Dante's Wood Page 3

  Then, when the weather warmed up, I started working with my orientation and mobility instructor, Cherie. Cherie claimed to be congenitally blind, but I didn’t believe her. One could only pick up social skills like hers during NCO training at Fort Dix. Throughout the spring and summer, Cherie pushed me through a series of increasingly complicated drills, all the while subjecting me to the Socratic Method. An example:

  Cherie: “Mark, what direction are we headed in?”

  Me: “Uh . . . not sure.”

  Cherie: “Where’s the sun?”

  Me: “Up there?” [Pointing]

  Cherie: “You’re not pointing are you?”

  Me: “Of course not.”

  Cherie: “So where is it, then?”

  Me: “Can I peek—just this once?”

  Cherie: [Exasperated exhalation of breath]

  Me: “Come on, cut a blink some slack.”

  Cherie: “Slack isn’t what I’ll be cutting you if you don’t start paying attention. Which part of your face is warm?”

  By which exchange you may have gleaned that Cherie belonged to the hawkish school of cane teachers and made me wear a blindfold during our outings so I would learn to fall in love with my other senses. Our first sessions together reminded me of wilderness expeditions at Boy Scout Camp, except that I was excused from bringing a compass. Later, after I’d passed the beginner stage, Cherie sent me on scavenger hunts too, exercises in which I would have to travel alone to a store I’d never set foot in before and bring back a snack or a hard-to-recognize item. On still other occasions, we played a game in which I’d be dropped off at an unnamed location and have to find my way home without asking more than one question.

  All this hilarity brought me nearly to the end of summer and my first anniversary. By then, I could cruise my neighborhood at a decent clip, get through a book with my fingers when I chose to, and had the domestic side of my life under tolerable management. Marta, my housekeeper, came every Thursday to clean up after me, though my slovenly ways were fast retreating under the harsh regime of having to search for things I hadn’t put back in their proper place. Once a month, I paid a graduate student to help me out with any mail I couldn’t handle by myself. On Sunday mornings, I tagged along with Josh when he did his family’s grocery shopping. I’d even worked up the nerve (twice) to eat out at a restaurant on my own, which wasn’t the fiasco I’d envisioned, though it’s no swell time having the menu read to you by a busy waitperson who is predisposed to believe you lack the wherewithal to tip generously.

  In short, when I finally got the message from Sep, whose calls I’d been ignoring for weeks, telling me that, ADA or no, I’d better get in to see him if I didn’t want to be forced into alternate forms of employment, I was as ready as I was ever going to be to return to my chosen field. So why was I so resistant to going back? In retrospect the answer is obvious, but at the time I was still making up excuses.

  At first I told myself it was a matter of personality: I didn’t want to be labeled plucky, or spirited, or unstoppable, or any of the other cloying adjectives found in news articles about blind citizens who engage in such pastimes as skiing, or golfing, or walking in the woods. I’d become quite a connoisseur of these set pieces, similar to someone who can’t help picking at a fresh scab. Three sentences in and it was always the same shocker: “But [insert name] is no ordinary [skier, golfer, hiker] because he lives in a world of darkness. He is blind.” Blind. Wow. I was amazed they didn’t capitalize all the letters, to really drive home the point of how wonderful it was these people could still put a brave face on in the morning. I vowed never to be interviewed by a reporter; none of them could be trusted to get it right or avoid going for the strained credulity angle. But it was silly to stay at home simply to rule out a headline titled Blind Psychiatrist Helps Patients See in a New Light, and I knew it.

  Then I told myself it was fear. There was much more truth to that. Part of the trouble was my profession gave me too much information about the reasons people might be tempted to run in the other direction when they saw me coming. Sight is one of the infant’s first sources of gratification, so it is hardly surprising that it is closely associated in the subconscious with other things that probe and give pleasure, like fingers and penises. Light is also linked in cultures the world over to the concept of the deity. So proximity to a blind person provokes a double panic in the sighted: anxiety over castration and permanent exclusion from divine grace. Accepting this was hard. It really did make me want to search out a monastery somewhere, say in a valley deep in the Urals, where I could devote the rest of my days to chanting and self-mortification.

  But it wasn’t that sort of fear either, at least not beyond what was natural for someone in my circumstances to be experiencing. It was something worse, so much worse that I couldn’t stop running madly—or better yet, blindly—away from it until Sep put his foot down, I met Charlie and . . . well, now I am getting ahead of my tale.

  Three

  Three weeks later, I was headed back to my job and even looking forward to it a bit. On my walk from home that morning I’d savored the taste of the early-autumn air, as sweet and crisp as a new-blown apple. As I neared my building on East Superior, the sun in the east was tickling my back and the locust trees were shivering in the breeze. It’s around this time of year that they begin to shed their leaves, and I summoned up a nearly perfect memory of them showering down on the plaza like ochre confetti.

  When I could hear the thump-thump-thump of the revolving door ahead, I stopped and fished two dollars’ worth of change out of my pocket for Mike, the Streetwise vendor who is always stationed there. Streetwise is a publication put out by people who once would have found shelter in grim institutions, but are now more humanely allowed to brave Chicago winters in the open air. Mike hadn’t seen me in a while, but in my Mets cap, sport jacket, and tie I must have looked the same as I always did, except for the five feet of pole I was sweeping along in front of me.

  “Hey, Mike,” I said, when I came up to where he was politely greeting people by the door. “What’s happening?” I held out the coins between my forefingers and thumb.

  Mike didn’t reply and sounded for a moment like he was having an asthmatic attack.

  “Mike,” I said. “It’s me, Mark. You remember—the guy who buys the paper from you every day.”

  Mike still didn’t answer me.

  “Come on, Mike,” I said, thinking maybe I wasn’t facing him properly or he hadn’t seen the change. I repositioned slightly and thrust my hand out farther, with the money in my open palm. “Don’t you want to get rid of your stock so you can get out of here for the day?”

  More silence.

  At last he said, “I’m sorry, brother.”

  “Sorry?” I said, as comprehension finally dawned. “Oh, yeah. Listen, there’s no reason to be. I’m cool with it.”

  I waited for him to take the money, but he still didn’t.

  “Mike? Say something. Please.”

  Another long silence, then: “I meant I’m sorry but I can’t be taking your money no more.”

  Shit, I thought.

  The rest of the morning wasn’t much better.

  It wasn’t that my coworkers weren’t trying. They avoided all of the behaviors I’d learned to expect and deal with politely (sort of) when I ventured out of my home. Nobody ignored me when I spoke to them, or shouted at me when an ordinary decibel level would do, or locked me in a half nelson to “help” me through a door. Almost everyone stopped by my office to catch up. They identified themselves by name when they greeted me and told me when they were leaving so I wouldn’t be left talking into the air. In fact, they were doing such a good job of the etiquette side of things that I began to suspect Sep or Josh of having tacked up one of those “What to Do When You Meet a Blind Person” cheat sheets on the communal bulletin board. I should have been jumping for joy. Instead I felt like I’d just become the star of a documentary about interspecies cooperation, one of those
programs on the Discovery Channel where humans squat on the ground and demonstrate how well they can get along with chimpanzees. Though I couldn’t blame it on any one thing, I felt stupid and uncomfortable and painfully self-conscious, emotions I thought I’d banished from my blind man’s repertoire after the first few times I’d needed directions to the men’s room or help finding a seat on the ‘L.’

  By lunchtime, when Josh came to check on me, I’d barricaded myself behind a locked door and was sullenly tossing one of my Slinkys up and down on my desk. (I also collected Etch A Sketch and Wooly Willy games, but they had stopped being as much fun to play with.)

  “Brought you a sandwich,” Josh said, after I’d let him in.

  I grunted.

  “It’ll get easier,” Josh said.

  At half past two I was ready to hang it up for the day. I had just started to pack my briefcase when Yelena, the assistant I share with Josh, knocked on my door. Yelena is as unlike Della Street as it gets, a scary bottle blonde who lives in Morton Grove with two kids by her ex, Boris, the owner of an independent town-car service. They had been at war for years. Knowing Yelena, I felt sorry for Boris and always called him when I wanted a ride to the airport. Between phone skirmishes over support payments, keeping up with her noontime Pilates, and visiting her manicurist, Yelena occasionally finds time to slip in some work for me. Earlier in the day I’d kept her busy with long-overdue filing, which always puts her in the mind-set of Lady Macbeth contemplating the inequities of her lot.

  She came halfway into the room and stood there impatiently, tapping one of her trademark Manolos on the carpet.

  “To bed, to bed, there’s knocking at the gate,” I said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Yelena said.

  “It’s an old Russian saying.”

  “How come I never heard of it then? It’s me, Yelena. I came to remind you of your three o’clock.”

  “Three? I wasn’t supposed to have any appointments today.”

  “This one only came up this morning. Dr. Brennan arranged it.”

  “Well, you can unarrange it right now. I need at least another week to organize things around here before I can start seeing patients again.”

  “Dr. Brennan said you would say that.”

  “Did he also mention how you should reply?”

  “Of course.” Yelena advanced to my desk and leaned over it, probably trying to read one of the papers there. I was already beginning to see a side benefit to Braille, which was impervious to her snooping.

  I said, “Let me guess. It involves something that matches your nails.” Yelena’s nails resemble X-ACTO knives and are always painted an incongruous shade of pink.

  “Huh?”

  “Pink slip,” I said.

  “That’s pretty good. How did you know?”

  “Never mind. What else did Dr. Brennan say?”

  “That he was sure you would understand the importance of helping Dr. and Mrs. Dickerson.” Yelena leaned in farther and I caught the scent of Obsession rising from her blouse.

  “Why? Am I supposed to know them?”

  “Mrs. Dickerson’s maiden name is Taub. Dr. Brennan said you should look it up in the annual report if you don’t remember.”

  I didn’t need to. The Taubs were one of the wealthiest families in Chicago, whose fortune made the Pritzkers look like they’d just emerged from the steerage section at Ellis Island. Buildings named after various Taub cousins dominated nearly every major medical, educational, and arts facility in Illinois. In my own hospital’s case, the Aaron J. and Lillian M. Taub Cancer Care and Research Center occupied nearly a quarter mile of prime real estate in Streeterville, the posh neighborhood sandwiched between the Magnificent Mile and Lake Michigan where my office is also located. Before my illness I’d often admired the building’s gleaming façade during my early-morning bike rides along the Lake.

  “The report’s on my desk if you want me to read it to you,” Yelena said. It was typical of her service attitude that she hadn’t brought it with her.

  “Thanks, but that won’t be necessary.” I’d already discovered that Yelena’s reading style was about as gentle on the ears as a jackhammer. “I know who the Taubs are. Did Dr. Brennan mention anything else I’m supposed to know? Which branch of the family she’s related to? The size of her trust fund, perhaps?”

  “He said he introduced you to the Dickersons at the doctor’s ball two years ago. Dr. Dickerson is a member of the surgery department.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes. If you could see him, you’d know. The really tall one.”

  That jogged my memory. Nate Dickerson was one of the tallest human beings I’d ever met, nearly seven feet and easily two-hundred and fifty pounds. He’d played for the Blue Devils during college and a season or two with the Detroit farm team before getting realistic and enrolling in medical school. Being myself just a shade over five-foot nine, I felt like a Lilliputian standing beside him. He had the sort of features that would have looked doughy on someone of ordinary dimensions, but on him merely seemed carved in granite. His wife was also taller than me, dark-haired, and had the pinched look women develop from too much time in the sun or incessant worry.

  “Did Dr. Brennan say what they wanted to consult me about?”

  “No, just that they were bringing their son with them.”

  “All right,” I said. “Have the son wait in the reception area when they arrive. I’ll see the parents first.”

  Yelena didn’t leave and seemed to be waiting for something. “Is there anything else?” I asked peevishly.

  “I hate to ask, but . . .” This was Yelena’s standard lead-in to a request for unscheduled time off, usually having to do with the misfortunes of a cousin who had just been caught attempting to smuggle one of the fruits of the new Russian economy through O’Hare and now needed Yelena’s help with the INS officials who wanted to deport him. Yelena always had the good sense to seek Josh’s approval first, and to present her case as a fait accompli that only a heartless overlord would refuse. I had been meaning to give Josh a talking to about his susceptibility to dominatrix persuasion.

  A little after 3:00 p.m., Yelena showed the Dickersons in.

  “Doctor? Nate and Judith Dickerson,” Nate greeted me as he advanced seismically into the room.

  I got up and came around my desk. “Call me Mark. We met once, though I don’t expect you’ll remember.”

  “Oh, but I surely do,” Nate said, seizing my arm and bending it like a twig. “In fact, Judith and I were just talking about the occasion. It was at the annual physicians’ event two years ago, wasn’t it?” His voice boomed down at me like Zeus from Mount Olympus. He paused and added apologetically, “I was sorry to hear about your illness.”

  I was about to reply when Judith interjected: “Nate—where are your manners? I’m sure he doesn’t want to be reminded of it.”

  I had begun to say, “Well, thank you, but—” when Nate cut back in.

  “Darling, the man knows he’s blind. He’s not going to fall to pieces because I mention it.”

  “Not blind,” Judith corrected. “Visually impaired.” She said it like only the class dunce would have made such a mistake.

  “There you go again. Who gives a hoot what it’s called?” Nate said.

  “He does. Don’t you?” Judith said to me.

  “I hadn’t really given it much—”

  “See,” Nate said, “what have I been telling you?”

  “Well, if he doesn’t care, he should. Labels are important.”

  “Putting a pretty name on something doesn’t change the fact.”

  I was starting to feel like the ball in a Ping-Pong tournament.

  “Perhaps we should sit down,” I said, offering them seats in the area to the left of my desk, where I have a sofa and two armchairs set up across a coffee table. The Dickersons continued their volley while they settled themselves down. I retrieved my Braille slate from my desk and took a place on the co
uch opposite them.

  “It’s because of your attitude that Charlie has such low self-esteem,” Judith was saying.

  “That’s your mantra, isn’t it?” Nate bandied back. “All the world’s ills would be solved if people could just feel good about themselves. Besides, the boy seems fine to me.”

  “How would you know? At the office every day until midnight when you’re not flying across the country to make speeches at one of those ego-fests you’re so fond of. Anything you can do to avoid being home.” I recalled from somewhere that Nate Dickerson had achieved fame as a cardiologist and was in demand on the medical lecture circuit.

  “You never seem to mind the income my speaking engagements bring in,” he parried.

  “Let’s not get started on money,” Judith retorted. “It was humiliating for you, wasn’t it, having to rely on mine when you were first starting out. But that’s water over the dam. We’re talking about role models here.”

  It went on like this for several more minutes during which the Dickersons hardly seemed to notice I was there. I began to wonder why Sep had sent them to me rather than to one of my colleagues who specialized in couples therapy. I listened, trying to pick up hints about why they had come and getting nowhere. Finally I made a big T with my forearms and said, “OK. Much as I don’t mind being paid for doing nothing, I assume you didn’t come here just to reenact Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? in my presence.”

  Nate was instantly chagrined. “Hell,” he said. “I apologize. We shouldn’t be wasting your time with our squabbles.”