sure she'd heard him.

However, with her eyes blinking rapidly, Paula, lowering her glass of juice, said, I see what this is. I see it and I'm sorry, Henry. I know you want me at your procedure. I feel awful. I mean it, I thought it wasn't serious. But you're upset. She went to him, kissing his brow.

Why, she was pretending not to have heard him say
Moss
. She was.
She was
. Henry couldn't speak, he was sick. Paula—she was fondling his earlobe, saying, I'll come with you to the doctor today.

No.

I want to come.

You can't, said Henry.

I want to be with you.

You
can't
come, he said.

What can I do for you?

Nothing, Paula.

Nothing?

Just eat, he said. I have to go. I'm late.

Confused, she said to him, You're leaving so soon?

I have to.

Okay. If you have to. In a flash, her barren look turned to one of inspiration. She said, I'll wait for you to come back.

For her to spend the next hours here alone made no sense to Henry. Yet, standing next to Paula another second—he was afraid he'd act out with violence. He excused himself, he had to dress. In the bedroom, changing into khaki pants, a gray sweater, he shouted through the apartment, Paula, if you want to stay,
stay
. I'll be gone a while.

That's all right, he heard her say. I could use a rest. I was up late.

Fine. Do what you want.

His sperm-deposit was scheduled for two p.m. in the West 30s, near Penn Station. In the taxi his mind was reeling. She was back with Moss. She must be. Her teacher would travel with her to Europe. Henry would receive a letter in the mail one day stating that they couldn't be together anymore. She was in love with Moss. He was a better fit. He'd heard her say something like that before. Hadn't he? Because they did the same thing. Or were in the same field. Had the same interests. Bullshit. Henry was ready to move on, to release this burning sensation in his heart. He would find a new woman. He could do better. He must consider it.

Shouldn't I? he thought.

He felt that this person was not
him.
This paranoid man—who was he? Not Henry. It was Paula who made him behave like this. She ruined his mind. Made him tense and distrusting. That was her. Or, she brought out these qualities which were already in him. That is, she brought out the worst in him.

With his face in his hands, to himself, he said, You don't need her.

He noticed the taxi wasn't moving. No vehicles obstructed their path. Had the cabbie fallen asleep?

Excuse me, Henry said, can you drive? I'm in a rush.

But the cabbie, a gray-faced woman in her late 60s with long red hair, said, Open your eyes! We're here.

Henry looked up. It was true, they'd arrived at his destination. He apologized.

Just get out of my car, she yelled.

I am sorry.

Stepping from the taxi onto 7th Avenue, a tremendous brick building rose straight before him, its steel entryway gleaming white in the sun. On the 6th floor was the New York City Cryobank. But it occurred to Henry that he'd seen this building so many times—and admired it, too—though never with the knowledge of what happened inside its walls, that there were men like himself who came in great desperation and sickness to store their sperm. Riding up in the elevator, with the escape-hatch in plain view and the shaft-to-freedom and its thick metal wires and near darkness stretching skyward, Henry wrung his hands. The doors opened and he stepped out the elevator onto a diagonal of linoleum-tiles, a wide-open space. Ammonia was strong in the air. As was the human emptiness of the New York City Cryobank. Where was everyone? The front desk, a white tome of Formica, and two gray sofas which formed a waiting area, were unoccupied. A sign on the desk caught Henry's attention:

To our Bankers, please keep in mind that it is only legal to store sperm for up to forty years in New York State. Thank you, the NYCC.

Henry's palms became wet with perspiration. Who could think so far ahead about reproduction? Madmen, tyrants, the mentally ill. Hopefully anyone who came here inquiring about forty years of storage had their files sent to the FEDs. But where was the staff? Leaning over the front desk Henry saw a computer up and running. A half-filled mug of coffee rested on an issue of
New York Magazine
. From a chair-back hung a white leather purse. Someone
was
here. But where?

Hello. Hello. Anyone. What's wrong with these people!

Without seeing the office blueprints he felt confident he could rob the bank and make off with everything in its vaults this minute. Who was keeping guard? No one. This was ridiculous. He checked the time on his phone. His appointment began five minutes ago. Weren't they expecting him? Perhaps Dahl had bungled the hour, told him two p.m. instead of one or noon. Just another stop on the doctor-go-round. But he couldn't simply leave. Today was Saturday. The bank was closed Sundays and the surgery was Monday.

The thought of not banking sperm passed through Henry, and fretful, he cried out, What's going on? Where is everyone? Come on.

A phone began to ring. Henry swung around and pursued the device on the front desk. Hovering over it, he watched its pulsing red light. Someone would answer. Someone. Anyone.

No one did. These people—unconscionable. Couldn't they do their jobs?
He
was doing his. He'd arrived on time. Hadn't he? Yes, he had. And he was ready to masturbate, ejaculate and pay the NYCC with a credit card for banking his sperm. What more did they want from him? He could take his business elsewhere. He might. He'd read about other banks, two, one in the Bronx, up by Fordham, another in Staten Island near the ferry terminal. Perhaps he should call one, or both, explain his situation. There was time, if he acted fast.

Instead he called Dahl. He got his service. Henry asked the operator if he could speak to the doctor. She explained how she could only tell Dahl to call him back, that that was her function.

Just make sure he knows it's an emergency. I'm at the sperm bank and there's no one here, and the doctor said he trusted these people—Henry was shouting into the phone—and I've been here five, ten, fifteen minutes, I don't know, a while, a long while, and where is everyone? Maybe the doctor has special information. And I've got to leave my sample here today because the orchiectomy's on Monday and…and…just have the doctor call me. Okay? Thank you. Thank you very much. It's Henry Schiller.

Henry hung up.

Put my life in the hands of these doctors and look what happens. Bunch of fucking idiots.

A woman appeared. Henry was ready to begin screaming. She apologized before he could say anything. She said she was the only person here today and that she had been afraid to use the bathroom ever since this morning, thinking someone might arrive, as Henry had, and find no one to greet him.

I'm so sorry, she said. Her hair was a pile of dark unruly curls, like some wig Little Richard might have worn. Her wide, brilliant smile neutralized Henry's anger. She said, Let's get you started.

She made Henry fill out forms. When he was through, she led him inside a clean bright windowless room. She drew blood from his arm. She asked Henry if the length of his sperm storage would be short or long term, or if he'd even thought about it. Without waiting for him to answer she recommended he consider the benefits of keeping his sperm in storage for the next forty years. He should understand it as a security policy. No matter what his sperm would always be safe.

If you don't mind my asking, why are you storing sperm today?

I've got testicular cancer.

Without giving into the sad expression on her face, she said, You think about what I've said, Henry. From a metal cabinet she removed a plastic cup, placing it firmly in his hand. For your semen, she told him. You've got every kind of magazine over there—she pointed to a large pile on a table—a television, DVDs. I'll be out there. You just take your time and tell me if you need anything.