John Kenney - Talk to Me

On CNN, the chief marketing officer of a major bank that had, the previous year, been accused of fabricating more than two million fake loans on existing customers’ accounts (they settled) spoke about ethics and morality and how the bank didn’t want to be associated with this type of behavior.

After Walter Cronkite questioned America’s involvement in Vietnam, Lyndon Johnson said that if he’d lost Cronkite, he’d lost Middle America. If Ted had lost the banks, he’d lost the network.

“Adhesive capsulitis, Ted,” Dr. Foot said. “Common in elderly women. I’d like to start with a cortisone shot directly to the affected area. It will hurt. Then I’d suggest PT. Physical therapy.” Foot said these words as if they were a new app from Facebook. “Then, in about two weeks, I’m going to give you another cortisone shot, this one far deeper and far more painful. A lot of people pass out from that one. I’m kidding. About half do. Of course, none of this may work at all. Worse comes to worse, it should heal itself in about two years.”

This wasn’t unusual, of course. It was the time of life when mornings brought new and unwelcome surprises from his own body. Aches in his lower back. Knee pain upon first standing up from bed. Sharp pains in the chest. Shooting pain in the right temple to the point where he had to close his right eye and hold his head. Urination was interesting. Why did it take so long to develop a steady stream, where once it was as simple as introducing his little anchorman to the stall, a powerful stream of urine spilling forth? He slept poorly, for a few hours at a stretch, waking at 3:45 almost to the minute. The occasional night sweats. He routinely forgot to zip up his fly. Of late, Ted had screaming pain in his shoulder and back. And, of course, his testicle. With long, empty days to pass, his anchorman purgatory, he thought a visit to his doctor might be in order.

Ted had known Foot for decades. They’d met through Claire, who was friendly with the doctor’s wife. Foot was in his early seventies, gray crew cut, tweed blazer that he’d probably had at Andover. Ruddy complexion. His wife, Margot, was a DuPont. He saw patients as a hobby. Snuck up to Winged Foot when he could. He’d taken Ted out a few times. Ted could hit the ball a mile, but he three-putted if he was lucky. Foot would laugh his good-natured laugh. “You have no feel for the game, Ted. You’re like a man wearing a ski glove holding a firm breast.”

His offices were in the East Seventies, between Fifth and Madison, in the ground floor of a granite mansion that he and his wife owned. He’d done little to it in forty years. It looked like the inside of a men’s club. Dark woods and old leather, his diplomas on the wall, ten-year-old copies of National Geographic in the waiting area.

Foot asked Ted to remove his shirt and felt his upper body, asked him to move his arms, palpated his stomach, kidneys.

“Put your shirt on. Physicals are a waste of time and money, Ted. I’m not going to learn anything playing with your testicles. Cough all you want, I’ll still never see pancreatic cancer. How’s Claire?”

“She’s leaving me.” The words—the phrasing of them—surprised Ted. He’d meant to say We’re getting a divorce .

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Ted stared out the window, suddenly embarrassed. “She met someone.”

The image came fast, surprising. Claire at twenty-five, tanned in the summer. In Cambridge. Claire on the beach on Cape Cod. She had a white sleeveless dress she used to wear. Simple, conservative. Her hair down, no makeup, the day’s sun on her flushed face. The memory caused a sinking feeling in his stomach, a sadness at the loss of something.

Foot opened a drawer in his desk and took out a pack of Dunhill cigarettes. He removed one, lit it, and moved to the window, which he opened a few inches. He inhaled deeply. “It’s a miracle any marriage lasts. It’s an outdated technology. Like bloodletting.”

“How’s Margot?” Ted asked.

Foot took a drag, exhaling from the corner of his mouth before he said, “Ted, I don’t have any idea. I assume she’s fine. We live in the same house, share the same bed most nights, though she’s often in the Hamptons with her annoying sister. Too much money is a curse. People don’t understand this. A person needs to work. My wife knows my name and could recognize me in a police lineup. After that, who’s to say? But it works for us. Bit worried about your testicle.”

And here Foot chuckled. “Christ, if that isn’t a great opening line for a novel then I don’t know what is. Do you read fiction, Ted?”

“Not as a rule, no.”

“Me neither. No one does. A bit of biography here and there. Mostly I watch TV shows. The golden age of television, isn’t it?”

“That’s what they say.”

“I’d like to have someone take a close look at that ball of yours.”

“Said the bishop.”

“Humor,” Foot said, smiling. “Very good. How’s Franny.”

Ted stood and reached for the pack of Dunhills. “May I?” he asked the doctor.

“Help yourself.”

Ted took one, lit it from the old Zippo Foot had on his desk, and sat back down.

“They say they’re bad for you, cigarettes,” Ted said.

“You’ve got to live a little, Ted.”

They smoked.

“She calls herself Frances now,” Ted said.

“Kids. My daughter lives in Beijing. I have no idea what she does. She FaceTime’s me once a month.” Foot took a deep drag. “What’s Franny now, twenty-five?”

“Twenty-eight,” Ted said, inhaling. The smoke felt good. Powerful. A light buzz in his brain. He enjoyed the smell of the tobacco, the hot taste in his mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a cigarette.

“Imagine that.” Foot was smiling, a benevolent grin, the long ash on his cigarette looking like it would fall any moment. “Married? Kids?”

Ted shook his head.

“She’s young. You close?”

Ted smiled. “Well. She kind of hates me.”

Foot smiled and nodded. “That’s hard.”

“Yeah.”

“Lot on your plate,” Foot said, opening the window more, and waved the smoke out. “I was sorry to hear about all of this… stuff on the news with you.”

“It’s fine.”

Foot nodded. “Is it?”

“It’ll be fine. When it’s over.”

“Seems a pardonable crime to me,” Foot said with a kind smile.

“You’d think.”

“So you’re feeling okay, though? Because I can see where this whole thing could take a toll. And, of course, this business with Claire.”

“I’m fine. For the most part.”

“Interesting. But how are you feeling?” Foot chose to enunciate a different word this time. A kindly smile, a man you could confide in.

Ted found himself smiling back, though he was in no mood to smile. He was enjoying the smell of the tobacco. “I’m okay. I think, considering, you know.”

“Sure, sure. But on a scale of… I don’t know… one to ten…”

Foot paused and took a deep drag, threw the butt out the window. He exhaled an impressive plume of smoke out of the side of his mouth. “Ten being euphoria. One being… one being a weekend with my mother-in-law. God rest her soul.”

“Five. I’d say a five.”

“Wow. Five. That’s pretty good. True, though?”

“Maybe not a five,” Ted said.

Foot smiled. “Fair enough. But I guess what I’m wondering is how you’re feeling.” Foot pointed at Ted and laughed, as if they were both high.

Ted was laughing now, in a way that felt a bit out of control.

“Well… I’d say, if I’m honest…”

“Why not?” Foot joined in, still laughing.