The Anatomy Lesson (31 page)

Zuckerman understood none of this—only that his head was getting larger and was about to roll off. Bobby repeated the story:
“
You were out on the heath with King Lear. You keeled over. Face forward, straight out, onto my Uncle Paul
’
s footstone. My
father says it sounded like a rock hitting the pavement. He thought you
’
d had a heart attack. You took the impact on the point of your chin. Burst the skin. Your two front teeth snapped just below the gum line. When they picked you up. you came around for a few seconds, completely came to, and said,
‘
Wait a minute, I
’
ve got to get rid of some teeth.
”
You spat the bits of teeth into your hand, then blacked out again. Doesn
’
t look to be a fracture, no intracranial bleeding, but let
’
s be sure of everything before we take the next step. It
’
ll hurt for a while, but you
’
re going to be fine.
”

The gloved fist that was Zuckerman
’
s tongue went off in search of his front teeth. The tongue found instead their spongy gritty sockets. Otherwise, within his head, he felt giddy, echoing, black.

Patiently, Bobby tried a third explanation.
“
You were at the cemetery. Remember that? You took my father to visit my mother
’
s grave. You turned up in a car about nine-thirty this morning. It
’
s now three. You drove out to the cemetery, the driver parked by the embankment, and you and my father went in. He got a little overwrought from the sound of it. So did you. You don
’
t remember any of this? You went a little haywire, Zuck. At first my old man thought it was a fit. The driver was a woman. Strong as a little ox. You apparently tried to knock her down. That
’
s when you fell. She
’
s the one who carried you out.
”

Zuckerman indicated, by a dim croak, that he still didn
’
t remember a thing. All this damage had happened and he didn
’
t know how. His jaw wouldn
’
t come undone to allow him to speak. Also his neck had begun stiffening up. He couldn
’
t move his head at all. Imprisonment complete.

“
A little temporary amnesia, that
’
s all. Don
’
t panic. Not from the fall. No brain injury, I
’
m sure. It
’
s from the stuff you were on. People have these blackouts, especially if there
’
s a lot of alcohol involved. I
’
m not surprised to hear that you lost your manners with the lady. They went through your pockets. Three joints, about twenty Percodan tab
lets, and a beautiful mono
grammed Tiffany flask completely emptied of NZ
’
s booze. You
’
ve been flying for quite some time. The driver had some story you
’
d given her all about you and Hugh Hefner. Is this what is known as irresponsible hedonism, some sort of recreational thing, or is it a form of self-treatment for something?
”

He discovered an intravenous tube in his right arm. He felt himself beginning to inch back from some black place of which
he knew nothing. With the index finger of the free hand he traced the letter
“
P
”
in the air. The fingers worked, the arm worked; he tested the legs and the toes. They worked. Below his collarbone he was completely alive, but he himself had become his mouth. He had turned from a neck and shoulders and arms into a mouth. In that hole was his being.

“
You were treating pain with all this stuff.
”

Zuckerman managed to grunt—and tasted his own blood. He
’
d progressed from vodka to blood.

“
Show me where it hurts.
I
don
’
t mean the mouth. The pain you were treating on your own, before the morning
’
s fun began.
”

Zuckerman pointed.

“
Diagnosis?
”
asked Bobby.
“
Write down the diagnosis. In that book.
”

There was a pad on the bed beside him, a large spiral note pad and a felt-tipped Magic Marker. Bobby uncapped the Magic Marker for him and put it into Zuckerman
’
s hand.
“
Don
’
t try to speak. It
’
ll hurt too much. No talking, no yawning, no eating, no laughing, and try not to sneeze—not for a while yet. Write for me, Zuck. You know how to do that.
”

He wro
t
e a word:
none
.

“
No diagnosis
’
? How long has this been going on? Write that down.
”

He preferred to show him the number with his fingers—to prove again that the fingers could move and tha
t he awoke
he could count and that his head hadn
’
t rolled away.

“
Eighteen,
”
said Bobby.
“
Hours, days, months, or years?
”

In the air, with the tip of the marker, Zuckerman formed an
“
M.
”

“
That
’
s a little too long to suit me,
”
Bobby said.
“
If you
’
ve had pain for eighteen months, something
’
s causing it.
”

The sensation of being brainless continued to lift. He stil
l
couldn
’
t remember what had happened, but for the moment he didn
’
t give a fuck: all he understood was that he was in trouble and it hurt. It had become excruciating.

Meanwhile, he gave off a harsh, growling sound: yes (the growl was intended to suggest), more than likely something is causing it.

“
Well, you
’
re no
t
leaving here til
l
we find what it is.
”

Zuckerman snorted, downing in the process
a
second shot of old blood.

“
Oh, you
’
ve made the medical rounds, have you?
”

With one finger Zuckerman indicated that he
’
d been round and round again. He was getting sardonic. Angry. Furious.
I
did
this
to myself too! Forcing the world to pay attention to my moan!

“
Well, that
’
s over. We
’
re going to put you through a multi-disciplinary examination right here in the hospital, we
’
re going to track it down, and then we
’
re going to get rid of it for you.
”

Zuckerman had a clear compound thought, his first since the morning. Since leaving New York. Maybe in eighteen months. He thought: The doctors are all confidence, the pornographers are all confidence, and, needless to say, the oxlike young women who now drive the limousines live far beyond the reach of doubt. While doubt is half a writer
’
s life. Two-thirds. Nine-tenths. Another day, another doubt. The only thing I never doubted was the doubt.

“
We
’
re also going to get you off the medication merry-go-round. As long as you
’
re not on it for kicks, we can break your habit easily enough. Medical addiction, no real problem. As soon as your mouth is fixed and the trauma subsides, we
’
re going to phase you out of all your pain-killers and away from the alcohol. The grass too. That
’
s
really
childish. You
’
re going to stay here as my patient until you
’
re no longer addicted. That means three weeks at least. There
’
s to be no cheating, Zuck. The cure for alcoholism isn
’
t two little martinis before dinner. We
’
re going to eliminate the drugs and the drink and we
’
re going to do our best to find the cause and eliminate the pain that causes the need to get blotto. Is this clear? I
’
m going to oversee your withdrawal myself. It
’
ll be gradual and painless, and if you cooperate and don
’
t cheat, it
’
ll be lasting. You
’
ll be back where you were before it all began. I wish you
’
d told me you were in this when I saw you yesterday. I
’
m not going to ask why you didn
’
t. We
’
ll save that. I thought something was up, you looked so God damned gaga, but you said no, and it just didn
’
t occur to me in my office, Zuckerman, to look you over for needle tracks. Are you in bad pain right now? From the mouth?
”

Zuckerman indicated that he was indeed in pain.

“
Well, we
’
re just waiting for the plastic surgeon. We
’
re still in emergency. He
’
ll come down and trim up the wound and get all the grit out and stitch you up so there
’
s hardly a scar. I want him doing it so that afterwards it looks right. Then we
’
ll get some pictures. If your mouth needs work right away, we
’
ll get the jaw man down. He knows you
’
re here. If they have to wire anything together, he
’
s the best. He
’
s the guy who wrote the
book. I
’
ll stay with you all the way—but one thing at a time.
I
can
’
t give you anything for the pain right now, not after what you
’
ve come off of. Don
’
t want more
‘
fits.
’
Just go with it. Ride it out. It
’
ll end like everything else. The whole thing won
’
t be the shortest journey imaginable, but it won
’
t last forever either.
”
Zuckerman found the Magic Marker and, with fingers as awkward as a first-grader
’
s, wrote four words in the spiral notebook: CAN
’
T STAY THREE WEEKS.

“
No? Why not?
”

CLASSES BEGIN JAN.
4
.

Bobby tore out the sheet, folded it in half, and stuck it in the pocket of his smock. He rubbed the edge of his hand slowly back and forth across his bearded chin—clinical detachment
—
but his eyes, examining the patient, showed only exasperation. He is thinking—thought Zuckerman—
”
What
’
s become of this guy?
”

A doctor named Walsh appeared in Zuckerman
’
s cubicle, how long after Bobby left Zuckerman had no way of telling. He was a tall, bony man in his fifties, with a long, pouchy, haggard face, wispy gray hair, and a smoker
’
s hoarse catch in his voice. He sucked continuously at a cigarette as he spoke.
“
Welt,
”
he said to Zuckerman, with a disconcerting smile,
“
we see thirty thousand people a year down here, but you
’
re the first I know of to cross the threshold in his lady chauffeur
’
s arms.
”

Zuckerman wrote on a clean notebook page:
WHEN HE IS SICK
EVERY MAN NEEDS A MOTHER.

Walsh shrugged.
“
The hoi polloi generally crawl through on their knees or roll in comatose on the stretcher. Especially hop-heads like yourself. The lady says you gave a real fine show before you left for the Land of Oz. Sounds like you were nice and wacky. What all were you on?
”

WHAT YOU FOUND. PERCODAN VODKA POT. KILLING PAIN.

“
Yep, that
’
ll do it. If it
’
s your maiden voyage, three or four tablets of Percodan, a couple highballs, and if you don
’
t have much tolerance, you
’
re out for the count. People start ovenreat-ing pain, and next thing they either set fire to the mattress or they
’
re under the wheels of a bus. We had a guy in here the other night, smashed like you and feelin
’
groovy, whammo, ass over skull down four flights. Only thing he
didn
’
t
break was his teeth. You got off lucky. For a straight fall like yours you could have done worse. You could have brained yourself but good. You could have bitten off your God damn tongue.
”

HOW FAR GONE WAS I?

‘
’
Oh, you were zonked, bud. You weren
’
t breathing very hard, you
’
d thrown up all over yourself, and your face was a mess, We drew some blood to see what you had in you, we passed a tube down your stomach to wash you out, we injected a narcotic antagonist, we got you breathing and hooked up to the IV. We
’
re waiting for the surgeon to come down. We cleaned out the wound but he
’
s going to have to stick you together if you still want to turn on the girls.
”

WHAT
’
S IT LIKE TO BE AN EMERGENCY-ROOM DOCTOR? NEVER KNOW WHAT
’
S COMING THROUGH THE DOOR. CALLS FOR QUICK THINKING. LOTS OF SK
I
LLS.

The doctor laughed.
“
You writing a book or what?
”
He had a funny, honking sort of laugh and a vast array of jittery gestures. A doctor with doubts. There had to be one somewhere, You might have taken him for the orderly—or for a psychiatric patient. His eyes looked scared to death.
“
I never read anything, but the nurse knew who you were. Before you get out of here, she
’
s going to get your autograph. She says we got a celebrity here.
”

question serious
.
He was trying to think of something other than the ear-to-ear pain,
about to enter medical school.

EMERGENCY-ROOM MEDICINE REWARDING?

“
Well, it
’
s a God damn tough way to earn a living, if you want to know. Average guy bums out at this job in about seven years. But I don
’
t know what you mean, entering medical school. You
’
re the famous writer. You wrote the dirty book.
”

MUST SAVE LOTS OF LIVES. MUST MAKE THE HARD WORK WORTH IT.

“
I suppose. Sure there are two or three cliff-hangers in a day. People come in here on the rack and you try to do something for them. I can
’
t say everyone leaves with a smile, it doesn
’
t work out that way. You, for instance. You come in here OD
’
d and three, four hours after admission, you begin to lighten up. Sometimes they
never
wake up, Look, you pulling my leg? You write these hilarious best-sellers, from what they all tell me
—
what are you trying, to put me in one?
”

HOW DID YOU BECOME AN EMERGENCY-ROOM DOCTOR?

Another nervous honk.
“
Monkey on my back,
”
he said, and then was seized by a shattering cough that seemed of itself to hurl him out of the room. A moment later Zuckerman heard him call down the corridor,
“
Where the hell
’
d they put the diabetic?
”