Balls (12 page)

Thank you.

She left the room and a strange, dark, hopeless feeling settled in Henry's breast. He removed his clothes. Naked and shivering, the air conditioning was turned to cold, he saw a large tub of petroleum jelly on the television. He went to it, removing the lid. He scooped a portion onto his middle and forefinger, sitting in a chair with good width separating his feet and opened a magazine,
Juggernauts
, to a photograph of a large-breasted woman receiving anal pleasure from a dildo. That would do. In his left hand he readied the cup. Shooting semen on the floor would be a grave mistake. So be careful, he told himself. Don't lose a drop. In two days this might be all that's left.

He now began to recall the terrible moment some three years ago with Colette Jacques, the sister of Bobby. Following the success of
All the Crazies Love Me
Henry had flown to Paris to see Bobby perform. He remembered how he'd planned to tour the city over his five days there but spent all but a few hours in Colette's bed in Le Marais. He'd thought, I'm having the time of my life. In Paris, with a beautiful woman, having great sex and such fine conversation, too. He went home to New York longing to see Colette again, unsure that he ever would.

Tu reviendras à Paris un jour? she'd asked him on his final morning.

Oui, bien sûr. Maintenant que je te connais, il faut que je revienne.

Tu es gentil, Henry.

Colette made no mention of visiting New York and Henry had been keen to her omission. He did want her to come. She was so kind and attractive. Her body had been lovely in his arms. It had been March in Paris, and freezing outdoors, they mostly stayed in.

Tu ne veux jamais te promener dans Paris avec moi. Te promener dans mon lit, il n'y a que ça qui t'intéresse!

But she had such a wonderful backside and shortly cropped black hair, and in the cold her smooth cheeks very quickly turned red. They went to see Bobby perform and Colette dressed for the Alps in black ski pants and a red wool sweater. She wore a shawl around her head and only her face went uncovered in the outdoors so that her light eyes alone were visible—they beamed full of deep emotion.

It was hard to leave you. I thought I'd never see you again, said Henry, to himself, and the issue of
Juggernauts
fell to the floor. I wonder still if it was better or worse that I did.

Colette had called one day the following summer from a payphone. She was in town for one night and desperate to see Henry. She didn't sound like the same woman. She was in a panic, disturbed. Henry had just moved into his apartment on 43rd and 1st Avenue. He was there entertaining his mother. But still, she could stop by if she liked. Colette said she'd be there soon.

Who was that? his mother asked once he was off.

Just a friend I made in Paris. She's coming over.

Edie had a look she gave her son when disappointed. Her lower lip came forward. On the left side of her face, the cheek assumed a heavy expression and the brown eyes looked on at him with the brow curved above. She said, Why do you have to see her now? I get so little time with you these days.

His mother had remarried and moved to Memphis where her new husband lived. She came to New York once a year to see her son and expected when they got together that she would have him to herself. Henry began to apologize. She was right. He should have met Colette in the evening.

She'd sounded so distraught.

Call her back.

I can't call her back. She was at a payphone.

Edie didn't say anything. But her discontent unnerved Henry. Colette arrived soon after and there was a man with her, a strong and hostile-looking person. In a long yellow dress, Colette appeared full of warmth. Her black hair was longer than when he had last seen her. She wore it back in a single braid. Her blue eyes were sorrowful. That wasn't unusual, they'd always been like that, it was part of their charm. She kissed Henry on both cheeks.

This, she said, is my husband, Luc. Luc, this is
Henri
.

Your husband? Congratulations, Henry smiled, disguising his unhappiness. I didn't know you'd been married.

Oui
, she offered, revealing no emotion.

Colette came inside. Henry was ready to introduce her and her husband to his mother. Then he saw that Luc had remained in the doorway, his black eyes focused on Henry.

So
you
are the one? said Luc.

Henry said, I'm the
what?

Colette held her husband's hand, and appeared to be restraining him from acting out with violence. She said,
Henri,
we won't be staying long. I am sorry. I had to come here today because Luc, he has told me for months that he must see your face, that he must look at you in the flesh and take in your image.

Henry and his mother exchanged confused looks. Colette hadn't moved. She was still with both hands on her husband.

Henri
, she continued, when we were together, something happened, something for which I will never forgive myself, something I must apologize for, knowing you will still hate me for eternity.

Colette struggled to pull Luc closer to herself. Her cheeks were a dark red hue, her shoulders set back tense. In French, she reminded Luc of what they'd discussed on the way here: that this was only a chance for him to see Henry in person and for Colette to make her peace. That was it. But Luc broke free of Colette and went straight out the door. Henry watched him leave, then noticed his mother peering apprehensively over her coffee mug at Colette.

Please, he said, what's this all about?

She said,
Oui, ecoute
,
Henri
. For five years Luc and I have been married. Long before I met you we decided to take lovers. Her chest steadily rising and falling, her hands at her sides with the muscles flexed, she said, When you arrived in Paris, Luc had just left on a trip with another woman. I had been so jealous. She was no ordinary person. She was Luc's great obsession. To get back at him,
Henri
, I removed my diaphragm, hoping you would impregnate me. Colette, in obvious distress, said, I didn't think it had worked. I felt none of the symptoms. But after two weeks, I came to see that I was so tired. And my hunger, oh my hunger was
so
strong. I went to have a test. It was true. You had made me pregnant,
Henri
.

Henry kept his hands over his face. This was too much to bear.

She said, I thought, What will I do? What
can
I do? Do I tell Luc? At first I didn't. I had an abortion. I lay in bed all day. My story was a stomach virus. But I couldn't stand dishonesty. I told Luc the truth. He was so angry…he didn't talk to me for a whole month, and—

Wait, cried Henry. Enough. Okay. God, I can't believe
you
would do this. I…I thought you were so kind, so sweet. I could have kept the memory. Why did you come here?

I told you, wept Colette, Luc was mad to see your face. I'm sorry we did. I'll leave.

She did.

Once gone, Henry's mother came straight to his defense. How was he supposed to know this would happen? she said. He was in Paris, spending a week with a beautiful young woman. A bit emotional sure—but that, too, could be attractive. She urged him to look on the bright side:

Honey, at least you're fertile.

Henry now climaxed, his semen shooting in the cup. Any softening of the muscles behind the eyes or weakening of the legs or slack-mouthed pleasure were ignored while he diligently captured his semen. A slight tickle in his nose let loose a warm tear. With his knuckle he wiped it free. Staring into the cup, though, he saw there wasn't much semen. Who knew how many sperm were actually swimming there? Certainly, by sight alone, Henry wasn't prepared to say. Yet considering this collection of fluid—there should be more of it than this. This—
this
was nothing.

Henry phoned Dahl immediately. Again he only got the doctor's service. He circled the room, pleading his case to the operator. He explained how he was still at the sperm bank and where certain things had improved—he'd located a staff member and he'd been given a room—however, he was still in trouble.

What exactly do you mean, Mr. Schiller?

What do I
mean?
He began to snap his fingers, searching for the words. Miss, said Henry, I've produced…a…a fucking half-teaspoon of semen.

There was silence on the line. After letting out a sigh, the operator said, Did the doctor tell you this might happen?

I…I don't remember. Would he have told me that?

Mr. Schiller, I'm really only an operator.

Henry squatted to the floor, though only momentarily, the position didn't suit him and he jumped up and paced the room. He said, A small child could produce more than I have.

Sir, again, I'm sorry. It was a young woman on the phone. Her tone was flat. She said, I don't know the answers to your questions.

Can I speak to the doctor? Please. I'll wait. I don't care how long. Just, I need to talk to him.

I'll call him again, she said.

Henry was put on hold. Sinatra's
My Way
piped through the phone. Henry, his pants still down, glanced at his testicles, but looked away just as fast.

Colette Jacques had rung his buzzer early the following morning. Henry had watched her from his window. There she'd been, all alone. Peach-skinned and with those heavenly blue eyes, she'd waved to him, a charming woman. Yet he'd decided not to let her upstairs. For them that was the end. He hadn't seen her since. But to this day, Henry regretted his decision. He still carried real feeling for her. Who knew what might have been that morning. He might have turned his back on some of the greatest hours of his life. And why? Because of
principle?

Oh how
im
-fucking-provident, said Henry, to himself. How stupid.

Dahl was calling. Henry switched over, and before he could even greet him the doctor was explaining how, seminal fluids aside, his sperm count would be low because of the tumor in his testicle.

Though, once we remove it, Henry, it's very likely the numbers will go back up. This is normal. If you've produced any kind of sample at all you can rest assured your reproductive opportunities are secured for the future. All you need is one sperm.

Just one?

Just
one, Henry…plus one egg…plus a little science equals new life. Now I want you to try and take it easy.

Henry said, Doctor, I'm losing it. I'm losing it. And you're not helping.

I'm sorry you think that. I've done everything I can for you thus far, Henry. What else would you
like from me?

I'd like to be able to reach you when I need to.

You called my service. I called you back.

The delay was very long.

I'm sorry for that, Henry. I have other things in front of me. A whole life. Is there anyone else you've been talking to about this? A friend? A family member? You haven't been dealing with all of this alone, have you?

Henry said, No, doctor. Don't be ridiculous. I've got a lot of support. Thank you for your concern. I appreciate it—and he abruptly hung up the phone.

FIVE

I
n a taxi in traffic on 34th, Henry, feeling deeply unstable, tried turning his anguish into art. He saw that it all wanted to come out of him at once, every thought, in the honking and braking of the cars and the shadow of the Empire State Building, which loomed above, reminding him to forget his flagging health and Paula, and Moss, and think bigger than he'd ever in the past. The full crowds of people rushing along the sidewalks urged him to throw sharp elbows into a bridge for
Castrated New York
.

Writing on a New York City Cryobank receipt, the lyrics came quickly:

Lift up your chins,
Castrated citizens,
You didn't pay,
To have Upper Broadway,
Turned into a thoroughfare,
Which could be anywhere,
That would be the,
Developers of our city,
Those venal scumbag pricks,
And the politicians who suck,
Their dicks.

Henry carefully reread the lines. He realized they were too
something
. Certainly not
it
.

Placing anxious fingers to his head he searched for the right words. By the time he'd walked into his apartment he'd yet to find them. Paula called out to him when she heard the door slam shut.

Henry? You're back?

He cringed. He'd forgotten she'd said she would wait here for him. He didn't want to talk to her or see her face. He went straight to his piano. The bridge was being teased out in his head. The new lyrics did have a certain lyrical punch, however, the words
venal scumbag pricks/and the politicians who suck/their dicks
were too much. He had to find another, more tasteful, way to say exactly the same thing. He heard Paula approaching from behind. His shoulders tensed.

How did it go with the doctor? she asked.

Without facing her, he said, Fine.

He wanted her gone. A pile of blank sheet music sat on the piano, and he took those pages and began to straighten them. How would he get her out of here? He must figure a way. Slapping the sheet music to the keys, he said to her:

I can't be bothered. I have a new song that I need to work on.

He felt positive, hoped with all his person, that his words would penetrate to her most vulnerable parts. A little cruelty to get her out the door.

That wasn't what happened. Instead, with intense satisfaction, she cried, A new song!

Struggling for poise, Henry said, I wrote it last night, and I've already decided to bring a demo of it to Zachary Walbaum before my procedure Monday.

She said, Really? Zachary Walbaum?

Really. Him. And I'm sure this is
the
song.

Which song?

Which song? Which
song?
Henry mocked her. The one about New York.

She said, I thought you'd given up on that.

No, never given up, only put the song on hold for the sake of my sanity.

That makes sense.

I'm glad you agree, he said, feeling himself inch closer to a breakdown.

Paula, in an almost joyful state, pulled him by the hand to the piano. She said, You've got to play it for me.

No.

I want to hear it, she said. She fell into a chair beside the piano, crossing one leg over the other to show him she was a ready, eager audience. Smiling with half her face, she said, Play it for me. I've heard you talk so much about this song, how it would define your whole career, how people would come to know you by
it
. I'm deserving.

Paula, please.

I want to hear it, Henry.

No.

You're going to play it for me, she became severe now.

Ach. Fine, he said. I'll play you the goddamn song. Then I need to be left alone to work. I need total peace.

In a blithe voice, with the tempered blue light of afternoon filling the room, she told him, That's not a problem.

Pushing his tongue to the roof of his mouth to release spleen, Henry lowered himself onto the piano bench. He rested his hands on the keys. Ready to begin, he looked back at her. A wave of nerves passing through him, he said, Paula, there're things which still need to be worked out. I wrote the words to the bridge just ten minutes ago in the taxi home. I haven't even had the chance to sing them to music yet.

I understand. You don't have to explain anything, she said, taking a rubber band from her wrist and putting her hair back with business-like swiftness. I just want to have a feel for it. That's all.

Okay, fine. You'll get that.

Henry began. Playing through the first measures he explained to Paula how the intro was attempting to conceal the strong sense of indignation which came soon in the first verse by playing on these major and minor chords, back and forth. The whole part was trying to describe the mental state of a man, newly destitute, who alone on a June day in Times Square sees a place to sit, a bench on which he used to often rest but feels uncertain whether he's allowed to be there without buying something to eat or drink first.

Some iced coffee beverage or smoothie. You follow me, Paula?

Henry, she said, irritated, don't tell me what it's all supposed to mean. Just be quiet so I can hear the song. Okay? Now
continue
.

He did. Into the first verse, his right hand dropped from the playing altogether while the left worked low, discordant chords, steady sixteenth notes, haunting and abrasive. Perhaps it was too bleak an outlook for Paula. During the last seconds, in the reflection of the piano, he'd seen her stand from her chair and grab at her hair with both hands. He played on. But between those vocal lines:

Impotent,
I blame the powers,
That have without conscience,
Watered-down the streetscape
,

and,

(I.e. he who has erected a,
Residential tower fast and cheap,
So as to fill it up with,
New paying residents,

he hit a handful of treble notes on the offbeat, semi-sweet but floating mysteriously in space, notes which appeared, then disappeared. Paula groaned. He gazed over his shoulder and saw her face was buried in the crook of her arm. She didn't see him. Turning back towards the piano, refocusing his efforts, he sang aloud:

They have demeaned our intelligence,
Street by street, and left,
My cock timid and confused.

Flushed red, Paula cried, Henry.
Henry.
Stop.

What is it? he shouted. He didn't want to break. Things were just heating up. Paula's chest was heaving, and her mouth was agape. She said, What are you doing? What is this?

What is
what?

Countenancing a look, part confusion, part contempt, she sat down next to him on the piano bench. In a faint and gentle tone, one used on small children, she said, Henry, this song, it's
not
for Zachary Walbaum. I'm sorry. I have to be straight with you. He doesn't sell music like this.

She took the lyrics from the music stand. Come on. She was laughing at him.
We are all of us down to one ball
. What is that?

It's a metaphor.

For
what?

Our city!

Henry, please. Her toothy smile patronized him. Pointing at the top of the page, she said, And what's this here?
Castrated New York?

It's the song's title.

She looked terrified. Her eyebrows lifted towards her hairline. She said, You can't name a song
Castrated New York
.

Why not!

Because you
can't
, Henry!

She began to rock her head side to side, struggling not to disintegrate. And you cannot
go to Walbaum with this. This is not your great song about New York, and it's completely un-salable, and he'll know it the second he hears it.

This song already has fans, Henry barked.

Really? Her look showed she was ready to believe him. She said, What fans?

A couple of warm-blooded human beings, that's who. I went to the bar last night and—

Oh,
oh
, no, she began running her fingers in the air, as if moving them up and down the neck of her violin, something she did when she was worked up, you mean those drunks from J. Van Gundy's? Is that what you're trying to tell me? Henry, those guys love
everything
you do.

Okay, just get out of here! he shouted. Go. Leave.

You're lucky I'm here, Henry. You're lucky you have me. Look, I know you don't like to hear any of this, but—

Henry cut her off. Enough. Enough! he yelled. He rushed to the front door, his wounded steps pounding the floor. Unbolting the lock, he turned to face her. He said,
Leave!

Paula had followed him to the narrow entryway. She said, Come on, Henry, please. I'm just trying to help.

Henry said, Bullshit. You just can't admit I've written a great song. You want to keep me down. I know how you think.

Henry, please.

No, no, you're in competition with everyone. Including me. Pulling open the door, he cried out, You're just a sick fucking bitch, and that's all there is to it!

Her eyes enlarged, hyperthyroidically. Without saying another word she rushed past him, out of the apartment. Henry slammed the door and went back to work.

Within seconds, and seated at his piano, he began cursing her name. Because really, what does she know? I'm the one who's written a hit song. And she's five minutes out of college. A child. Never supported herself a day in her life.

The shortness of his breath further excited his nerves. He demanded he pull it together and reset his focus. The song was, he told himself, the single important thing in his life. Pounding his fist to his breast, his eyes lit up. His face was wet. Taking a harsh look at the piano, he jumped to his feet and rushed to the window. In the past when they'd argued, Paula had gone to stand in front of the building to cool down. He got his head all the way outside and searched left and right. He didn't see her anywhere. He put on shoes and went to look for her. He searched Beekman Place, and a bench on 57th Street at the river, places they often went together. The air was getting cooler, it was after five. He couldn't find her. In front of the U.N. he called and she didn't answer. He left no message. But forget it. He didn't need her.

Upstairs he fixed himself a vodka. Bent against the counter, his strength decreasing, he drank it down. Suddenly, more than to feel drunk, he wanted to call his mother and father, to have their love. He could do that. He hardly understood what kept him from it. He wasn't an orphan. Not yet. They would come to him, they could be here tomorrow, if he called. If he asked.

He lay down flat on the kitchen floor. Staring at the shadowed ceiling he saw his father out on the avenue hailing a taxi. His mother was there too. His parents, they were escorting him to the hospital. His mother helped him into the yellow car. His father told the driver the address. And Henry sat between them, a child once again. Seeing his parents in the waiting room brought a tear to his eye. He dabbed it with the back of his hand. Then another fell, because they'd be there when the anesthesia wore off and consciousness resumed. They'd talk to his doctor. A great relief, thought Henry, who didn't want to confer with another MD as long as he lived. His parents would take him home, nurse him through his treatment, make sure he had food, and warmth, money.

I could use a loan, said Henry, to himself.

His eyes, red and glazed, closed against the day. He could almost recall the figure of his last bank statement: $194.05. Or was it $149.50? Either way, he was closing in on zero.

Henry steadied his shaking hands on his forehead. He wouldn't think about his parents. Dr. Penelope Andrews, on the other hand—she'd been so sympathetic to his condition. Dizzy, the gray filter subduing his vision, unable to look
at his piano, she'd welcomed him into her office and had sex with him. What a wonderful woman, he thought. She was there for me. She had such a nurturing character, and so much love to give. So warm. She was lovely. I loved her, said Henry, his throat aching with emotion. I really think I might have loved her. She was a special woman. Rare. Charming. I should call. She'd come and spend the night. I could tell her everything that's happened. She'd want to know. Never had anyone taken such an interest in my problems. Her insights were excellent. She had a way of seeing through to the truth of my every thought. Ahhh. She was something. Something else.

With his head beneath the door to the old stove and the refrigerator dully humming nearby, he said, I'm going to get her on the phone.

His stiff, nervous fingers began to dial. He hadn't forgotten her number. There'd been a stretch of months when he used to call her four and five times a day. The phone was ringing—once, twice—he hung up.

Do I really want to see Penelope?

Waiting a second, he then dialed again, and hung up just as fast. His back flat to the kitchen floor, to himself, he said, Remember, she was the one who stopped talking to you. What makes you think she'll answer your call, let alone see you? Henry scratched under the band of his pants till the skin ached. He reckoned that Penelope Andrews would answer, though. Why? Because if he were calling, it meant he needed her. Because he was desperate. And that was how she liked him.

He dialed again. The phone was ringing. Come on, come on, come on.

He got her voicemail and hung up. Banging his head again and again on the kitchen floor, he said, What the hell does Paula know about songwriting anyway. Nothing. She's never written a song. She wouldn't know how to start writing a song if she tried. And I've
sold
a song. I've made a living by it. That's what
I
do. That's my place of expertise. I have a reputation. And
Castrated New York
is a groundbreaking work. And it
must
get to the people.

At the next moment, he called Zackary Walbaum. His heart rate wasn't under control by the time Walbaum answered.

What's doing, baby? How you been?