BETTER LIVING THROUGH CHEMISTRY

Sunday, September 5, 1993 (Clare is 22, Henry is 30)

CLARE: Henry is perusing his dog-eared copy of the Physicians’ Desk Reference. Not a good sign.

“I never realized you were such a drug fiend.” “I’m not a drug fiend. I’m an alcoholic.” “You’re not an alcoholic”

“Sure I am.”

I lie down on his couch and put my legs across his lap. Henry puts the book on top of my shins and continues to page through it.

“You don’t drink all that much.”

“I used to. I slowed down somewhat after I almost killed myself. Also my dad is a sad cautionary tale.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Something I can take for the wedding. I don’t want to leave you standing at the altar in front of four hundred people.”

“Yeah. Good idea.” I ponder this scenario and shudder. “Let’s elope.” He meets my eyes. “Let’s. I’m all for it.”

“My parents would disown me.” “Surely not.”

“You haven’t been paying attention. This is a major Broadway production. We are just an excuse for my dad to entertain lavishly and impress all his lawyer buddies. If we bowed out my parents would have to hire actors to impersonate us.”

“Let’s go down to City Hall and get married beforehand. Then if anything happens, at least we’ll be married.”

“Oh, but.. .1 wouldn’t like that. It would be lying.. .1 would feel weird. How about we do that after, if the real wedding gets messed up?”

“Okay. Plan B.” He holds out his hand, and I shake it. “So are you finding anything?”

“Well, ideally I would like a neuroleptic called Risperdal, but it won’t be marketed until

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1994. The next best thing would be Clozaril, and a possible third choice would be Haldol.” “They all sound like high-tech cough medicine.”

“They’re antipsychotics.” “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not psychotic.”

Henry looks at me and makes a horrible face and claws at the air like a silent movie werewolf. Then he says, quite seriously, “On an EEG, I have the brain of a schizophrenic. More than one doctor has insisted that this little time-travel delusion of mine is due to schizophrenia. These drugs block dopamine receptors.”

“Side effects?”

“Well.. .dystonia, akathisia, pseudo-Parkinsonism. That is, involuntary muscle contractions, restlessness, rocking, pacing, insomnia, immobility, lack of facial expression. And then there’s tardive dyskinsia, chronic uncontrollable facial muscles, and agranulocytosis, the destruction of the body’s ability to make white blood cells. And then there’s the loss of sexual function. And the fact that all the drugs that are currently available are somewhat sedative.”

“You’re not seriously thinking of taking any of these, are you?” “Well, I’ve taken Haldol in the past. And Thorazine.” “And..,?”

“Really horrible. I was totally zombified. It felt like my brain was full of Elmer’s Glue.” “Isn’t there anything else?”

“Valium. Librium. Xanax.”

“Mama takes those. Xanax and Valium.”

“Yeah, that would make sense.” He makes a face and sets the Physicians’ Desk Reference aside and says, “Move over.” We adjust our positions on the couch until we are lying side by side. It’s very cozy.

“Don’t take anything.” “Why not?”

“You’re not sick.”

Henry laughs. “That’s what I love you for: your inability to perceive all my hideous flaws.” He’s unbuttoning my shirt and I wrap my hand around his. He looks at me, waiting. I am a little angry.

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“I don’t understand why you talk like that. You’re always saying horrible things about yourself. You aren’t like that. You’re good.”

Henry looks at my hand and disengages his, and draws me closer. “I’m not good,” he says softly, in my ear. “But maybe I will be, hmmm?”

“You better be.”

“I’m good to you.” Too true. “Clare?” “Hmmm?”

“Do you ever lie awake wondering if I’m some kind of joke God is playing on you?”

“No. I lie awake worrying that you might disappear and never come back. I lie awake brooding about some of the stuff I sort of half know about in the future. But I have total faith in the idea that we are supposed to be together.”

“Total faith.” “Don’t you?”

Henry kisses me. ‘ “Nor Time, nor Place, nor Chance, nor Death can bow/my least desires unto the least remove.’”

“Come again?”

“I don’t mind if I do.” “Braggart.”

“Now who’s saying horrible things about me?”

Monday, September 6, 1993 (Henry is 30)

HENRY: I’m sitting on the stoop of a dingy white aluminum-sided house in Humboldt Park. It’s Monday morning, around ten. I’m waiting for Ben to get back from wherever he is. I don’t like this neighborhood very much; I feel kind of exposed sitting here at Ben’s door, but he’s an extremely punctual guy, so I continue to wait with confidence. I watch two young Hispanic women push baby strollers along the pitched and broken sidewalk. As I meditate on the inequity of city services, I hear someone yell “Library Boy!” in the distance. I look in the direction of the voice and sure enough, it’s Gomez. I groan inwardly; Gomez has an amazing talent for running into me when I’m up to something particularly nefarious. I will have to get rid of him before Ben shows up.

Gomez comes sailing toward me happily. He’s wearing his lawyer outfit, and carrying his briefcase. I sigh.

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“ Qa va, comrade.”

“ Qa va. What are you doing here?”

Good question. “Waiting on a friend. What time is it?”

“Quarter after ten. September 6,1993,” he adds helpfully. “I know, Gomez. But thanks anyway. You visiting a client?”

“Yeah. Ten-year-old girl. Mom’s boyfriend made her drink Drano. I do get tired of humans.”

“Yeah. Too many maniacs, not enough Michelangelos.” “You had lunch? Or breakfast, I guess it would be?” “Yeah. I kind of need to stay here, wait for my friend.”

“I didn’t know any of your friends lived out this way. All the people I know over here are sadly in need of legal counsel.”

“Friend from library school.” And here he is. Ben drives up in his ‘62 silver Mercedes. The inside is a wreck, but from the outside it’s a sweet-looking car. Gomez whistles softly.

“Sorry I’m late,” Ben says, hurrying up the walk. “Housecall.” Gomez looks at me inquisitively. I ignore him. Ben looks at Gomez, and at me.

“Gomez, Ben. Ben, Gomez. So sorry you have to leave, comrade.” “Actually, I’ve got a couple hours free—”

Ben takes the situation in hand. “Gomez. Great meeting you. Some other time, yes?” Ben is quite nearsighted, and he peers kindly at Gomez through his thick glasses that magnify his eyes to twice their normal size. Ben’s jingling his keys in his hand. It’s making me nervous. We both stand quietly, waiting for Gomez to leave. “Okay. Yeah. Well, bye,” says Gomez.

“I’ll call you this afternoon” I tell him. He turns without looking at me and walks away. I feel bad, but there are things I don’t want Gomez to know, and this is one of them. Ben and I turn to each other, share a look that acknowledges the fact that we know things about each other that are problematic. He opens his front door. I have always itched to try my hand at breaking into Ben’s place, because he has a large number and variety of locks and security devices. We enter the dark narrow hall. It always smells like cabbage in here, even though I know for a fact that Ben never cooks much in the way of food, let alone cabbage. We walk to the back stairway, up and into another hallway, through one bedroom and into another, which Ben has set up as a lab. He sets down his bag and hangs up his jacket. I half expect him to put on some tennis shoes, a la Mr. Rogers, but instead he putters around with his coffee maker. I sit down on a folding chair and wait for Ben to finish.

More than anyone else I know, Ben looks like a librarian. And I did in fact meet him at Rosary, but he quit before finishing his MLS. He has gotten thinner since I saw him last, and

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lost a little more hair. Ben has AIDS, and every time I see him I pay attention, because I never know how it will go, with him.

“You’re looking good ” I tell him.

“Massive doses of AZT. And vitamins, and yoga, and visual imaging. Speaking of which. What can I do for you?”

“I’m getting married.”

Ben is surprised, and then delighted. “Congratulations. To whom?” “Clare. You met her. The girl with very long red hair.” “Oh—yes.” Ben looks grave. “She knows?”

“Yes.”

“Well, great.” He gives me a look that says that this is all very nice, but what of it?

“So her parents have planned this huge wedding, up in Michigan. Church, bridesmaids, rice, the whole nine yards. And a lavish reception at the Yacht Club, afterward. White tie, no less.”

Ben pours out coffee and hands me a mug with Winnie the Pooh on it. I stir powdered creamer into it. It’s cold up here, and the coffee smells bitter but kind of good.

“I need to be there. I need to get through about eight hours of huge, mind-boggling stress, without disappearing.”

“Ah.” Ben has a way of taking in a problem, just accepting it, which I find very soothing. “I need something that’s going to K.O. every dopamine receptor I’ve got.”

“Navane, Haldol, Thorazine, Serentil, Mellaril, Stelazine...” Ben polishes his glasses on his sweater. He looks like a large hairless mouse without them.

“I was hoping you could make this for me.” I fish around in my jeans for the paper, find it and hand it over. Ben squints at it, reads.

“3-[2-[4-96-fluoro-l,2-benizisoxazol-3-yl)...colloidal silicon dioxide, hydroxypropyl methylcellulose.. .propylene glycol—” He looks up at me, bewildered. “What is this?”

“It’s a new antipsychotic called risperidone, marketed as Risperdal. It will be commercially available in 1998, but I would like to try it now. It belongs to a new class of drugs called benzisoxazole derivatives.”

“Where did you get this?” “PDR. The 2000 edition.” “Who makes it?” “Janssen.”

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“Henry, you know you don’t tolerate antipsycotics very well. Unless this works in some radically different way?”

“They don’t know how it works. ‘Selective monoaminergic antagonist with high affinity for serotonin type 2, dopamine type 2, blah blah blah.”

“Well, same old same old. What makes you think this is going to be any better than Haldol?”

I smile patiently. “It’s an educated guess. I don’t know for sure. Can you make that?” Ben hesitates. “I can, yes”

“How soon? It takes a while to build up in the system.” “I’ll let you know. When’s the wedding?”

“October 23 ”

“Mmm. What’s the dosage?”

“Start with 1 milligram and build from there.”

Ben stands up, stretches. In the dim light of this cold room he seems old, jaundiced, paper-skinned. Part of Ben likes the challenge (hey, let’s replicate this avant-garde drug that nobody’s even invented yet) and part of him doesn’t like the risk. “Henry, you don’t evenknow for sure that dopamine’s your problem.”

“You’ve seen the scans.”

“Yeah, yeah. Why not just live with it? The cure might be worse than the problem.”

“Ben. What if I snapped my fingers right now—” I stand up, lean close to him, snap my fingers: “and right now you suddenly found yourself standing in Allen’s bedroom, in 1986—

”

“—I’d kill the fucker.”

“But you can’t, because you didn’t.” Ben closes his eyes, shakes his head. “And you can’t change anything: he will still get sick, you will still get sick, und so wiete. What if you had to watch him die over and over?” Ben sits in the folding chair. He’s not looking at me. “That’s what it’s like, Ben. I mean, yeah, sometimes it’s fun. But mostly it’s getting lost and stealing and trying to just....”

“Cope.” Ben sighs. “God, I don’t know why I put up with you.” “Novelty? My boyish good looks?”

“Dream on. Hey, am I invited to this wedding?”

I am startled. It never occurred to me that Ben would want to come. “Yeah! Really? You would come?”

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“Beats funerals.”

“Great! My side of the church is filling up rapidly. You’ll be my eighth guest.” Ben laughs. “Invite all your ex-girlfriends. That’ll swell the ranks.”

“I’d never survive it. Most of them want my head on a stick.”

“Mmm .” Ben gets up and rummages in one of his desk drawers. He pulls out an empty pill bottle and opens another drawer, takes out a huge bottle of capsules, opens it and places three pills in the small bottle. He tosses it to me.

“What is it?” I ask, opening the bottle and shaking a pill onto my palm.

“It’s an endorphin stabilizer combined with an antidepressant. It’s— hey, don’t—” I have popped the pill into my mouth and swallowed. “It’s morphine-based.” Ben sighs. “You have the most casually arrogant attitude toward drugs.”

“I like opiates.”

“I bet. Don’t think I’m going to let you have a ton of those, either. Let me know if you think that would do the job for the wedding. In case this other thing doesn’t pan out. They last about four hours, so you would need two.” Ben nods at the two remaining pills. “Don’t gobble those up just for fun, okay?”

“Scout’s honor.”

Ben snorts. I pay him for the pills and leave. As I walk downstairs I feel the rush grab me and I stop at the bottom of the stairs to luxuriate in it. It’s been a while. Whatever Ben has mixed in here, it’s fantastic. It’s like an orgasm times ten plus cocaine, and it seems to be getting stronger. As I walk out the front door I practically trip over Gomez. He’s been waiting for me.

“Care for a ride?”

“Sure.” I am deeply moved by his concern. Or his curiosity. Or whatever. We walk to his car, a Chevy Nova with two bashed headlights. I climb into the passenger seat. Gomez gets in and slams his door. He coaxes the little car into starting and we set off.

The city is gray and dingy and it’s starting to rain. Fat drops smack the windshield as crack houses and empty lots flow by us. Gomez turns on NPR and they’re playing Charles Mingus who sounds a little slow to me but then again why not? it’s a free country. Ashland Avenue is full of brain-jarring potholes but otherwise things are fine, quite fine actually, my head is fluid and mobile, like liquid mercury escaped from a broken thermometer, and it’s all I can do to keep myself from moaning with pleasure as the drug laps all my nerve endings with its tiny chemical tongues. We pass ESP Psychic Card Reader, Pedro’s Tire Outlet, Burger King, Pizza Hut, and I am a Passenger runs through my head weaving its way into the Mingus. Gomez says something which I don’t catch and then again,

“Henry!”

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“Yes?”

“What are you on?”

“I’m not quite sure. A science experiment, of sorts.” “Why?”

“Stellar question. I’ll get back to you on that.”

We don’t say anything else until the car stops in front of Clare and Charisse’s apartment. I look at Gomez in confusion.

“You need company,” he tells me gently. I don’t disagree. Gomez lets us in the front door and we walk upstairs. Clare opens the door and when she sees me she looks upset, relieved, and amused, all at once.

CLARE: I have talked Henry into getting into my bed, and Gomez and I are sitting in the living room drinking tea and eating peanut butter and kiwi jelly sandwiches.

“Learn to cook, woman,” intones Gomez. He sounds like Charleton Heston handing down the Ten Commandments.

“One of these days.” I stir sugar into my tea. “Thank you for going and getting him.”

“Anything for you, kitten.” He starts to roll a cigarette. Gomez is the only person I know who smokes during a meal. I refrain from commenting. He lights up. He looks at me, and I brace myself. “So, what was that little episode all about, hmm? Most of the people who go to Compassionate Pharmacopoeia are AIDS victims or cancer patients.”

“You know Ben?” I don’t know why I’m surprised. Gomez knows everybody. “I know of Ben. My mom used to go to Ben when she was having chemo.” “Oh.” I review the situation, searching for things I can safely mention. “Whatever Ben gave him really put him in the Slow Zone.”

“We’re trying to find something that will help Henry stay in the present.” “He seems a little too inanimate for daily use.”

“Yeah.” Maybe a lower dosage? “Why are you doing this?” “Doing what?”

“Aiding and abetting Mr. Mayhem. Marrying him, no less.”

Henry calls my name. I get up. Gomez reaches out and grabs my hand. “Clare. Please—”

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“Gomez. Let go.” I stare him down. After a long, awful moment he drops his eyes and lets me go. I hurry down the hall into my room and shut the door.

Henry is stretched out like a cat, diagonally across the bed face down. I take off my shoes and stretch out beside him.

“How’s it going?” I ask him.

Henry rolls over and smiles. “Heaven.” He strokes my face. “Care to join me?” No. Henry sighs. “You are so good. I shouldn’t be trying to corrupt you.”

“I’m not good. I’m afraid.” We lie together in silence for a long time. The sun is shining now, and it shows me my bedroom in early afternoon: the curve of the walnut bed frame, the gold and violet Oriental rug, the hairbrush and lipstick and bottle of hand lotion on the bureau. A copy of Art in America with Leon Golub on the cover lies on the seat of my old garage-sale armchair partially obscured by A Rebours. Henry is wearing black socks. His long bony feet hang off the edge of the bed. He seems thin to me. Henry’s eyes are closed; perhaps he can feel me staring at him, because he opens his eyes and smiles at me. His hair is falling into his face and I brush it back. Henry takes my hand and kisses the palm. I unbutton his jeans and slide my hand over his cock, but Henry shakes his head and takes my hand and holds it.

“Sorry, Clare,” he says softly. “There’s something in this stuff that seems to have short-circuited the equipment. Later, maybe.”

“That’ll be fun on our wedding night.”

Henry shakes his head. “I can’t take this for the wedding. It’s too much fun. I mean, Ben’s a genius, but he’s used to working with people who are terminally ill. Whatever he’s got in here, it plays like a near-death experience.” He sighs and sets the pill bottle on my nightstand. “I should mail those to Ingrid. This is her perfect drug.” I hear the front door open and then it slams shut; Gomez leaving.

“You want something to eat?” I ask. “No thanks.”

“Is Ben going to make that other drug for you?” “He’s going to try,” Henry says.

“What if it’s not right?” “You mean if Ben fucks up?” “Yeah.”

Henry says, “Whatever happens, we both know that I live to be at least forty-three. So don’t worry about it.”

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Forty-three? “What happens after forty-three?”

“I don’t know, Clare. Maybe I figure out how to stay in the present.” He gathers me in and we are quiet. When I wake up later it is dark and Henry is sleeping beside me. The little bottle of pills shines red in the light °f the LED display of the alarm clock. Forty-three?

Monday, September 27, 1993 (Clare is 22, Henry is 30)

CLARE: I let myself into Henry’s apartment and turn on the lights. We’re going to the opera tonight; it’s The Ghosts of Versailles. The Lyric Opera won’t seat latecomers, so I’m flustered and at first I don’t realize that no lights means Henry isn’t here. Then I do realize it, and I’m annoyed because he’s going to make us late. Then I wonder if he’s gone. Then I hear someone breathing.

I stand still. The breathing is coming from the kitchen, I run into the kitchen and turn on the light and Henry is lying on the floor, fully clothed, in a strange, rigid pose, staring straight ahead. As I stand there he makes a low sound, not like a human sound, a groan that clatters in his throat, that tears through his clenched teeth.

“Oh, God, oh, God.” I call 911. The operator assures me they’ll be here in minutes. And as I sit on the kitchen floor staring at Henry I feel a wave of anger and I find Henry’s Rolodex in his desk and I dial the number.

“Hello?” The voice is tiny and distant. “Is this Ben Matteson?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Clare Abshire. Listen, Ben, Henry is lying on the floor totally rigid and can’t talk. What the fuck?”

“What? Shit! Call 911!” “I did—”

“The drug is mimicking Parkinson’s, he needs dopamine! Tell them— shit, call me from the hospital—”

“They’re here—”

“Okay! Call me—” I hang up, and face the paramedics.

Later, after the ambulance ride to Mercy Hospital, after Henry has been admitted, injected, and intubated and is lying in a hospital bed attached to a monitor, relaxed and sleeping, I look up and see a tall gaunt man in the doorway of Henry’s room, and I remember that I have forgotten to call Ben. He walks in and stands across from me on the other side of

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the bed. The room is dark and the light from the hallway silhouettes Ben as he bows his head and says, “I’m so sorry. So sorry.”

I reach across the bed, take his hands. “It’s okay. He’s going to be fine. Really”

Ben shakes his head. “It’s completely my fault. I should never have made it for him.” “What happened?”

Ben sighs and sits down in the chair. I sit on the bed. “It could be several things,” he says. “It could be just a side effect, could happen to anybody. But it could be that Henry didn’t have the recipe quite right. I mean, it’s a lot to memorize. And I couldn’t check it.”

We are both silent. Henry’s monitor drips fluid into his arm. An orderly walks by with a cart. Finally I say, “Ben?”

“Yes, Clare?”

“Do something for me?” “Anything.”

“Cut him off. No more drugs. Drugs aren’t going to work.” Ben grins at me, relieved. “Just say no.”

“Exactly.” We laugh. Ben sits with me for a while. When he gets up to leave, he takes my hand and says, “Thank you for being kind about it. He could easily have died.”

“But he didn’t.” “No, he didn’t.”

“See you at the wedding.”

“Yes.” We are standing in the hall. In the glaring fluorescent light Ben looks tired and ill. He ducks his head and turns, and walks down the hall, and I turn back to the dim room where Henry lies sleeping.

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TURNING POINT

Friday, October 22, 1993 (Henry is 30)

HENRY: I am strolling down Linden Street, in South Haven, at large for an hour while Clare and her mother do something at the florist’s. The wedding is tomorrow, but as the groom I don’t seem to have too many responsibilities. Be there; that’s the main item on my To Do list. Clare is constantly being whisked away to fittings, consultations, bridal showers. When I do see her she always looks rather wistful.

It’s a clear cold day, and I dawdle. I wish South Haven had a decent bookstore. Even the library consists mainly of Barbara Cartland and John Grisham. I have the Penguin edition of Kleist with me, but I’m not in the mood. I pass an antiques shop, a bakery, a bank, another antiques shop. As I walk by the barber shop I peer in; there’s an old man being shaved by a dapper little balding barber, and I know at once what I’m going to do.

Little bells clang against the door as I walk into the shop. It smells of soap, steam, hair lotion, and elderly flesh. Everything is pale green. The chair is old and ornate with chrome, and there are elaborate bottles lining dark wooden shelves, and trays of scissors, combs, and razors. It’s almost

medical; it’s very Norman Rockwell. The barber glances up at me. “Haircut?” I ask. He nods at the row of empty straight-backed chairs with magazines neatly stacked on a rack at one end of the row. Sinatra is playing on the radio. I sit down and leaf through a copy of Reader’s Digest. The barber wipes traces of lather from the old man’s chin, and appliesaftershave. The old man climbs gingerly from the chair and pays up. The barber helps him into his coat and hands him his cane. “See you, George,” says the old man as he creeps out. ‘“Bye, Ed,” replies the barber. He turns his attention to me. “What’ll it be?” I hop into the chair and he steps me up a few inches and swivels me around to face the mirror. I take a long last look at my hair. I hold my thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “Cut it all off.” He nods his approval and ties a plastic cape around my neck. Soon his scissors are flashing little metal on metal noises around my head, and my hair is falling to the floor. When he is done he brushes me off and removes the cape and voila, I’ve become the me of my future.

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