The Anatomy Lesson (13 page)

“
Why the hell not? They never come around when someone faints and ask if anybody here is a writer.
”

“
More of your black-and-blue humor. Go back to school again, to study, to be the professor
’
s pet and make the Dean
’
s List and get an ID card for the library and all the student activities. At forty. You know why I wouldn
’
t marry you? I would say no anyway, because I couldn
’
t marry anybody so weak.
”

>
3
<

One
morning only a few days later, one very depressing morning in December 1973, after he
’
d been up much of the night vainly trying to compose into his tape recorder a more reasonable reply to Milton Appel, Zuckerman came down to the mailbox in his orthopedic collar to see why the postman had rung. He wished he
’
d brought a coat along: he was thinking of continuing out into the cold and on to the corner to jump from the roof of the Stanhope Hotel. He no longer seemed worth preserving. From
I
to 4 a.m., with the noose of a narrow electric heating pad encircling his cervical spine, he
’
d gone another fifteen rounds with Appel. And now the new day: what equally useful function could he perform through the interminable hours awake? Cunnilingus was about it. Step right up, sit right down. It was all he was good for. Blotted out everything else. That and hating Appel. Smothered with mothers and shouting at Jews. Yes, illness had done it: Zuckerman had become Carnovsky. The journalists had known it all along.

The problem with jumping is smashing your skull. That can
’
t be pleasant. And if he wound up merely severing his spinal cord on the hotel canopy—well, he
’
d be bedridden for life, a fate hundreds of thousands of times worse than what already was making him miserable. On the other hand, a failed suicide that didn
’
t completely cripple him might provide a new subject
—
more than could be said so far for success. But what if the pain vanished halfway down, went the way it came, leaped from his
body as he sailed from the roof—what then? What if he saw in every salient detail a next book, a new start? Halfway down is probably just where that happens. Suppose he walked to the Stanhope simply as an experiment. Either the pain d
isappears before I reach the corn
er or
I
enter the hotel and wait for the elevator. Either it disappears before I get into the elevator or I go up to the top floor and out through the fire exit onto the roof. I walk straight to the parapet and look sixteen floors down to the traffic, and this pain comes to realize that I
’
m not kidding, that sixteen floors is a very respectable distance
, that after a year and a half
it
is time to leave me alone.
I lean out toward the street and I say to the pain—and i mean what I say—
”
One minute more and I jump!
”
I
’
ll
scare
it out of me.

But all he scared with such thoughts was himself.

Two manila envelopes in the mailbox, so tightly wedged together that he skinned his knuckles in the excitement of prying them out. The medical-school catalogue, his application forms! What he hadn
’
t dared to tell Diana was that already, weeks before, he
’
d sent off his inquiry to the University of Chicago. From his seat in the doctors
’
waiting rooms, watching the patients come and go, he
’
d begun to think: Why not? Four decades, four novels, two dead parents, and a brother I
’
ll never speak to again
—
looks from the evidence like my exorcism
’
s done. Why
not
this as a second life? They talk in earnest to fifty needy people every day. From morning to night,
bom
barded by stories, and none of their own devising. Stories intending to lead to a definite, useful, authoritative conclusion. Stories with a clear and practical purpose:
Cure me.
They follow carefully all the details, then they go to work. And either the job is doable or undoable, while mine is both at best and mostly not.

Tearing open the bigger of the two envelopes—well, he hadn
’
t known a thrill quite like it since the fall of 1948, when the first of the college mail began to arrive. Each day he raced home after his last class and, over his quart of milk, madly read about the life to come; not even the delivery of the first bound edition of his first published book had promised such complete emancipation as those college catalogues. On the cover of the catalogue now in his hand, a light-and-shadow study of a university tower, stark, soaring, academic Gibraltar, the very symbol of the unassailable solidity of the medical vocation. Inside the front cover, the university calendar.
Jan. 4-5: Registration
for Winter quarter… Jan. 4: Classes meet
… He quickly turned to find
“
Requirements for Admission
”
and read until he reached
“
Selection Policy
”
and the words that would change everything.

The Committee on Admissions strives to make its decision on the basis of the ability, achievement, personality, character, and motivation of the candidates. Questions of race, color, religion, sex, marital status, age, national or ethnic origin, or geographic location have no bearing in the consideration of any application for the Pritzker School of Medicine.

They didn
’
t care that he was forty. He was in.

But one page back, bad news. Sixteen hours of chemistry, twelve of biology, eight of physics—merely to qualify, twice as much coursework as he
’
d been expecting. In science. Well, the sooner the better. When classes meet on January 4, I
’
ll be there to ignite my Bunsen burner. I
’
ll pack a bag and fly out to Chicago—over my microscope in a month! Lots of women his age were doing it—what was to stop him? A year
’
s grind as an undergraduate, four of medical studies, three of residency, and at forty-eight he
’
d be ready to open an office. That would give him twenty-five years in practice—if he could depend on his health. It was the change of professions that would
restore
his health. The pain would just dwindle away: if not, he
’
d cure himself: it would be within his power. But never again to give himself over to doctors who weren
’
t interested enough or patient enough or simply curious enough to see a puzzle like his through to the end.

That
’
s where the writing years would be of use. A doctor thinks,
“
Everybody ends badly, nothing I can do. He
’
s just dying and I can
’
t cure life.
”
But a good writer can
’
t abandon his character
’
s suffering, not to narcotics or to death. Nor can he just leave a character to his fate by insinuating that his pain is somehow deserved for being self-induced. A writer learns to stay around, has to, in order to make sense of incurable life, in order to chart the turnings of the punishing unknown even where there
’
s no sense to be made. His experience with all the doctors who had misdiagnosed the early stages of his mother
’
s tumor and then failed him had convinced Zuckerman that, even if he was washed up as a writer, he couldn
’
t do their job any worse than they did.

He was still in the hallway removing sheaves of application blanks from the university envelope when a UPS deliveryman opened the street door and an
nounced a package for him. Yes,
it appeared to be happening: once the worst is over, even the parcels are yours. Everything is yours. The suicide threat had forced fate
’
s hand—an essentially unintelligent idea that he found himself believing.

The box contained a rectangular urethane pillow about a fool and a half long and a foot wide. Promised to him a week before and forgotten by him since. Everything was forgotten in the workless monotony of his empty five hundred days. The evening
’
s marijuana didn
’
t help either. His mental activity had come to focus on managing his pain and managing his women: either he was figuring out what pills to take or scheduling arrivals and departures to minimize the likelihood of collision.

He
’
d been put on to the pillow at his bank. Waiting in line to cash a check—cash for Diana
’
s connection—trying to be patient despite the burning sensation running along the rim of his winged left scapula, he
’
d been tapped lightly from behind by a pint-sized white-haired gentleman with an evenly tanned sympathetic face. He wore a smart double-breasted dove-gray coat. A dove-gray hat was in the gloved hand at his side. Gloves of dove-gray suede.
“
I know how you can get rid of that thing,
”
he told Zuckerman. pointing to his orthopedic collar. The mildest Old Country accent. A helpful smile.

“
How?
”

“
Dr. Kotler
’
s pillow. Eliminates chronic pain acquired during sleep. Based on research done by Dr. Kotler. A scientifically designed pillow made expressly for sufferers like yourself. With your wide shoulders and long neck, what you
’
re doing on an ordinary pillow is pinching nerves and causing pain. Shoulders too?
”
he asked.
“
Extended into the arms?
”

Zuckerman nodded. Pain everywhere.

“
And X-rays show nothing? No history of whiplash, no accident, no fall? Just on you like that, unexplained?
”

“
Exactly.
”

“
All acquired during sleep. That
’
s what Dr. Kotler discovered and how he came up with his pillow. His pillow will restore you to a pain-free life. Twenty dollars plus postage. Comes with a satin pillowcase. In blue only.
”

“
You don
’
t happen to be Dr. Kotler
’
s father?
”

“
Never married. Whose father I am, we
’
ll never know.
”
He handed Zuckerman a blank envelope out of his pocket.
“
Write on this: name, along with mailing address. I
’
ll see they send one tomorrow, C.O.D.
”

Well, he
’
d tried everything else, and this playful old character clearly meant no harm. With his white wavy hair and nut-colored face, in his woolens and skins of soft dove-gray, he seemed to Zuckerman like somebody out of a children
’
s tale, one of those elfin elderly Jews, with large heart-shaped ears and dangling Buddha lobes, and dark earholes that looked as though they
’
d been dug to a burrow by a mouse; a nose of impressive length for a man barely reaching Zuckerman
’
s chest, a nose that broadened as it descended, so that the nostrils, each a sizable crescent, were just about hidden by the wide, weighted tip; and eyes that were ageless, polished brown protruding eyes such as you see in photographs taken of prodigious little fiddlers at the age of three.

Watching Zuckerman write his name, the old man asked,
“
N. as in Nathan?
”

“
No,
”
replied Zuckerman.
“
As in Neck.
”

“
Of course. You are the young fellow who has handed me those laughs.
I
thought I recognized you but
I
wasn
’
t sure
—
you
’
ve lost quite a number of hairs since I saw your last photo.
”
He removed one glove and extended his hand.
“
I am Dr. Kotler. I don
’
t make a production out of it with strangers. But you are no stranger, N. Zuckerman. I practiced in Newark for many, many years, began there long before you were born. Had my office in the Hotel Riviera down on Clinton and High before it was purchased by Father Divine.
”

“
The Riviera?
”
Zuckerman laughed and forgot for the moment about his scapula. N. as in Nostalgia. This
was
a character out of a child
’
s tale: his own.
“
The Riviera is where my parents spent their honeymoon weekend.
”

“
Lucky couple. It was a grand hotel in those days. My first office was on Academy Street near the
Newark Ledger.
I started with the lumbago of the boys from the paper and an examining table I bought secondhand. The fire commissioner
’
s girl friend had a lingerie shop just down the street. Mike Shumlin. brother of theatrical producer Herman, owned the Japtex shops. So you
’
re our writer. I was expecting from the way you hit and run you
’
d be a little bantamweight like me. I read that book. Frankly the penis
I
had almost enough of by the five hundredth time, but what a floodgate of memories you opened up to those early, youthful days. A kick for me on every page. You mention Laurel Garden on Springfield Avenue.
I
attended Max Schmeling
’
s third Fight in the U.S., staged by Nick Kline a
t Laurel Garden. January
1929. His opponent, an Italian, Corn, was KO
’
d in one and a half minutes of the first round. Every German in Newark was there—you should have heard them. Saw Willie La Morte beat Corporal lzzie Schwartz that summer—flyweight championship, fifteen rounds. You mention the Empire Burlesque on Washington, near Market. I knew the old guy who managed it, grizzled old guy named Sutherland. Hinda Wassau, the blond Polish striptease queen—knew her personally. One of my patients. Knew producer Rube Bernstein, who Hinda married. You mention the old Newark Bears. I treated young Charlie Keller for his knee. Manager George Selkirk, one of my dearest friends. You mention the Newark Airport. When it opened up, Jerome Congleton was mayor. I attended the dedication. One hangar in those days. There the morning they cut the ribbon on the Pulaski Skyway. What a sight—a viaduct from ancient Rome rising out of the Jersey marshes. You mention the Branford Theater. Favorite place of mine. Saw the first stage shows, featuring Charley Mel son and his band. Joe Penner and his
‘
Wanna Buy a Duck
’
routine. Oh, Newark was my turf then. Roast beef at Murray
’
s. Lobsters at Dietsch
’
s. The tube station, gateway to New York. The locust trees along the street with their skinny twisted pods. WJZ with Vincent Lopez. WOR with John B. Gambling. Jascha Heifetz at the Mosque. The B. F. Keith theater—the old Proctor
’
s
—
featuring acts direct from the Palace on Broadway. Kitty Doner, with her sister Rose and her brother Ted. Ted sang. Rose danced. Mae Murray making a grand personal appearance. Alexander Moissi
,
the great Austrian actor, at the Shubert on Broad Street. George Arliss. Leslie Howard. Ethel Barrymore. A great place in those days, our dear Newark. Large enough to be big-time, small enough to walk down the street and greet people you knew. Vanished now. Everything that mattered to me down the twentieth-century drain. My birthplace, Vilna, decimated by Hitler, then stolen by Stalin. Newark, my America, abandoned by the whites and destroyed by the colored. That
’
s what I thought the night they set the fires in 1968. First the Second World War. then the Iron Curtain, now (he Newark Fire. I cried when that riot broke out. My beautiful Newark. I loved that city.
”