The Axeman's Jazz

them. And it hurt. It felt like something was loose in there. He said, ‘Oh, you think you’re in so much pain; all you ever do is think about yourself. Well, you’ve got a really weak abdominal wall. This time I’m going to put nylon netting in there to reinforce it. That’ll hold you!’ So I had to have another operation, and it didn’t hold. Now I have nylon netting in my stomach and another ugly lump. Every time I go to see my doctor he tells me I’ve just got the weakest abdominal wall he’s ever seen, but I sure have pretty tits. So it’s my fault half the operation didn’t work, but all to his credit the other half did.
    “When he says that, I feel shamed just like I did when I was a little kid and I got beaten just because some pervert wanted to make a little girl lie down on his lap. I know it’s not my fault my body’s ugly now, I tell myself it’s not my fault, I know this man has betrayed me, has violated all his oaths—don’t they have to say, ‘First, do no harm,’ or something like that? I know he’s the one at fault and yet I still find he intimidates me, I don’t know how to tell him to stop leering at the part of the body he likes—that he ‘created’— and I don’t know how to stand up for myself with him. It’s as if I’m so discouraged, so unhappy about the whole thing, I’m nine years old again.” She paused and screamed, “And I can’t grow up!” The sentence came out with a new sob.
    Everyone was quiet for a minute, taking it in. Skip felt shaken, ashamed of herself for imagining romantic trifling, and almost on the verge of tears herself. But she felt angry at Di as well. She wanted to shake her and say, “Quit complaining and do something! Sue! Call the Board of Medical Examiners. At the very least curse him out.”
    And that, she told herself, is codependency in action. Of course you know how to run Di’s life. No problem.
    Di said, “Thank you. I just needed to put that out.”
    Sonny raised his hand, announced he was Sonny and he was codependent and was told hi.
    “I guess you can be betrayed by someone who doesn’t mean to betray you,” he said, and stopped, gathering his thoughts. It was a while before he started again, and it occurred to Skip that this was difficult for him, that perhaps he hadn’t done it before.
    “The worst thing that ever happened to me happened when I was four years old. I guess that’s loss of innocence. It felt more like loss of a limb or a vital organ. But it was like I grew up, I learned what the world was like when I was only four.”
    His face was starting to contort with the effort it cost him not to cry. Skip felt her whole body starting to soften, her heart opening to him. There were things she hated about these groups, but many things she liked. What she liked best was when a successful, self-assured man made himself vulnerable, actually talked, in a roomful of people, about feelings.
    They never talk to us, she thought. To women.
    “There was only one person I really loved, who I thought really loved me. Well, let’s put it this way—there was only one person who was nice to me, and that was my grandfather.” His voice was going out of control. “He died at home, but first…” He started to sob, letting himself do it. Skip wondered why not just Sonny, but any of them, did it. Cried in front of strangers. Told these horribly painful stories. “First he was sick. He was sick for a long time. I was just a baby so it seemed like forever to me. Maybe it was six months, maybe two or three. I don’t know.
    “It seemed like a game at first, having my grandpa home all day.” He stopped and smiled through his tears. “I didn’t call him Grandpa. It’s funny I can talk about this part of it, but I’m embarrassed to tell you what I really called him. Anyway, he was home all day and that made me happy, but then I noticed he couldn’t walk; he wasn’t just pretending, he really couldn’t. And he got so he didn’t look like himself. Sometimes he’d want me to sit by him for a long time, just holding his hand. But I’d get bored—you know how kids are—and I couldn’t do it very long.
    “And then he got so he’d just lie there and moan. I’d get down on the floor and moan with him. Sometimes I’d get under his bed.” He smiled again, quite the Southern gentleman, rising to the occasion. “I was about the most miserable little kid you ever saw. And then one day he told me he was going to get well.