Balls Read online

  Deciding this was true, and closing in on sleep, he sang the lyrics again to himself:

  You didn’t tell her about your cancer.

  Her story interfered, and you didn’t have the chance.

  But it’ll be just that much more simple to say it,

  In person.

  Tomorrow.

  Tomorrow, you’ll tell her everything. Tomorrow.

  TWO

  Dahl said he’d had to pull strings to get Henry squeezed in for an ultrasound at nine the following morning. But, nine was still cutting it close. The graduation started at ten, and Henry wanted to be on time. He let the person in charge know as much as soon as he arrived for his appointment. The technologist was unsympathetic. She wouldn’t be hurried. Henry, disguising his irritation with a grateful, pliant tone, said he understood her position, she had a job to do, and she didn’t want to be told how to do it. Yet his girlfriend’s graduation began in less than an hour and he still had to get to the West Side. So if she could just pick up the pace a little, that would be terrific.

  Thank you. I appreciate it. You understand, he said, to the technologist.

  She told Henry to be quiet. It’s you who’s adding time to the procedure.

  She was a short, stout redhead. Her eyes were a dark blue, full of malice. Pointing the transducer, like a pistol, at his crotch, she asked him to hold his breath and be still.

  Okay, said Henry. I’m sorry.

  It was the third stop on the doctor-go-round, this, a small room set in low light in Cornell Hospital on York Avenue. Henry sat motionlessly on a halfway elevated table. Minutes prior, after changing into a gown and sitting, his testicles had been propped on a towel by the technologist and lathered with gel, causing his scrotum to tighten up against the cold air blowing from the vents. Over his scrotum, the transducer was being drawn, east, west, north and south. The technologist reminded him again to be still. After several more minutes of the same, she placed the transducer down and said she’d return—without specifying when—and left the room.

  Naked below the waist, Henry’s thoughts shifted to the subject of prosthetic testicles. Before leaving Dahl’s office yesterday the doctor had told him about this option. By and large he’d said men were pleased with their prosthetics. Henry had asked if his scrotum would be more flappy if he went without one and the doctor had told him that it would be precisely that. Furthermore, as far as his sexual opportunities went—and the term seemed an invention of the doctor’s—he might do better all around. A woman would hardly know the difference. They were slightly firmer, the prosthetics, but shaped almost like the real thing.

  Henry hadn’t given it any more thought since yesterday. Yet he realized, with the technologist returning to the room, not alone, but with her superior, who introduced himself to Henry as Dr. Munson, and said he would be doing a second ultrasound, that a prosthetic was something to take seriously. This second ultrasound was an inauspicious sign. Dr. Munson, who had a salt and pepper mustache and a nose which was shaped like a walnut, gave Henry’s scrotum an additional once over with the transducer. Then he placed the instrument down and said, to him:

  Mr. Schiller, I’m sorry. You have cancer of the testicles. Almost definitely, sir.

  Henry nodded his head.

  I’m so sorry.

  Thank you, said Henry.

  Are you all right? I’m here to talk.

  But there was no time for discussion. The graduation started in four minutes and he wouldn’t let the doctor waste another minute of his time. Henry dressed and hurried out the door. He called Paula from a taxi. She was seated in the full auditorium. Where was he?

  I’m entering the building, he lied.

  Oh, good. What happened with the MRI?

  Behind her he could hear the sound of a thousand voices. He said, I’m going to be all right.

  What did they say it was?

  Henry, glancing at the dirty floor of the taxi, said, I have a bulge.

  A bulge?

  Yes. A bulge in my back.

  I’ve never heard of that.

  Neither had I.

  So it’s rare?

  Sort of, he said.

  How do they treat it?

  Henry, pressing on closed eyelids with thumb and forefinger, said, Really, I have to get more details from the doctor.

  But you’re going to be okay?

  I’ll be fine. There’s nothing to worry about.

  That’s a relief, she said. I’ll see you after the graduation.

  Correct.

  He hung up. Compared to the strong rain of past days, Henry had figured there’d be less traffic and he would make good time to the West Side. But cars were backed up through Central Park. He was inching his way through the transverse, his nerves roiled. And yet he’d tell Paula the truth. However, today was her graduation.

  So let her enjoy it. Give her this moment.

  Don’t make it,

  About you,

  And your,

  Test,

  Icles.

  Nearly through the park, he passed fifteen dollars through the slot, got out of the car and ran. Pumping his arms and legs unsettled his groin. But what difference did it make? He had to get to Alice Tully Hall, now. He emerged onto Central Park West, down 67th Street to Broadway, and was inside the auditorium five minutes later, glad to see others passing through the doors with him. Up on stage was a woman talking about the great moments in a young person’s life, adding, ironically, that this was not one of them.

  Because you want to be out there—her fist shot into the air—taking on life. Don’t worry, your time is coming.

  The house lights were turned down, and bright beams shone from above the stage. The first rows of seats were reserved for graduates. At the back of the auditorium, Henry anxiously looked for Paula. There were so many students in white cap and gown, he couldn’t distinguish her from the others. He located her parents near the center aisle. Her father, Marcel, broad-shouldered, amiable, smart, and with his bald head shaved clean for the occasion. And beside him, Paula’s stepmother, Denise, sitting up straight, her head of short blond hair newly dyed and cut. He didn’t look forward to the lunch. Not that he minded these two. But would he have the energy? His whole body wanted to collapse. He looked down the back aisle for a seat. Each one was occupied. He could do no better than lean on a column.

  Applause followed the speaker offstage, and a young woman stepped out into the spotlight. Henry had met many of Paula’s classmates. It wasn’t a very large school. But who was this? A knockout. And that red dress, so confident and sexy, bought new for the occasion, thought Henry. This young woman was collecting her strength, gathering it all at the diaphragm. Her face, full of rich emotion, turned towards the floor. She took another deep breath. (Henry took one with her.) Lifting her head with new purpose in its every rising inch she began to sing. Her arms circled dramatically in the air. A sound was projecting from her being, a truthful, potent sonic explosion. The full audience was in her thrall. Henry glanced, at one face and another, and at a half-dozen more, confirming as much to himself. This attractive flower, built not so big, nor small, but with long black hair, and a spectacularly red mouth which released a single, booming note—she was a miracle of feminine beauty, and vocal skill.

  She is a siren, said Henry, in a whisper.

  Oh, she is something,

  I could be,

  The man I want,

  To be,

  With a woman,

  Like her.

  When she was finished, Henry began to clap, slowly at first, then wildly. The singer, swinging forward with her arms, bowed, so that the tips of her fingers nearly brushed the floor. Awestruck, Henry screamed:

  Bravo! Bravo! Encore!

  This feeling of uplift, could it stay with him? He’d need it after the ceremony, with all the socializing he had before him. The exci
tement produced by that woman’s singing would carry him through it. During the next hour Henry stood, clinging to an idea of the singer. Following the ceremony, leaving Alice Tully Hall, Jeffrey Moss walked only several feet ahead of him. Henry ducked away, not wanting to speak to him. Thank god the graduation would mark the start of less Moss in Paula’s life. After all, she would no longer be enrolled in his class. The spontaneous after-school drink with that doctor of the violin could no longer be spontaneous, but would require arranging. And Paula was so busy. Her practice schedule was rigorous. She wouldn’t have the time to see him. Henry wouldn’t have to hear his name mentioned daily. He’d looked forward to this for a long time.

  Out on Broadway, he located Paula. She was surrounded by a crowd of well-wishers. He couldn’t get near to her. He greeted her stepmother, instead, kissing her cheek, shook Marcel’s hand, congratulating them both. The sun beat hard against his back. His navy suit was made of linen, yet still he was so warm. Where was that singer? The sidewalk was thronged. Making out any one person was difficult. He wanted a last look at her, though, to clear away the sinking feeling in his heart.

  A hand fell strong against his back. It was Denise Mills.

  Henry, she said, I don’t think you’ve ever been introduced to Carla Frank, Gina Frank’s mother.

  How are you? he said, shaking with Ms. Frank.

  She was an unhealthily thin woman, of below average height. Crooked vertical lines ran alongside her mouth. Her blue eyes looked confusedly at Denise. She said, This is the one who writes the songs?

  This is my daughter’s boyfriend. She only has one. And he wrote a hit song, Denise insisted.

  A miserable grin commanded Henry’s face. It was how she introduced him to any stranger. It must stop. All the Crazies Love Me was old news.

  Henry’s songs are very good, Carla.

  Are you having any luck these days? Ms. Frank asked him.

  No. Not really, he said. He looked once around for Paula. It seemed she was gone.

  I hear that’s a hard racket, said Ms. Frank.

  As hard as any, Henry answered her. With his hands in his pockets, his gaze would neither stay in one place, nor focus on anyone or anything.

  You’ve got to love what you do, Ms. Frank told him. That’s the important thing.

  That’s what they say.

  Henry’s just being modest, said Denise. Like always, she was rocking back on her heels. All that buoyancy explained how she stayed so thin. She said, Henry almost sold a jingle.

  Really? went Ms. Frank.

  A Swedish clothing company, Denise continued, was after a song for a new promotional campaign. They were going to go with Henry’s, but changed their minds at the last minute.

  That’s too bad, offered Ms. Frank. Next time.

  Henry didn’t know why Paula even told her stepmother these things, it was humiliating, insulting. Struggling to remain polite, he said, I never meant to get involved in jingle-writing in the first place. I don’t mean to put more crap into the world.

  Suddenly Henry winced, clutching his chest.

  Are you okay? Denise asked.

  Do you need a pain-killer? I have pain-killers. Ms. Frank reached into her leather purse, but came up empty and apologized.

  I’m all right, said Henry. I’m fine.

  But this wasn’t the place for him to stand and he excused himself, saying he’d go check-in on Paula.

  At once, he was caught in a swarm of people. Fighting to get free, he slid between graduates into an open space, near the curb. It was here that he found himself behind the graduation singer. Taking in this face up close he lowered his eyes. Was it her? Yes. Yes, it was. He stole another glance, and this time she caught him and he quickly looked back at the sidewalk. And why did he do that—he didn’t know. But the sun was high above them. Along the pavement Henry saw her shadow made out an excitingly curvy figure with hair, by the same adumbrated token, full and luxurious.

  Oh god, he said to himself, this is some gal.

  So many shrill voices engulfed him. A tension was pulling in the air between she and Henry. He could feel it in his neck and his piano-strong hands. He wanted to know everything about her. And if he had her to himself, what would he ask? What did he want to know most of all? The question excited him. She was now joined by a friend who addressed her by her name, which was Moira. A lovely name, it warmed Henry to hear Moira speak, her voice, kind and honest, full of depth. She was discussing plans for the coming evening. She said she wanted to have a good time, that she was ready for anything. Tonight was the night of her college graduation and she wouldn’t let it go to waste.

  We’re going to start the night at Clover’s, on Sullivan, said her friend.

  Henry blushed, and his chest rose. Clover’s. On Sullivan. He’d never heard of it. Perhaps he’d end up there himself. He laughed at the thought. To himself, he sang:

  Early evening, and I leave Paula,

  In the name of poor health.

  Home for a primping, then I,

  Taxi down to Clover’s,

  Arriving at 9.

  Staking out a place at the bar,

  And from there I wait,

  Until Moira enters.

  And because her friends are yet to show,

  She comes to stand alone at the bar.

  There are no stools, so I offer mine.

  And when she refuses to accept it,

  I say to her, Wait. Wait, but I know you.

  I do.

  Didn’t you perform today at the,

  Juilliard graduation?

  It’s you.

  You were phenomenal. A triumph.

  The best I’ve ever seen.

  At which point…

  His singing abruptly ended. Something frantic stretched through his breast. His cheeks were burning hot. He rose up onto his tiptoes, staring in the distance. His vision fogged, he couldn’t make out what his eyes had seen only a moment before. Edging forward, his head felt heavy. But who was it out there? Paula? And beside her, Jeffrey Moss?

  On the street named for Bernstein, amid hundreds of revelers, Henry fought through the crowd. From inside his head arose an imbalanced feeling, his chest burst heat. He drew around a graduate, his fingers slipping from her white gown. He strode past a group photo. Soreness came into his testicle. He put his hand to his pants, holding them to his body. One thought dominated his mind: he must get between Paula and Moss. And when he was within five feet of them, he stopped short. What had made his legs feel so weighted-down? He listened to teacher and student speak to one another. There was too much celebration happening on all sides of him to hear precisely what they said. But the tone, thought Henry, the tone was the same used by lovers.

  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 for
tunate 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.