Balls Read online

  All the weight has lifted. I can’t believe it. I don’t know what to do with myself.

  The doctor let out a full sigh. She said, Good for you, Henry.

  Good for me?

  Henry, I have to go. I have a patient.

  What?

  I have a patient walking into my office.

  I’m telling you I’m healed.

  And I’m happy for you. I can’t talk. She hung up.

  Henry was sick with rage. Ready to beat down her office door, he went straight to 81st Street. She made him leave. He was being irresponsible. She was in a session. She couldn’t talk. Later. Later.

  Yet later she made excuses why she couldn’t see him. She wasn’t feeling well. She had a meeting. She had to be up early in the morning.

  Henry, I have to go. Goodbye.

  Henry didn’t understand. Why was she shutting him out? His anguish was powerful. And yet he didn’t want to cede room in his heart to misery. That’s all there’d been for years. No—he wanted to celebrate his balance. He called Foster, the drummer, Greenwald, the trumpeter, Bishop, the bassist. There’d been a time when they’d often played together. They met that evening after ten p.m. in a small brick room in a warehouse in the West 40s. For the first time in years, Henry did arrive at that combination of notes and good rhythm to hit on what is sometimes called the sweet-spot, at times, the nerve, releasing a powerful surge of adrenaline into the bloodstream. The most wonderful feeling, the best feeling, Henry had once thought his life’s purpose was to pursue it and it alone. Days afterwards he still felt high. The doctor still refused to see him. Therefore, he could get no more Valium. Regardless, his dizziness remained in abeyance. The filter, too, was gone. (Fixed over the eyes of another man, perhaps.) About this Henry conceived a theory and posted it on his fridge:

  I only had to know something was out there which could cure me in order to stay cured. That’s it. Nothing more.

  He felt stronger than ever. He was eager to write music.

  It was now that he began work on All the Crazies Love Me. A rare moment in the long haul of creation, the song, a three minute and twelve second jazz number, asked for no great labor. Henry wrote it in a single afternoon. The lyrics, which told the story of Dr. Andrews, were finished the following morning. He thought nothing of the composition. Certainly he had no idea it would become his first song to play on the radio. But eating a nova sandwich at Barney Greengrass the following week, Henry bumped into his old classmate, Zachary Walbaum. A short man, Walbaum had a terrible suffering look to him. It had been true of him even as a child. His cheeks were sunken, his face ghostly, his black hair a thinning bush with sight lines to the scalp. His large nose crumbled at the bridge. When he saw Henry, blood temporarily rushed to his head, fading a moment later.

  Henry Schiller!

  Walbaum had stunned Henry by kissing him on the face before taking the seat opposite him.

  You look absolutely fantastic. I mean, fan-tastic.

  Henry had known Walbaum when he was shy, quiet, morose. Now things were different. Walbaum had signed a multi-platinum selling artist and made VP at Brass Records. He had a tremendous office overlooking Fifth Avenue on 56th Street. After ordering himself a coffee and babka muffin he began explaining to Henry how it was here, in this very dining room, where anyone who was anyone in the music industry came to eat nova or sturgeon on a bagel.

  And I’m not just talking about myself. Lots of industry insiders.

  He started pointing around the room. That tall fella with the short gray hair was a big macha. And that one in the corner ran the show over at Hi-Delphi Records. Arnold Kleinfeldt, himself, the CEO at Brass, would surely be in within the hour and who knew who’d be with him. Henry admitted that he was a songwriter. Walbaum slammed his hands on the table.

  Baby, I’ve got to hear your latest.

  Henry hadn’t expected to be taken so seriously. Tentative, he said, I finished a song just the other day.

  You’ll get it to me, pronto.

  Henry brought a demo of All the Crazies Love Me down to Walbaum’s office that week. Dwarfed in a large leather chair, Walbaum sat with arms crossed behind his head, a touch of foam from his cappuccino on the tip of his nose. He listened to the song three times. He was volatile, a nervous little thing, and he loved All the Crazies Love Me. He called it a hit. Before their meeting was up, Walbaum was singing the chorus aloud, to Henry:

  She must have read the sign,

  On my head,

  Which said,

  Free love for the crazies.

  That’s good, Henry. That’s quality.

  I’m glad you enjoy it, Zachary.

  I do. I do.

  With Walbaum leading the way, All the Crazies Love Me was covered, and to Henry’s liking, by Bobby Jacques, a French female vocal artist who went on to break the top twenty pop charts with the song in Europe and South America. On its success Henry had made good money—money which had all been spent. What remained was a feeling of great humiliation. Dr. Andrews refused to see him again. She never answered his calls. She cut him off. Henry thought his good health must have threatened her. She liked him weak, dizzy. Whatever the truth, the sting of shame often snuck up on him, in the shower, on the subway. Anywhere. Andrews. 9/11. Dizziness. The words were poison to Henry. Even here, though far from Andrews’ apartment, her practice, he feared she might appear out of nowhere. New York was two-faced that way. Sometimes the Walbaums manifested. At other times it was old lovers who turned up. Never once had Henry and Andrews run into each other.

  And thank god, said Henry, to himself.

  But how had he ended up here? Just ahead was Alice Tully Hall, Juilliard. Paula lived two blocks further, off Columbus. He’d walked himself back to the West Side. It was the strangest thing—he’d never done anything like it. And how many cars had nearly run him over? An air conditioner could have fallen from a window missing him by feet and he didn’t think he would have noticed. He stopped at the corner, awaiting a walk signal. Across the street a farmer’s market lined the sidewalk. His eyes searched down the row of vendors for a flower stand. I’ll buy some, he thought, to brighten up the home with. He cupped his hand above his brow to keep out glare. He saw one vendor was selling honey, another berries, another fresh cheeses. There were meat dealers offering bacon, pork chops and ground beef, and others selling pickled anything: onions, okra, cucumbers, peppers, tomatoes. He was about to give up—it seemed there were no flowers sold here—but his gaze fixed on Paula. She was there, browsing through a crate of apples. Saying her name aloud, happily, he grinned. She must have finished early with her parents and gone home. It felt like a great stroke of luck. He would like to go back to her place, lie down next to her, and sleep. What a morning it had been. He needed her touch, was desperate for it.

  He saw the traffic light turn yellow, and prepared to cross. Yet when the signal changed, Henry stood still. The filter had risen behind his eyes. He felt like he might tip over or lose control of himself altogether. Dr. Jeffrey Moss, Paula’s old lover, her violin teacher, her guide and mentor, had appeared beside her and was looking through the same crate of apples. Henry grabbed the gray pole of a traffic light, holding to it. He watched them with large, violent eyes. What was she doing with him? Had she not gone to meet her parents? Had she lied about that? But if this were true…

  The strong impulse to come stomping at them now, like a lunatic, and begin screaming and throwing his fists, was storming through him. He knew that he’d regret that, perhaps forever, though. So he’d hold it together.

  You must, he thought. You absolutely must.

  But reining in his fury was difficult. While waiting for this to happen, he followed them up the sidewalk, towards Central Park.

  Paula had changed clothes since this morning. But it wasn’t uncommon for her to be as dolled up as she was now. Even if she were going from her apartment
to the market and back home she did put on makeup and a flattering top and nice shoes, for you never knew just who you’d see out there in the streets of New York. Perhaps someone big. Of course, this short black skirt and tight fitting red top which cut low at the breasts, Henry understood perfectly. And it had nothing to do with a chance run-in with Itzhak Pearlman.

  Sickening, said Henry, to himself. Just sickening.

  Moss, himself, looked quite debonair in a tweed suit, his brown curls rising from his head like the snakes of the Gorgon. His gait, Henry noted, was asinine. He shifted left and right at the waist with every step, like a runway model. But why couldn’t he walk like a normal person? Why did he have to call attention to himself at all times? Had no one loved him as a child? Had someone loved him too much?

  They entered Central Park.

  Henry, pulling nervously on the skin of his neck, strode behind rows of thick bushes and tall elms, keeping one eye on Moss and Paula and the other on the unsmooth soil below, careful not to trip on any fallen branches or divots in the ground. When Henry first met Paula, she and Moss had just ended a year-long affair. It was a joint-decision. They remained good friends. Henry was introduced to him at a cocktail party shortly after. Moss was not the good-looking man Paula had prepared him for. Under six feet tall, he was inches shorter than Henry. He had brown hair which rose up into high disorderly curls. His neck was short. Paula believed there were wise lines in his face, that his nose was formidable, that his eyes were dark and sensuous, feeling. As far as Henry could tell, none of this was true. The professor had been experimenting with facial hair, and Paula had been encouraging him, first with a pencil thin mustache, then a goatee, which lasted only three days, and finally a short beard. That night he was cleanly shaven. Paula thought the look suited him best. She volunteered the information to Henry. (And it fueled him in his pursuit.) She said Moss had taught her so much about herself, and that he had so much more to show her. Henry didn’t see how this was possible. What could Moss teach Paula about herself?

  For one thing, how to be myself, she had told him.

  You couldn’t convince Henry of this. Moss was too much of a phony to instruct Paula this way. Whatever the real answer, Moss had promised Paula big recitals after her graduation. He’d said he’d make sure she played for the most influential people in the field of classical music, who were all his good friends. He would get her career on the right path so that she could soar. On some days Henry felt certain that Moss was only there to help Paula. On others he imagined they were still sleeping with each other between classes. However, under no conditions would he play the jealous lover. He’d try and be cool. It was the only way. For in a woman jealousy was ugly, in a man it was downright pitiful, and made manifest it would send Paula straight out the door.

  Just now, at a distance of some fifteen feet he followed mentor and disciple to the Bethesda Terrace, descending the grand limestone steps just moments after they had. Crowds of people were gathered here, the bronzed, winged angel rising up towards the wide-open sky. A saxophonist played Putting On the Ritz. Tourists posed for photos and the Rambles flowed green and urban-wild in the distance. Henry’s heart thumped, watching Moss usher Paula up a crowded path towards the Boat House. But were they…Could they possibly be…Oh, lord. They were renting a boat. Paula had asked Henry to do it with her so many times, but he’d always said, Another day. Or, Who do you think is going to do all the rowing, you?

  Observing them from behind a tree the strength of Henry’s body intensified along with his anger. A boat was too romantic. He had to stop them. He took his phone from his pocket. His plan was simple, to call her and ask one question:

  Are you with me or against me?

  His throat was dry, tender. Seeing the time on his phone was two-thirty, he pressed talk. Pensive and dripping sweat, he awaited that pleasured twist of Paula’s lips. She loved receiving calls. The thrill, it would never wear off. When it happened, her lips did their usual contortion, and she reached in her purse for her phone. She stared at it. Her expression changed from thoughtful to uncertain. The professor asked her a question. She shook her head, and put the phone back inside her purse. Henry watched, rancor filling his breast. He called again. This time she sent him to voicemail.

  You bitch! he cried.

  Moss and Paula set off in a boat. Henry, without the necessary cash to rent one of his own (the cost was $12-an-hour, plus a $20 deposit. He had $14 in his wallet, and credit cards weren’t accepted), had to pursue them by land.

  He took off after them.

  From the cast-iron splendor of the Bow Bridge to the rocky shores of the Rambles, and further, Henry sprinted, hiked and stumbled. A dozen times he lost Moss and Paula, only to discover them rowing near an idyllic patch of reeds, enjoying the quiet calm of their surroundings. Moss had begun smoking a cigar. At times Paula smoked it, too. To Henry, watching from the shore, she appeared to take pleasure in turning it between her fingers. It made her look almost suave. But she wasn’t a smoker. And Henry wanted to kill her. To kill them both.

  The sun was beating down hot. Henry, with his hands on his knees, had a desperate thirst. He spotted a vendor under a canopy of twisting branches. He paid for a water, guzzling it down. Trotting along the pond’s edge, he wondered if he didn’t have all this coming to him. After all, Paula was Moss’ before she was Henry’s. He couldn’t destroy their bond, nor could he do anything for her, professionally. His contribution was strictly romantic. But more than romance, Paula wanted success. A breeze was crossing over the water and Henry, feeling its coolness against his damp skin, looked out at the pond. Their boat was stopped, and Henry kneeled in the dirt, resting. The sun was so bright on the boat slowly drifting some thirty feet in the distance that their bodies were all but whitened out. Trying not to lose them, Henry, lifting his head, stood so close to the water, he nearly fell in. He held onto a tree branch overhead. The sun was too much. He couldn’t see them. But what couldn’t he see? Were they holding each other? Was Moss caressing her face? Was he kissing her? But was he?

  Henry, shaking hot and cold at the same time, turned in disgust. His vision darkened, and he braced himself against a garbage can. What had they been doing? He was positive he knew. His whole body suffered the information. His toes hurt, his ears, too. He told himself he had to move, to get out of here. He walked rapidly towards the exit of the park, hitting the low hung branches of the trees with an open hand. He kicked at the dirt and threw his fist in the air. On Fifth Avenue, anger no longer stunted the flow of his thoughts. Had he ever loved her? No. He hadn’t. So why had he stayed with her so long? Because he’d been under a spell. That was it. What joy had he ever received? Every moment riddled with difficulties. And for what? His skin felt like it was burning. The noise of cars and construction further disturbed his balance. He hurried down shadowed side-streets, his arms swinging fiercely. He tried to determine at what he could direct the violent feeling in his heart. He felt at any moment he might smash the windshield of a parked car or pull the long dark vines from the side of a townhouse. He had to exert force onto something. In a bus shelter, he raised his cell phone over his head, then pulled up the moment before releasing it.

  He was glad he hadn’t destroyed his phone, an hour later Paula called. He was home. Though beside himself with anger, his tone was even-keeled. He asked about her family. How were they doing?

  They’re fine, Paula answered him. We had breakfast, but they had theater tickets so I met Jeffrey for lunch.

  Henry was pouring himself a drink in the kitchen, shaking. He said, Where did you go, the two of you?

  To the Boathouse, she answered. We got in one of those silly boats. It was Jeffrey’s idea.

  Paula always told him what she and Moss did together. She felt no need to lie, nor anything to hide. After all, he was her mentor.

  Did you have a good time? said Henry, darkly.

  Fine, she told him. How
are you doing? How’s your back?

  He didn’t understand the question. His back? Walking from the kitchen to the bedroom, climbing into bed with his drink, spilling vodka on the sheets, he remembered, however.

  Right, my back, he said.

  He told her she had no reason to worry, he was fine. A minor procedure would likely be necessary, that was all. First he’d need to have an MRI, which would happen early in the morning, before the graduation.

  I won’t be late, though.

  Take your time, she said to him.

  It’ll be fast, he assured her. I’ll make it by ten.

  Okay, Henry.

  Earlier she’d invited him to dinner with her parents for this evening, seven-thirty. Henry had declined. She asked again now if he’d like to come.

  I’m going to stay home and take it easy, he said.

  Are you sure? We’re going to the Oyster Bar. It’s so close to you.

  He considered for a moment. If he didn’t attend the dinner, would Moss go in his place? Paula’s parents were very fond of him. They liked to see the doctor of the violin when they were in town. Henry would never tell Marcel and Denise Mills that the forty-seven year old had dated their daughter for a whole year. It was, for Paula, a secret to be kept from them. She wouldn’t forgive Henry if he ever disclosed this information. But dinner was out of the question. He was too exhausted.

  I can’t.

  All right, she said. I’ll see you in the morning.

  Hanging up his phone, he drew the bedcovers to his chin. Though late afternoon, he didn’t doubt, with the blinds closed, that he’d be able to sleep till morning. He wouldn’t have to read to tire out his eyes, the lids were already so heavy. Drifting off, he began to compose a song in his head. If he were going to remember it the next day, he should write it down, he thought. On the nightstand, cluttered with magazines and empty water glasses, used tissues, was a pad kept exactly for this purpose. However, Henry didn’t have the will to sit up and write. Maybe it’ll come back to you in the morning, he said, to himself. The words’ll be right there, in your head.