Rochelle by Damon G. LaBarbera, circa 1983

originally published  1983, North Country

Damon G. LaBarbera

Sarah

She was already standing behind the large oak and brass desk when I entered the office. Her posture was formal, almost Prussian, but the handshake was all female. She fitted into my palm four long fingers, fragrant, soft and powdered. There was no squeeze, only a laying against, a practiced tentativeness, as if she might withdraw her fingers even before I could engulf them with my own. She motioned me into a chair directly across from her. Now, eye to eye, I was unprepared for her face. She had been a youthful beauty, with almond shaped eyes, but her retention of that beauty well into middle life was unnatural and disturbing. Across fourteen years her face had not aged, only changed, as if Sarah had donned a disguise and artfully eluded time. Her forty five year old skin was taut and porcelain. I suspected a facelift.

"Well Edward," she said, "I can't say I expected to see you here. But you are not unwelcome."

Her voice still retained the slow, empathic, deliberateness which marked her as foreign born. I said it was good to be in Chicago. She withdrew a cigarette from an art deco humidor. "What brings you here?"

"Another crisis," I said.

Her eyes narrowed for a moment. Then she relaxed, and settled back into her chair. Crises were manageable.

"We always were drawn together by crises," I said. "Yes."

I looked around the room.

"I gather you have taken up art collecting."

There was a Picasso drawing hanging behind her head, and an original Dali landscape on the other wall. In the foreground of the landscape a young woman in a white evening gown squeezed her breast which spurted a stream of milk.

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"Not really."

There was silence. She blew two white tusks of smoke through her nostrils, leaned forward and tapped her cigarette against the ashtray. Then she sat back.

"What can I do for you?" she said.

"Hospitalizing Kenneth will cost 12,000 dollars a year. That is, assuming he doesn't improve in a year".

Kenneth was mentally retarded, but also psychotic; subject to hallucinations and erratic behavior.

"He is much worse?" "Much worse."

The umbilical cord had wrapped around his throat at birth. Parts of the cortex and cerebellum had asphyxiated. His growth had been affected, and, though 24, he stood but five feet tall when his hunch was straightened.

She asked, "And his doctor — Dr . . ." "Levine."

"Yes, this man says it is best to put Kenneth in a hospital?"

"Pine Town. You've heard of it. Lawns and gardens and excellent staff." I explained in some detail the progressive policy of Pine Town, showed her a pamphlet, and mentioned several celebrities who had stayed there.

"At any rate, I can't keep him."

She tapped her cigarette again, keeping her eyes fixed on the ashtray. The ashtray, of pounded copper, was large and expensive, shaped like a leaf. It had the ostentatious foreign look of a vacation souvenir.

"I'll pay half," Sarah said.

"I can't afford 6000 a year."

"You are his custodian. That was your wish."

Her eyes were still fixed on the ashtray.

"I hardly earn that much. My comic strip sells, but I am no Gary Trudeau or Charles Schulz. If I were, it would be different."

"I am on a tight budget myself. You see a Picasso on the wall, but that was a gift. The Dali was a special treat for myself. It has crossed my mind to sell them. They aren't typical of my situation. I have 600 dollars a month spending money after essentials, and I have to think about retirement."

"I see."

"Do you see why I cannot give more than 6,000 a year."

"I can't keep him at home. For my sake as well as his. Neighborhood children are picking fights. He badly hurt one of their dogs with a

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pavement slate. He rocks in a chair for hours, and repeats every word he hears. Levine says he won't get better without the proper care."

"Be serious. He won't get better anyway." Her eyes angered momentarily. She swiveled her chair so that she looked out of a large curved window. She had a view of several skyscrapers.

"What is the diagnosis now?" she asked.

"Retardation and schizophrenia."

"Others act the way he does?"

"Levine says it's not uncommon. Others are much worse."

"I know you love Kenneth. He is my son too. The pictures of him you send . . . it's an odd feeling. I'll give you 6000 dollars, and you can stop your payments to me. If need be, I'll retire a year late."

"I knew you'd help."

"What do other schizophenics do?" she asked.

"Schizophrenia means insanity. There is a schism between thought and emotion. The two do not match. Levine had a schizophrenic at the state who laughed hysterically when told his mother died. Another smiled while describing the torment of his electric shock treatment. Some schizophrenics have delusions. One of his patients believed that the lady next door eavesdropped with radio waves on his thoughts. He pointed a rifle at her window to frighten her, thinking she deliberately persecuted him out of envy for his telephatic powers. He had Paranoid Schizophrenia. Kenneth has a mild form, Simple Schizophrenia. Others are much worse."

"How much worse can one get."

There was silence for several minutes. The air conditioner purred. She lit another cigarette but forgot about it. Her eyes, blinking arythymically, stared off into the space between office buildings, but her vision was focused inward. I examined my former wife. The grey jacket and skirt were impeccable, but old. Beneath her now lax jaw she had bunched a bright silk scarf. She fingered it absently with her free hand, revealing a small brass elephant on a chain. She had worn it as a girl in Prague, before her family had escaped the Nazi's.

"It's lucky we had the others," she said finally. She saw the look on my face.

"I'm sorry." She paused. And then, "Don't feel guilty about Kenneth. You've done all you can. He has to face life too. I can tell by your face, you've been hit hard, Eddie. Are you broke?"

"Of course."

"I can help there. But that's not all?"

-8-

"I'm very tired." I lay back in the chair, tilting my head up, closing my eyes. "These crazy girls I date are running me ragged. I envy your stability."

"This Levine. What does he say. About you."

"He says I should find a young woman and take her out, maybe to the mountains, maybe to the coast, and then marry her. He says I'm not 25, but I'm still a handsome guy, in good shape."

I opened my eyes to gauge Sarah's reaction.

"That sounds so loathsome, doesn't it," I said, "Falling into the role of the handsome old guy. A handsome old guy being wheeled around the boardwalk by some graduate student."

"I have considered getting married."

It shouldn't have hurt. After all these years it shouldn't have hurt. "Michael Lipsitt has asked me to marry him. I think I will say yes."

The thought of Michael Lipsitt . . . . What had become of her taste! Lipsitt, though gregarious and successful, was vain and loud, with a head carved out of solid oak. Unconsciously I lifted my hand to my temple and tapped with my knuckles. Realizing what I had done, I twirled a lock of hair and let my hand drop.

I tried for a tone of mock reproach.

"Michael Lipsitt! And you are complaining about money!" She smiled faintly.

"I haven't agreed yet. Besides, it's my money to do what I like with, including complaining."

She rotated her head on her neck as if she were removing a crick. "You know, Sarah, I could have written for the money."

"Yes, it was thoughtful of you to come. Should I be flattered?" I shrugged.

"Well, I am. You're sweet." She gestured across the desk as if to touch my sleeve or shoulder.

I glanced at a bowl of flowers on a table by the wall. There was a card on the stalks.

"I suggest you take Dr. Levine's advice."

There was silence. I forced a laugh.

"Do you know where I can get a second hand wheelchair?"

"You're no cripple, Eddie," she said.

I nodded.

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Everything had turned out so badly in our lives. We had both made all the mistakes. I was losing my son, and, though I couldn't have foreseen it, I was losing Sarah once again. But suddenly I didn't want her. My self-consciousness of twenty minutes ago had vanished. The next step would be boredom. I saw her glance quickly at her desk clock.

"I have pictures of Kenneth at the lake." I handed her a pile. She slowly picked through them.

"He gets less attractive by the year, doesn't he." She looked at me. "It's cruel but it's true. Oh dammit, I'm sorry." She laid the pictures on the desk and pushed them to me.

"Edward, do me a favor. Take Levine's advice. Put on some weight. Get a steady job. Teach, for God sakes. There's nothing wrong with that. You have a reputation — you would easily find a post."

"I'd better go."

"Edward, don't visit often. You put my heart through a wringer. You're too much of a waif. You drive me crazy, you and that son of ours. I can't bear charity cases."

She reached for the art deco box, had trouble with the lid, finally extracted a cigarette, and then broke it by catching it in the box as she closed it. She got another one and lit it. With one hand she patted back a truant lock into the severity of her hairdo. I turned to exit, but stopped in front of the Dali. A detail, far back in the landscape, caught my attention. Above the right shoulder of the young woman stood a tiny glass chalice filled with bluish curdled milk. As I walked, the Dali slid out of my sight like a blurred memory. Wasn't Sarah just the type to sell a special treat for herself.

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