Perforated Heart Page 2

  They say it takes three generations to forget. Is anyone remembered? Only the artists and killers and kings.

  I was in Sadie’s living room, eating pound cake. Someone was shuffling through a sheaf of her personal correspondence. I snatched the letters to my lap. I am the literary representative of the family, I am the keeper of words. Something like a cantor, they all defer to me. (“Richard, what did you think of the President’s speech last night?” “Richard, what do you think of The Da Vinci Code?”) They know I’ve made money with my writing, been written about in Newsweek, won prizes, although not one of them could tell you why, nor has any of them ever made it all the way through one of my novels, but they do know I’m a somebody “out there”—they know I am of the world.

  Sadie’s life had been so obvious for so long—her cleaning, her crumb cake, her soap operas—that whatever we thought we knew about her couldn’t possibly be the whole story. And my family didn’t want Sadie’s secrets. They’d rather sentimentalize the old woman who never said much, poached a mean gefilte fish, and worked as a secretary in a now defunct office building on a now defunct street in a now defunct downtown, fifty years ago. My gut told me to hang on to the letters.

  Later, alone on my king-size bed at the Marriott, I read them.

  They fell into four categories: first the oldest, when Sadie was a schoolgirl and had a pen pal, in Argentina. In a flowery cursive, the pal wrote about horses and sheepdogs and sunsets and school.

  The next pile was a collection of letters of commendation. Sadie was a WAC during World War II, stationed at the Army air base in Reykjavík, Iceland. When we were kids she would regale us with stories of the midnight sun. She obviously made a big impression on her superior officers.

  The third pile was correspondence between Sadie and a kibbutz near Galilee. Perhaps this had been her great dream, to join the Zionists and pick apricots. These letters petered out in the mid-fifties.

  The last twenty-one letters were from a woman in Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania, named Angie Demarco. These dated from 1961 to 1967. They followed or anticipated visits between Sadie and Angie. I thought of the Proulx short story “Brokeback Mountain” (now a major motion picture). The letters didn’t give anything away. It’s possible the two women were friends and nothing more. I never met this Angie, and I don’t think anyone in my family ever did.

  I was happy I didn’t let them have the letters. Sadie’s life, including its mysteries, was safe with me.

  December 14, 2005

  Day of the funeral. Dad was strangely dispassionate about the whole thing. I noticed he had missed a patch of cheek while shaving. There was a grease stain on his overcoat. He wasn’t even dressed in black. When was the last time he got a haircut? At his age he must be thinking: I’ll be taking my own dirt nap soon. Which must be tough.

  At the dinner, Dad got antsy and wanted to go home. Everyone understood. Dad’s an old guy, he can do what he wants. On the way back to his place, he announced that he was hungry. Interesting. So we stopped at a diner where they serve oversized portions of greasy pasta and meat. His rich son was picking up the tab, which put him in a great mood. Hey, whatever turns you on, Dad. Family tradition, counting our pennies to the death.

  Dad’s eighty-something, and he was flirting with the waitress. Obviously women feel safe around the old, dying lion. He’s adorable because he’s toothless. Nothing endears a man more to a woman’s heart than impotence. But could that winsome waitress ever imagine the lion’s dreams? The violence, the trespass he would love to wreak? Really, what more could an old guy want than to get it hard one more time? To be in there, pitching fast balls, curled into that existential jackrabbit thrust? This is all the male animal needs. To get lost in the fucking. To fuck. To fuck hard. Men kill so they can fuck. They run for high office so they can fuck. I fuck therefore I am. Middle-aged men fall for young women because youth revives the walking dead.

  Leon found me on my cell. He didn’t mention my not winning. No, he wanted to hear the dope on the girl I had met at the awards ceremony. Turns out she’s the daughter of a Wall Street tycoon. I told Leon that my aunt had passed away three days ago and I didn’t want to discuss the girl. There was a pause on the other end of the line. Leon was trying to gauge what Aunt Sadie meant to me, so he could respond accordingly. Curtly I said, “Have to get off Leon.” And with that I punished him. I hung up and ushered Dad safely into his house.

  Taking a break, I went for a walk along an old path behind Dad’s yard through what was once a familiar ten acres of scrub and saplings landlocked between the subdivisions. For some reason the developer missed this chunk.

  I was alone in the thicket when I realized I didn’t know the town anymore. Someone could waylay me on this desolate path and cut my throat. But I was not apprehensive. Instead, surrounded by the serene winter environment, I felt a kind of peace, almost elation. The black branches of the winter oaks fissured the high orange sky, wisps of altrostratus clouds reflected the dimming sun. I took in a lungful of frosty air and felt high.

  I pulled out my cell phone to call Sarah. I wanted to secure the experience by sharing it with someone, preferably a woman. Then I stopped. To pretend that Sarah was my “soul mate” was an insult to the moment. (A tiny, tiny voice mumbled something about how I was wrong to have sex behind Sarah’s back, but then I remembered that it was Sarah’s fault for not coming to the ceremony with me. She “had to teach.” Maybe. Maybe not. So—it was no one’s fault. )

  I cautiously resumed my walk. Dead leaves crunched under my feet. Probably foxes or skunks around somewhere. No snakes this time of year, I was pretty sure of that. Stillness. Beauty. I said to myself, “Here you are.” Here I was, placing myself in the thicket, in the beauty, in the moment. I continued, “This is it, a perfect moment in the center of a perfect life. You have it all: money, fame, security, health, sexual satiation, work to do. A new book coming out. An award nomination. Just take it in. Breathe it in. The sun setting, health, wealth, life. WHAT MORE DO YOU FUCKING WANT?”

  I heard my own voice, followed by silence. Then a huffing under the stillness. Breath, not human, behind me, approaching quickly. I turned, not fearful, more curious to see whatever was coming. A deer? A bear? Death?

  No, it was a chocolate Labrador retriever outfitted in a tight-fitting Day-Glo vest. He flashed a wet smile of appreciation, sniffed at my shoes, circled me once, then loped away down the path, indifferent. Keeping pace, two oldsters (probably about my age) appeared, gripping collapsible L.L. Bean walking sticks. They smiled as if this was the moment we’d been waiting for all day. Had they heard me talking to myself? I meekly said, “Nice sunset!”

  They blew past, grins frozen with exertion. They’d tricked me. I felt I should say hello and I did, but now they did not return the courtesy. Deaf-mutes, perhaps. They were only intent on tracking the dog with their rapid, health-promoting step, pumped full of high-omega fish oil. Fuck ’em.

  I scanned the horizon and the sunset, found my path and noted how dark the woods had become. By the time I was in Dad’s backyard once more, the streetlights had clicked on. I found Dad asleep in his armchair, left him there and drove back to the Marriott. Locked in for the night, I sipped minibar whiskey from a bathroom glass and watched the mayhem on the evening news.

  December 15, 2005

  In an attempt to achieve some kind of intimacy with Dad before leaving town, I drove over to his place and spent the morning with him. Not that there was anything to do or say. We’d said it all. In his living room, we drank instant coffee cut with nondairy creamer. Suddenly Dad stood and pronounced “Time to go.” He had a doctor’s appointment. I thought, what the hell, and tagged along.

  Dad insisted on introducing me, even though I’d met his doctor thrice before. Dad loves the rush of saying “Have you met my son, the writer? He’s been nominated for the Pulitzer. Twice.” My bile rises whenever he utters those words. Back in the day, my father fought my ambitions with undiluted venom. “Get a real jo
b! You’re wasting your time!” I will never forget the patronizing sneer. He even walked out of one of my readings claiming he had indigestion.

  That was when Dad was young and strong and bristling with plans for me and everyone else. We battled hard then. I cursed him. He slapped me. I threw a teakettle at a wall. The dent is still there. He never missed an opportunity to cut me with his dismissive attitude. I returned the favor by riffing on his own neurotic existence in my second collection of short stories. Which he never read.

  Fame heals all wounds. Old Dad has been crushed into nonexistence by the sediments of time. New feeble Dad is invigorated with the power of my notoriety and that’s all there is to that. “You know my son, the bestselling author?”

  “Yes. Hello Richard.”

  “Did you see the movie they made from one of his short stories? The Philosophy of Paradise? Not my sort of thing, but it won a special prize at the Cannes Film Festival. Did you ever see it?” I extended my hand to the doctor. He was ignoring my father, which was okay with me. Why bother with something as boring as a proud parent, when you can mix it up with an actual somebody?

  As I clasped my dad’s doctor’s smooth, dry hand, his brow furrowed. He searched my face with mock compassion and said, “And how are you doing, Richard?”

  “Very well, thanks.” I girded myself to repeat for the umpteenth time a synopsis of A Gentle Death. He might have found my new book of interest. But no, that’s not what he was after. He had much bigger fish to fry.

  “Richard, when was the last time you had your cholesterol checked?”

  “What?” I was sorting my mental Cliff Notes, preparing my opening statement. (“This time I wanted to write something about personal history…”) But he wasn’t talking about that.

  “You are your father’s son after all.”

  Cholesterol—the key word. Oh, I got it. He wanted to play in his court. As his deceptively mild eyes searched mine, I had an urge to slap the professional smile off his face. Or maybe just give him a quick cuff behind the ear, and say “Cut it out, asshole. You’re not talking to one of your groupies now. I don’t buy your scare tactics.” Just one more high priest, this guy. Reminding every person he meets that only he can save them.

  But I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I meekly hopped up onto the examining bench and perched like a schoolboy while he pumped the blood pressure collar and pressed a stethoscope against my chest. I humored him. As if this was something I wanted to do.

  Why would I have wanted this? Because I had an urge to bond with my dad before we had lunch and this is how I was going to do it. See? Me and Dad, we’re just two old guys visiting the doctor! Used to pee into the toilet bowl at the same time, now we’re giving urine samples together! And however we bond, we bond. A visit to the doctor is no more different than strolling through a car dealership to check out the cool new Mustangs.

  And dear reader (whoever the fuck you are, I’m probably dead if you’re reading this) you know what’s coming, you’re ahead of me on this one, right?

  The doctor frowned. Something wasn’t right. He wanted more testing. Right then before I left town. I told him that was impossible. Almost dragging my father after me, we escaped the clutches of the condescending quack. But not before I had sincerely promised Dad that I would visit my own doctor and endure a stress test when I got back to the city. Of course I was concerned too, but no way would I give this self-satisfied physician the gratification of being right about anything.

  For the remainder of the afternoon, Dad wouldn’t drop the subject of my heart. He gobbled up his pasta quickly, so as not to delay my return to New York. I wanted to explain to him, there was nothing wrong with my health. It was fatigue. It was the wine and the stress of awards ceremonies. I promised to call after I saw my guy.

  December 20, 2005

  Well, this is going to be a fun holiday season. I had the stress test, failed miserably, and, surprise, surprise, I’m scheduled for surgery in eight days. (Maybe I died on the table, which is how you came to be reading this?) Something called “minimally invasive direct artery bypass”(MID-CAB). They will cut me open and stick a scalpel into my beating heart. Graft a vein. All that. What makes it minimal is that I will never legally be dead during the surgery. My heart will keep beating. No machine will be required to keep the blood coursing. It’s a no-brainer. They perform hundreds of these every week. Yeah, right.

  The surgeon was reassuring. Very little chance of a problem. I did some research, learned that Philip Roth had heart surgery and came out of it okay. He wrote like a speed freak for the next ten years. I have no choice in the matter so it makes no difference what Philip Roth did or didn’t do.

  I will have to take time off to recuperate. Supposedly I will be able to return to “normal activities” two weeks after the surgery. The bad news is that my book tour is coming up and anything that involves getting on airplanes, let alone passing through airport checkpoints, is considered stressful.

  I informed Leon of this new development. He clucked and made a big show of disappointment. He assured me that as soon as my heart is healed, I’ll have my tour. He insisted that strategically this will work out for the better in the long run. Fuck him. More money saved. But I can’t think about Leon now. My life is on the line. A major medical event. I have insurance, so what more can I do but lie down and let them stick a knife between my ribs?

  Now and then I sense a slight ache in my chest, something I’ve never felt before. The more I try to ignore it, the more it makes itself known, a sensation that beats like a distant lighthouse in deep fog. I’ve also developed a form of insomnia that tenaciously fights the Valium the doctor has prescribed. I lie on my back for hours, rolling a single thought back and forth: “Maybe I will die.” Of course, I will die, sooner or later, but will I die this week? This month? Before spring? Before summer?

  And when I do die, will I be able to think as I disappear? Will I lie there, clinically dead, still capable of cognition? Paralyzed but powerless to halt the slide into darkness? That moment will be the longest moment of my life. Hopefully I will be unaware of my own death. Go to bed, fall asleep and somewhere in the wee hours of the a.m. simply cease to exist. Cease being. That would be better, right? Or not. Wouldn’t I want to know beforehand? But there is no way to know, unless you’re on death row.

  It is certain beyond any certainty that I will one day cease. And all the information in my brain will cease. Memory will cease. Knowledge will cease. Skill will cease. Personality will cease. This is what I think about as I lie in bed. Terrible jaws of fear grip me for hours. Then, the pills gain traction and I slip away and I’m asleep.

  December 25, 2005

  There’s a chance I will die during surgery. This would be such a gift for Sarah. She likes drama because she thinks it makes her a better writer. She’s still young, she doesn’t understand that what doesn’t kill you doesn’t make you stronger, it wears you out and weakens what little integrity you have. She seeks authenticity and gravitas. Why else would a woman in her late twenties bother with an old fucker like me? Of course if I passed away she’d mourn. But in the end, it would be a big gift, my death. She’d write a piece for The New Yorker and there’s a very good chance it would get published.

  I had planned to spend Christmas alone but Sarah showed up and insisted on giving me a present. (I’d been too busy to get her anything. Which only deepens her affection for me. She feels closer to me when I exhibit my faults, especially when I don’t acknowledge them as such.) She brought me a scarf and a book about Rembrandt by Simon Schama. I didn’t spoil the gift by telling Sarah that I’d read it. We ate a light meal, I drank one glass of Napa cabernet sauvignon. We made a fire and hunkered down on the couch.

  I was trepidatious about the sex act. Would it kill me? I forgot to ask the doctor, couldn’t call him on Christmas Day. Sarah was of the opinion that we could “snuggle.” She was anxious about my health, but she was also anxious for my attention, as usual. She beamed me
with her big brown eyes. Despite my own (more pertinent) anxiety, a wonderful erection came easily. Alive again!

  Sarah administered ridiculously slow fellatio which raised my blood pressure so high that when I did cum, I exploded into ecstasy, my limbs rigid, my chest convulsing for lack of air. As I was drowning in a sea of pent-up endorphins and spasming nerve endings, my pulse blipped erratically and I whirled into a chasm of fear. My enormously swollen heart muscle was holding the reins of my very life. I was cumming and dying synchronically! My mouth and tongue went dry, my breath shallowed, charging the finale with even more weirdly terrific energy. Sarah swallowed and I thought, “That may be the last one you get, kid.”

  For the remainder of the afternoon, she was incredibly contented. I watched my young girlfriend as she bustled about—young, fertile, confident, warm, supple, lithe, brimming and optimistic.

  January 2, 2006

  So it happened. I survived. A big chunk of still respiring, still pulsing organism. Surgeon said it went very well. The graft will last ten years, blah-blah-blah. Oh really? And what happens then? Hey doc, what happens after ten years, huh? Twenty? thirty? Oh right, I die anyway. Too bad.

  The pain is not overwhelming. The stitches itch and there’s some swelling, but I’m not in agony. Generally I’m mired in a diffuse torpor, something like a hangover, but lacking the bite of alcohol poisoning. I’m on anticoagulents and tranquilizers but under it all, I know my heart has been punctured like a bald tire and my soul doesn’t like it one bit. No matter, it’s done.