Balls (7 page)

Hello Doctor Moss, said Henry, putting out his hand to shake.

Moss took Henry's hand, gripping it firmly. The coils of brown hair were springing wildly from his head this morning. A mustache was there above his upper lip.

Henry
, he said, I'd been onto something before you showed. Yes, I'd been asking Paula if the little dogs were going to pieces. And so dear…are they?

Paula covered her mouth, subduing a strange laughter.

Are they dressing at least?

Jeffrey,
stop
, Paula implored him.

Through hot eyes Henry smiled at a joke which he didn't understand. He took a protective, albeit small, step closer to Paula. Moss, himself, was standing on top of her. Could she smell his aftershave? It was splintering Henry's nostrils. At the back of his throat was its strong menthol odor. Moss was positioned on what Paula called her
good right side.
In contrast to the left, the eye was perfectly almond shaped, the teeth straight, not jagged, her skin generally clearer.

I was in Paris last week, said the doctor of the violin, his eyes focusing intently on Paula, and do you know who I saw while there? Monsieur Michel Drouot. And I told him he'd be very fortunate if I let him hear you play.

Did you?

I did, Paula.

The name Michel Drouot meant nothing to Henry. Or perhaps it did, because at once he set a hand on Paula's hip and his head began to hover possessively above her bare shoulder.

You should have seen Drouot's face when I told Boris Lang the same. We were having drinks near the Opera House. Michel got so angry. He said, You told me that I'd have the first exclusive recital at my home with Paula Mills. What are you trying to do?

So you're saying he was mad?

Oui, Madame
. And that's how we want him.

Paula took Henry's hand from her hip, kissed it, and returned it to the air. Even as Henry felt mildly spurned—she'd given his hand a kind of harsh toss-off—he still shot Moss a look, one that said, Well there you have it, she's mine and I'm hers, so get lost.

But Moss, with his head tilted back, didn't acknowledge it. His eyes were closed, and he was saying:

Gertrude Hausmann pulled me aside after we'd left the café. What a woman, cunning, deadly. She asked me, When do I get to meet Ms. Mills? I said, Be patient. Your time will come. She's in New York, sitting in on a record with Yo-Yo Ma. How's that for savvy?

Very
savvy, she assured him.

Henry's thighs were profusely sweating. He didn't want to be here. They should go to lunch. It was time. Henry signaled to Paula's father.

Our reservation's in twenty minutes. We should really get going.

Marcel, in agreement, took his wife by the arm and they began saying their goodbyes to Jeffrey Moss. The way the professor looked at Paula, it was all so clear: he was fucking her. Henry couldn't blame Marcel and Denise for not seeing it. A parent's vision was strictly impaired in such cases, taking in solely the purest meaning of everything. What with Paula's stepmother holding Moss so tightly in her arms, and her father calling him a great man. Meanwhile a polite smile persisted on Henry's face, and in his heart was the firm desire to break the professor's teeth.

Finally Henry was alone with the Mills. They rode in a taxi to the Four Seasons, Marcel sitting up front with the driver. Henry was on the back seat pressed between Paula and Denise. All the Mills' in look and spirit were positively blooming.

Accepting your diploma, you were just beautiful, Denise said. And
so
mature.

Marcel reached back through the partition to take Paula's hand.

My girl, he said, with these fingers, so special. We love you so much.

And I love
you
both so much.

Henry watched their family's heart collectively lift. But in his head, he was singing:

A thousand curious aches,
In the course of a lifetime.
Why get unsettled,
Mentally?
For the belly rails,
The brain ails,
The heart, it wails.
And you keep going.

Isn't that just utter crap, he said, to himself.

Out of the taxi and walking towards Lexington on 52nd and Park, through a fog of thin gray smoke billowing from a kebab stand with its sizzling lamb and chicken skewers, Henry was in a daze. In the bones of his fingers was some unknown pain. Could it be related to his cancer? How so? he asked himself, undoing the top button of his shirt. He needed air, his chest was tight. Lifting his arms, he tried to loosen the muscles there. He wouldn't pass out. And if he did, he had Paula's father right beside him. He would help me, thought Henry, assuming he noticed the fall. Marcel was so absorbed in the moment of his daughter's big day. A bulky man, his check suit was short at the sleeves, tight in the shoulders. It didn't affect his manner in the least. He seemed full of reward for his fatherly service. He'd done everything for Paula: the summers of violin instruction, all those tickets to the Philharmonic, and his love. He loved her so much, and she loved him, too.

Sweetheart, come, Marcel said to his daughter.

Paula went to him. Cradling her in his arms, Marcel smiled. He said, Paula, you're all grown, and the world is at your fingertips. You've done everything you've set out to do. The truth is, we're in awe of you.

Denise said, Go on, Marcel, give it to her.

Paula's father reached inside the breast pocket of his jacket. A cloud passed in front of the sun, playing its games of shadow and light. Marcel, large and pulsating with excitement, placed an envelope in his daughter's palm. For all your hard work, he said.

Paula, to no one in particular, went,
A gift?
then began carefully peeling back the seal of the envelope. She looked up at her parents, smiling. She was so delicate with the envelope.

Marcel finally shouted, Come on, baby, just tear it open.

Paula laughed at herself, then ripped through the dented white envelope. Her fingers began walking through the important papers inside. Suddenly, her head shot up, and she cried out:

Oh…my…god.

Walking in through the Four Seasons, where important people lunched—those persons who made the city rich or poor or rich again—Henry's face felt cold, his stomach sick. Following the maître d' towards the dining room with its famous pools his mind struggled for calm. The Mills had given their greatest achievement a check for $25,000 and told her she should travel throughout Europe this summer. They said it was important that she take the time, for once her professional life started up it would be very difficult for her to get away from her responsibilities and nearly impossible to do so without the feeling that something was pulling her back. Paula, wrapping smooth pink arms of appreciation, first around her father's neck, then her stepmother's, had given Henry a look which asked him to share in the euphoria of the moment. He'd tried, but couldn't. In the full dining room with the currents of power flowing all around him, he was silent. His mind was unthinking, a blank. Under the table, Paula took Henry's hand, squeezing it, and said, Maybe we'll meet in Europe.

Maybe
, he said.

They were the only words he uttered during the meal. He hardly touched his lobster. Paula, surrounded by Henry, her father and stepmother, on the day of her graduation, with twenty-five grand in her pocket, was bursting with confidence.

Raising her glass in the air, she said, To learning nothing at college.
Here here
.

To learning
nothing?
said Denise, aghast.

I was born for the real world, Paula told her. At ten I should have jumped in. Dad, why didn't you push me?

Push you out of the house? Never, he replied with a shake of the head.

Paula said, I'd have been ready, and she took a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket. A waiter rushed to assist her, but she waved him off. Setting a full glass on the table, her blue eyes emitted glee. She wore a strapless black dress that stopped at the thighs. Her solid legs were crossed. She sat up tall, her grin full of self-belief. Addressing her father, she said, I could have used my time better, that's all I'm saying. Life is short.

Marcel, his robust shoulders becoming even fuller now, said, You're a very smart woman. You'll understand why I did what I did one day.

Did you fear the professional world would have made me unrecognizable to you? It could still happen.

Marcel flashed her a look of horror. Paula saw this. She kissed his cheek.

I'm just saying I've got a lot to do.

And you'll do it all.

Henry was perfectly still in his chair. Only his eyes moved, back and forth, from one speaker to the next. But even this was exhausting.

What I want is hard to get, said Paula. Her arms were crossed, her chin up high. Some atrociousness will be necessary.

Like what? demanded Denise.

Yes, like
what?
said her father.

Henry took his glass of champagne and shot it back. His throat burned from the carbonation, tears filling his eyes.

I'll have to be even more hard on myself.

Your mother taught you discipline. Every morning she woke you at four a.m. to do your scales.

Daddy, I'm grateful she did. I wouldn't be here if she had let me sleep.

She's missed so much in these last thirteen years. But she saw you at Carnegie Hall.

You'll always bring that up, said Paula to her father, adoringly.

Marcel smiled, the memory coming back to him. Paula was in the
Five Under Ten
Masters-to-Be
concert series. She played Schubert. She brought down the house. Your mother was so proud of you that day.

She made me go home and practice after the show, said Paula, unemotionally. Mistakes had been made during the performance.

She was hard on you, her father admitted.

I could take it, said Paula, clicking her tongue.

She removed you from school for two years shortly after.

And my playing shot up.

Her father agreed, with a solid nod of his head. But for you those were hard times.

That's not how I remember them.

A lot of tears.

We all need a motivator. I had the best.

You did, Paula.

She told me I would be one of the great violinists of my time.

She told you that, seconded Marcel.

I'm sorry she's not here today.

But she saw you at Carnegie Hall.

You're right, Daddy, she did.

When lunch concluded they strolled uptown along sunny Madison, window-shopping. Henry was impatient to go home. Still, he gawked with Paula, her father and stepmother, at dresses and diamond jewelry in windows. Then his phone began to ring. It was Dahl. Henry went cold. Without saying anything, he fell back behind the Mills' and answered. Dahl asked him if it were a good time to talk. Henry said it was as good a time as any. To which Dahl assured him that these first days would be especially hard, he should go easy on himself.

We have some important things to discuss. So, if you'd just give me your attention for a moment. I want to schedule the orchiectomy for this Monday. What do you say?

This Monday? said Henry. That's three days from now.

If we could do it today, we would.

This is all coming so fast.

I understand.

You're sure it has to be Monday?

I'm sure, Henry.

Then I'll do it Monday, he said, in a whisper.

What did you decide about the prosthetic?

I'm going to take one.

Dahl said, I think that's the right decision.

The doctor started to explain the operation. He told Henry he'd be put to sleep with an anesthetic. They'd go through the lining of the stomach into the scrotum and remove the testicle. At most only one night would be spent in the hospital, but in all likelihood he could leave the same day.

Will there be someone to take you home from the hospital?

My girlfriend, Paula.

Dahl told him it was hospital policy that he be released into someone's care, but also there'd be some physical discomfort and he'd need help getting around at first. In the case of a surgery like this, some responded better than others. The doctor at the hospital would suggest Henry have his CT-scans administered when he awoke from the operation, and if he were feeling well enough, he should do it then so they could have all of the critical information about the spread of the cancer as soon as possible. In addition to this, however, there was the matter of his sperm.

Henry's lips turned out and his bloodshot eyes averted to the sky.

We'll need to have a sample put away tomorrow.

Tomorrow?

Henry, you never know what'll happen during an operation like this. So, we need to get some sperm in a bank.

And that happens
tomorrow?

Or, if you like, you can overnight your semen to their offices.

Overnight it?
Really?

So you'll do it at the bank?

I guess I will.

By the time Henry was off with Dahl, the party had arrived outside the Carlyle Hotel. The Mills' suggested a round of drinks at Bemelman's. Henry agreed. But as soon as he walked in the door he regretted it, for there was Andy Powell seated at the piano at the center of the room, dressed in a black tuxedo, playing
After You've Gone
. He had a vibrant look, a real glow. Henry knew him from around the clubs. But he couldn't stand Powell, or his playing. He thought it lacked feel, heart, love, knowledge, instinct. He struck notes which didn't balance order with disorder or reconcile past with present and future. His meanings, they were too straight, missed the curves, the bumps, hadn't the sense of failure about them or the propinquity to the abyss, the void, which was necessary for not only true greatness, but even moderate goodness. And he looks like an asshole, too. That grin, shit-eating. Henry would like to wipe it off his face. So the Carlyle gig was better than Henry's at the Beekman.
So
what. Henry didn't care.
He
was a songwriter. That's what
he
did. The Beekman was a way of earning money, he wouldn't do it forever. As it were, though, he should call his boss, Edgar Diaz and tell him he'd have to take some time off from work.