Balls (15 page)

What I'm getting at, baby—and Walbaum had led Henry into his study and had a beer open for him—he'd even positioned a leather ottoman so that he could elevate his legs—is that you could really help Bobby?

How? What? I don't get it.

First off, said Walbaum, you could write for her.

Could I, though?

Walbaum slapped his hand to his head. What's wrong with you? You're a hit machine and you don't even know it.

No…I…don't…know it.

I need you over there helping her.

Over
where?

Walbaum was too carried away by his own thoughts to answer. You'll talk sense into her, he said. You'll write songs together. Who knows, maybe by the end, you've written the whole record. That could be big for someone like yourself. And Bobby likes you. She thinks you understand her. Christ, no one understands her. She's not meant to be understood. That's part of her appeal.

Walbaum, hunched over his desk, shot out more and more information. He said, Anyway, the real question is when can I get you on a flight?

Henry stood from his chair. He didn't know what to do with his body, though, and he went straight back down into the chair again.

Could I have you there by tomorrow? Is there anything keeping you in New York? We'll buy your plane ticket, put you in a hotel, you know, two or three stars, no roaches, something decent. You'll be down the block from the studio. You'll straighten everything out with Bobby, get laid and forget your girlfriend ever existed. It's my most brilliant idea all week. But I need an answer, Henry. And I'd like it now.

I'm sorry. Where do you want me to go? Henry asked him.

However, Walbaum began pointing at Henry. His eyes were mean. He said, This wouldn't be a vacation. You're going there to work with Bobby. You'll get her in line. That's what I need. Once you say you'll do it, Henry, you're costing me money.
Not
that you'll have an expense account or anything fancy like that. No frills. Just a plane ticket, a hotel, and a chance to make some big songs. I could call Bobby this minute, tell her you're coming and that you're
her
man. What do you say?

What do I say to
what?
Henry cried.

And here, Walbaum came around his desk and grabbed Henry's face, tight in one hand. He said, What do you say to Paris, Henry!
Paris!

EIGHT

O
utside on the street, Henry hailed a taxi. When one pulled up he understood at once that he couldn't sit in a car and he told the driver he'd made a mistake, closed the door and began walking east. His mind was bounding forward. He required room, and full control over his direction. No, a taxi wasn't the place to put himself. He was grateful the thought had struck him before he'd shut himself inside the car.

He walked inside Central Park, and the next thing he knew he was calling Dahl. He got his service and left a message. Halfway to the East Side, on the path of the Reservoir and staring across the water at the space-bound rings of the Guggenheim, Dahl was calling back.

That was prompt, said Henry.

Henry, how are you? Tomorrow morning, eight o'clock, you'll be at the hospital.

About that, doctor, I have to ask you…The fingers of Henry's right hand hooked around the back of his neck. His nails dug there, into the skin. He said to him, If I were unable to make it…if I had to postpone the orchiectomy by a week, or two, or even three weeks, would that be possible, doctor?

Possible, Henry? Definitely not, he said. We have to get the testicle out of you. If we could have done it yesterday we would have.

And you're not exaggerating?

The question caught Dahl off guard.
Exaggerating
, Henry?

Because oftentimes doctors do that, for reasons of personal gain, and I just want to make sure you're being straight with me.

After a moment's silence, Dahl, maintaining his professionalism, assured Henry that he was being
straight
with him.

What kind of risk do I run putting it off a few weeks?

What kind of risk?

That's right, said Henry. What kind?

The doctor was speaking to him from out on the street. Henry could hear the squeal of car breaks and hard wind. Dahl didn't shout only to be heard above the noise, though. He was genuinely agitated. He said, Henry, if you don't come tomorrow, you might die.

Henry scoffed at the doctor. Cutting down from the Reservoir towards the Metropolitan Museum, evading a triathlon of bikers on the black road, he said, You're telling the truth?

Henry, I am telling you the truth.

Because you doctors…you take advantage of people like myself…people in weakened states.

Good god, Henry, please.

And we, the patients, we have no options but to take you at your word. I don't have any idea whether you're lying to me all this time. I'm not an expert. This growth, it could be nothing.

You don't believe that. I know you don't.

I'm not sure what to believe.

Dahl said Henry's name a dozen times, in succession. He told him, If you haven't understood me yet—and it seems you haven't—I'm telling you to
listen up.
The cancer is spreading through your body, Henry. It might still be contained in your testicle and all we'll have to do is get it out of you and have you seen once a month to have routine X-rays and blood work to make sure you're in good health for two years before you can go on with your life. If you wait three weeks I don't think there's a chance for that. The cancer will have almost certainly metastasized. It could go all the way into your brain.

My brain? said Henry, terror-stricken. Well…well, I'll probably be at the hospital tomorrow.

Henry.

I said I'll be there. We'll get this testicle out of me.

Henry
, said Dahl, his voice rising, I think you should come into my office in the morning and we'll talk. I'll meet you early. Six o'clock. We can go to the hospital together.

That's not necessary. I'll be at the hospital.

At
eight
? said the doctor.

At eight. No problem, said Henry. I have to go, doctor. Thank you. Goodbye.

He arrived home. Collapsing into bed he began to ask himself just why after being told by Dr. Glen Dahl, of Park Avenue and 74th Street, that he almost surely had cancer of the testicles, and receiving an ultrasound which confirmed the same, just why hadn't he gotten another opinion. It would have been the wise thing to do. But from whom would he have received this
opinion?
Yet another doctor. That was the real problem. He had no
real
options. It was go to a doctor, or die. That was how they sold it to you. They locked you down—your payment, thought Henry—by inciting fear. They were good at their business. Very good. He should only be so skillful with the sale of his music, he'd be rich. How much would Dahl receive from these efforts? And Munson? And Martz? And the hospital? And tomorrow's surgeon? And the oncologist who came after? And the pharmaceutical companies who manufactured his pain medicine? What was the grand sum of it all? He went to his computer and pulled up figures. He found that a man, Tom Hayman, who had had testicular cancer, and, without insurance he'd had to pay out of pocket:

Orchiectomy: $9,081.32

Initial urologist appointment: $213.00

Urologist surgical expense: $1,150.00

Hospital pre-operative testing: $522.00

Hospital surgical expense: $6,491.32

Anesthesia: $610.00

Urologist check-up one month after surgery: $60.00

Diagnostic testing: $24,999.80

Testicular ultrasound: $701.80

Pathology: $410.00

First CT scan (pelvis, abdomen, chest): $4,392.00

Second CT scan (head): $2,300.00

PET scan: $5,099.00

Third CT scan (post-chemo): $5,298.00

PET scan (post-chemo): $5,099.00

Pulmonary Function Test: $604.00

Initial PCP Exam: $120.50

Consultation with Radiation Therapist: $140.00

Medical Oncologist: $6,600.00

Chemotherapy Infusion: $32,270.00

Sperm Banking: $1,980.00

Sure they wanted Henry on the operating table. That was where the money was, their wealth, their families' futures, the children at college, the apartment in the city, and the second homes in the country. Nothing would be gained by telling him he was healthy
and sending him out the door. So they started talking death. You might die. You will die. You're dying. Do you want to live? or to be phased out? Not to mention the pain. Can you bear the pain that'll come with ignoring our will? Do you know what real pain is? The pains of cancer? It looks like blood pouring from your mouth, like organ failure, like death. So you'll pay us. You'll pay because you want to live. And how else do you plan to do that? How else? Through prayer? Meditation? By ingesting exotic roots? Herbs? There's a reason humans live longer now, a reason you go on into your eighties, rather than perish at thirty—we, the doctors, keep you going. We're the ones. So, fork over your money and shut the fuck up.

Awful people, said Henry.

But he couldn't postpone the operation, could he? What if his illness worsened?

You might really die.

Maybe you've been bilked.

Have I?

I don't know, he said, to himself.

You could have the surgery in France. I hear they serve wine in the hospitals there. Sounds wonderful.

Could I really go off tomorrow?

He asked the question, aloud, staring out his window at the United Nations. He expected an answer to come.

Yet before one did, Paula called. It was just after six. She apologized for not contacting him sooner. She said she knew he was sorry for what he'd done, that he was upset with her for leaving for Europe, and so abruptly. She felt so guilty about everything. But tomorrow morning she was going away, and she had to see him. They must reconcile.

The dramatic quality of her voice, the passion, and urgency of it, made him feverish. He began to shake, with anger, and the irresistible desire to punish her caused him to break out in a sweat.

I'll pick you up at seven, Henry told her.

During the next hour, having left his apartment and begun walking back to the West Side, he thought, not of doctors, but of Paula's recital in Paris. More specifically, whether he might sabotage this most important occasion in her life. How? First he'd get the address of Michel Drouot's home by telling Paula he must have it so he could send two dozen long-stem roses on the night of her recital as a token of his love and best wishes. On Saturday, he'd show at Drouot's in the early evening, however, wait outside till exactly the right moment, and come busting into the room mid-performance and make a scene. Pull hair. Spill drinks. Push the violinist from her chair. Or, beforehand, he'd find out where she kept her instrument and steal it. Who knew. There were so many possibilities. But he would not be swayed by her contrition, her kindness, or whatever love she might afford him this evening. He must be on guard against those things. He thought what he was feeling in his heart was real delight. Finally, he would make her suffer the way he had. He was deserving of this, too, he told himself. For all he'd gone through with Moss, this would be his reward. He couldn't wait for the time to come. It was all he wanted.

Turning onto 7th Avenue, a feeling of hopelessness penetrated his body. Nothing is permanent, he said, with an eye on the park up ahead. Still, she deserves hell for what she's done to me. Someone's got to teach her a lesson. I'm the best man for the job. Even a feeling of destiny about it, what with Paula playing in Paris Saturday and Walbaum sending me there tomorrow, it's undeniable. I have to be at the recital. The Universe has willed it. Such a big…big moment for Paula, she doesn't even know how big. Something for the ages.

He came up on Paula's building, a four-story brownstone green with ivy. Stunning—except behind that handsome exterior was Paula's renovated apartment, the kind they charged more for after stripping away every beautiful detail and putting in cheap new fixtures made in China. In the kitchen fake-wood cabinet doors hung off their hinges. Half the floor tiles in the bathroom were cracked. The floors themselves had been replaced with cheap parquet. Henry, though growling inside, still considered these abominations to the apartment's original design from downstairs on the street, waiting for Paula to step out. Minutes later, she did, wearing a narrow-cut blue dress. At the sight of her Henry's chest tightened. Then she kissed him on the lips, undoing the tension there. The temperature was warm, the air damp. On Columbus Avenue people dined on the sidewalks. Henry and Paula watched them feast, strolling along without speaking. To Henry, though, the silence was intolerable, and he pulled Paula to the curb. Staring in her eyes, he held her tightly at the wrist, not saying a word. He despised her.

I'm sorry I have to leave, Henry.

His gaze lowered in such a way that he could see his own nose. He pinched the tip of it and said, I believe you.

He hadn't meant to speak so softly, and with so much compassion. The anger in his breast should have made him choke on his words and cough them up when they were wet with bile. Nevertheless, he understood why he'd spoken in such a manner: Paula seemed especially vulnerable tonight. There was a sensitivity to her which began in her soft brow and continued down through her whole being. He wouldn't be swayed from his ire.

No, Henry bristled. I can't be.

They continued far up the avenue. To stoke his fury, Henry asked her to discuss Michel Drouot. What was the extent of his influence? What could he do for her? Paula spoke for the next twenty minutes without pause. Monsieur Drouot was an extraordinarily powerful individual. If it were his will, he could make her career. On the other hand, should he decide to do that, she'd still have to maintain her edge, keep her teeth sharp, she told Henry. But she'd known about Drouot forever. Everyone was aware of his influence. He had a golden touch.

As she spoke, Henry envisioned his hands around Paula's throat. Eventually he had to change subjects, he was so mad he couldn't walk straight. Reaching for any topic at all, he said:

Will you go to Italy while you're over there?

I will, she told him.

He missed the rest of her answer, distracted by a mental image of Michel Drouot, whom he guessed to be very short and thin, with silver hair and gray ravenous eyes, tossing her onto a four-poster bed, and jumping in after her. He didn't catch up with Paula's speech until she was telling him:

Let's turn around.

What's that?

I'd like to go back.

They'd come too far uptown from her apartment. They returned down Broadway. Paula began to apologize to Henry for disliking his song. I know you feel a lot of frustration. I try to be honest with you about your music. And
Castrated New York
…well—

I don't want to hear it.

Do you actually think that I'm such a horrible person, said Paula, that I'd want you to fail just to feel better about myself?

Did I tell you that?

In so many words.

Really!

Yes.

His heart was boiling with rage. Paula's wasn't. Why she was being so cool, he didn't know. He doubted she had so much patience in her heart. That wasn't possible from someone like herself. Her composure was an act, done to spite him.

I won't argue with you, she was saying. You can tell me anything you want. Her tone was brutally tranquil.

Anything?

Anything.

Do you mean it?

Why do you have to ask?

Henry, in the middle of the street, grabbed her by either shoulder. He looked her straight in the eye. He didn't believe he was going to say it. He hardly wanted to. But he did it. He said, I saw you with Jeffrey Moss on the boat in Central Park. You can't lie to me anymore. I know you're fucking him, Paula. I know it!

Or perhaps he'd only imagined himself saying it. Because, in meaning, Paula's expression didn't agree with this declaration. She was laughing. Her look was so full of good feeling.

She said, Do you mean it, Henry?

Do I
what?
His face was perspiring. He could hardly see. What had he said to her, anyway? He doubted that he knew. I'm sorry, I—
what?