painful and shallow. I dreamed of Matka. Where was she? When she spoke, hovering over my face, I smelled the faintly sweet burn of vodka on her breath, her teeth the color of piano keys. I conflated her and the Virgin Mary as she cradled my head in her lap. Eventually I was my old self again—though hardened and glossy, having gone through a crucible—and later, as an adult, the doctors would explain to me that this was the natural course of my illness; even unmedicated, there would be times when I was well and times when I was sick, but I didn’t know that for years, and I attributed my wellness or lack thereof to whatever seemed an appropriate precipitant, like the seasons, or, later, the ups and downs of my marriage, or a nasty encounter at the K & Bee Grocery.It wasn’t a spiritual illness, they explained to me. And what are your spiritual beliefs? I asked them in turn. One said he was uncomfortable disclosing such a thing to a patient. Another said he was Lutheran. There were a few more, but even the Catholic one didn’t put his hand on my shoulder and say, Go, then, to a priest, and have yourself exorcised.
“I did,” Marianne informed me toward the end of my senior year, “talk to Father Danuta. I said to him that you might be possessed. It was naive, of course, but he was kind. He listened to the things I said, and then he asked me some questions, like a doctor palpating a pain. He said that you were very sick, but that you weren’t possessed by the Devil, and that the Church performed very few exorcisms to begin with. Is it strange to say that I was—”
“Disappointed?”
“No, not that…” (But she was. At least a demon could be cast out.)
She finally said, “I was afraid for you. I didn’t know what to do for you but pray.”
Eventually I was functioning again, but what had happened to my mind left me hobbled, as if I’d been hit by a car instead, and with poor healing to show for it. I graduated with mediocre marks; I suspect I avoided failing entirely only because adults pitied me, couldn’t help me in any other way, were too embarrassed to offer a kind ear, and so raised my grades. Good for you, I thought as I stared down at some written exam of mine, too beaten down for truly enthusiastic sarcasm. At the top was written 70 .
And Mr. Pawlowski, my surrogate father now, squeezed me almost entirely out of any company matters, having me sign here and there on various dotted lines on papers I never read—not that I blamed him. What could he do, when I was the one who really owned everything, but could do almost nothing. Nothing, that is, but sell the company.
“If you’re going to sell, sell to George,” Matka said. “He knows what he’s doing.” But I still couldn’t forgive him for what he had said to me about Marianne, so I nodded and said, “Of course,” with no intention of following through; Matka would love me no matter what, though selling the company would give us both more than enough to live on for the rest of our lives.
There was a businessman from Maine who was interested in moving to New York. He was willing to keep the name intact, andoffered $10 million for the factory and everything associated with the factory, including its workers and unsold pianos. I tried to get more because I was proud and hurt, which is a terrible combination for partaking in a business deal. He said, “Don’t you have an adult to handle these things for you?” I said, “Fuck you,” and hung up.
I thought there would be more offers, and there was one man who had dealt with my father before and seemed serious about making a purchase. There were two caveats. First, he would change the name of the company to Norris & Sons. Second, he would pay $8 million for the company, and no more. Having said no to the previous man, I felt compelled to say no to this one as well.
Mr. Pawlowski, then, having heard about my pathetic attempts, offered $20 million, and he would keep the name. I had always
“I did,” Marianne informed me toward the end of my senior year, “talk to Father Danuta. I said to him that you might be possessed. It was naive, of course, but he was kind. He listened to the things I said, and then he asked me some questions, like a doctor palpating a pain. He said that you were very sick, but that you weren’t possessed by the Devil, and that the Church performed very few exorcisms to begin with. Is it strange to say that I was—”
“Disappointed?”
“No, not that…” (But she was. At least a demon could be cast out.)
She finally said, “I was afraid for you. I didn’t know what to do for you but pray.”
Eventually I was functioning again, but what had happened to my mind left me hobbled, as if I’d been hit by a car instead, and with poor healing to show for it. I graduated with mediocre marks; I suspect I avoided failing entirely only because adults pitied me, couldn’t help me in any other way, were too embarrassed to offer a kind ear, and so raised my grades. Good for you, I thought as I stared down at some written exam of mine, too beaten down for truly enthusiastic sarcasm. At the top was written 70 .
And Mr. Pawlowski, my surrogate father now, squeezed me almost entirely out of any company matters, having me sign here and there on various dotted lines on papers I never read—not that I blamed him. What could he do, when I was the one who really owned everything, but could do almost nothing. Nothing, that is, but sell the company.
“If you’re going to sell, sell to George,” Matka said. “He knows what he’s doing.” But I still couldn’t forgive him for what he had said to me about Marianne, so I nodded and said, “Of course,” with no intention of following through; Matka would love me no matter what, though selling the company would give us both more than enough to live on for the rest of our lives.
There was a businessman from Maine who was interested in moving to New York. He was willing to keep the name intact, andoffered $10 million for the factory and everything associated with the factory, including its workers and unsold pianos. I tried to get more because I was proud and hurt, which is a terrible combination for partaking in a business deal. He said, “Don’t you have an adult to handle these things for you?” I said, “Fuck you,” and hung up.
I thought there would be more offers, and there was one man who had dealt with my father before and seemed serious about making a purchase. There were two caveats. First, he would change the name of the company to Norris & Sons. Second, he would pay $8 million for the company, and no more. Having said no to the previous man, I felt compelled to say no to this one as well.
Mr. Pawlowski, then, having heard about my pathetic attempts, offered $20 million, and he would keep the name. I had always
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