{"id":36370,"date":"2012-08-01T16:19:51","date_gmt":"2012-08-01T20:19:51","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=36370"},"modified":"2012-08-02T11:24:47","modified_gmt":"2012-08-02T15:24:47","slug":"dr-collier","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2012\/08\/01\/dr-collier\/","title":{"rendered":"Dr. Collier"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

My novel, Balls<\/em>, is a book in which the protagonist contracts testicular cancer. I’d done an extensive amount of research, but I still wasn\u2019t an expert. I needed one, lest I publish a work that didn\u2019t get it all <\/em>right. The fear of this had me up at night and fretting during the day.<\/p>\n

So I called my uncle, who was a doctor and knew many urologists. He gave me the number of a Dr. William Collier, whom he described as a fine man, with a passion for literature.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe likes books then?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, that\u2019s great.\u201d<\/p>\n

Asking anything of a stranger excites the nerves. You\u2019ve got to dial him, introduce yourself, tell him what you\u2019re after, and hope, in the end, that you haven\u2019t offended his ego by requesting that he use his precious time on the likes of you. But knowing Dr. Collier affirmed the written word did take some of the pressure off.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

I called him on a Tuesday evening in late July. Dr. Collier said he was pleased I\u2019d called. His voice was warm, instantly soothing, and before I could say much of anything about my intentions, Doctor Collier was discussing Thomas Mann, Emerson, the Marquis de Sade, and Warren Buffet. Books written by these men, it seemed, made up his summer reading. Mann, he told me, was for the strengthening of his mind; Emerson, his heart; Sade, his loins; and Buffet, his wallet.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell chosen,\u201d I said, trying flattery.<\/p>\n

\u201cA person should <\/em>want to know everything. I do and always have. I\u2019m an older man now, almost seventy, and I tell you a powerful curiosity will keep you living.\u201d<\/p>\n

He had so many questions\u2014on my writing, yes, but also about my lineage, upbringing, schooling, health. Dr. Collier told me he was semi\u00adretired, a sometimes painter and poet, a golfer, a swimmer. His wife was a schoolteacher. His daughter lived in Maine. She, too, was a teacher. There were grandchildren.<\/p>\n

Eventually, I interrupted him\u2014he would have talked all night otherwise\u2014and began to speak to the doctor of my novel. <\/em>I told him how much I\u2019d appreciate his looking through the medical parts and making sure my facts were correct.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll do you one better, Julian; I\u2019ll read the entire book.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, that would be great.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMail it to me, I\u2019ll read it, and we\u2019ll speak after Labor Day.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPerfect.\u201d<\/p>\n

What relief I felt; he had been so kind and easygoing. Sure, he yammered on a little long. But as far as its medical facts went, Balls <\/em>would know what it was talking about. The doctor would take care of everything. My anxiety was gone. Collier had cured me.<\/p>\n

The following day, I printed out the novel, paper-\u00adclipped a letter to the first page in which I thanked the doctor for taking the time out to perform this service for me, went to the post \u00adoffice, and mailed it off. I went about the next weeks not thinking even once of Dr. Collier. Then Labor Day passed, and my phone rang. Not recognizing the number, I didn\u2019t answer. But then the caller left a message.<\/p>\n

\u201cJulian\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

Ah, it was the doctor.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve read your manuscript,\u201d he said. My heart rate increased with anticipation.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry to say, but we\u2019ve got problems. Real problems. Call me back.\u201d<\/p>\n

At my bedroom window, looking up at the United Nations, I went weak. Problems? What kind of problems? The medical parts made up less than ten percent of the full novel. Stooped over my bed, surrounded by the scattered pages of manuscript, I became convinced that the whole book was ruined. It was done. Kaput.<\/p>\n

Or not. After all, maybe I only needed to correct the inaccurate medical information. That wouldn\u2019t necessarily be difficult at all. But then, why big problems<\/em>? His voice had been ominous. No, clearly the novel was not well. Not well at all. I had to know. Frantic, I dialed Collier.<\/p>\n

\u201cDoctor, it\u2019s Julian Tepper.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJulian,\u201d he said, \u201chow are you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve been better,\u201d I answered, before remembering my manners. \u201cFirst of all, thank you for reading. I\u2019m very grateful. Not many people would have agreed to it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat was nothing. Nothing at all. But I wish I had better news to report.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTell me,\u201d I said, my head swelling with grief, \u201cso what\u2019s wrong with the book? What did you find?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFrankly, Julian, it\u2019s not the kind of thing you want to say over the phone. I think the best thing to do would be for me to leave the manuscript in my lobby. You can come by and pick it up today. Look at the suggestions I\u2019ve made. Then, you can stop in at my office and we can discuss it.\u201d<\/p>\n

By this time I\u2019d sat down on my bed, unable to stand. I felt sick. Nauseous. I choked out a response.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood. So I\u2019ll pick it up and we\u2019ll talk.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry, Julian.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, okay. Thank you, doctor.\u201d<\/p>\n

I hung up. Collier lived in the 70s off Lexington Avenue. My place wasn\u2019t so far that I couldn\u2019t walk. And I planned to. Yet when I stepped outside into what was likely a pleasant September day for most everyone else on the street, my legs felt paralyzed.\u00a0 I took a taxi, mentally repeating the dirge, \u201cTwo years of work, all for nothing.\u201d<\/p>\n

In front of the doctor\u2019s building, I stuffed money into the cabbie\u2019s hand and rushed from the taxi into a handsome old marble lobby. Upon seeing me, the doorman, a tall, broad fellow, flashed an odd look. \u201cCan I help you?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, I\u2019m here to pick up a package left by Dr. Collier.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd your name?\u201d he asked suspiciously.<\/p>\n

\u201cJulian Tepper.\u201d<\/p>\n

He nodded, clearly not quite convinced that this sweaty, pale, frantic man was a worthy recipient. He produced\u00a0a manila envelope from a drawer. I snatched it and rushed blindly out the door and across the street to the nearest brownstone, taking a seat on the third step from the bottom. I tore open the envelope, prepared to flip ahead in the novel to the protagonist\u2019s first visit to his general practitioner, where I assumed Collier would have started.<\/p>\n

I stopped short. What was this? Here, on the title page, written in red ink, were the words:<\/p>\n

\n

1. How much autobiographical?
2. Why is Henry so passionate about songwriting?
3. Unless the novel is only going to be read by the cognoscenti, upper-class Manhattan references such as \u2018Bemelmans at the Carlyle\u2019 have to skillfully be clarified.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

What the hell?<\/em> I thought. I turned to the first page. Red ink everywhere. I noted that the fourth sentence, which began, \u201cAnd with legs hung over the bed, a tired, stooped, pale-faced man … ,\u201d had been crossed out and re\u00adwritten as, \u201cAnd with legs hung over the bed, a fatigued, stooped, pale-faced, worried man \u2026\u201d On the next page, nearly illegible for the red ink, the phrase \u201cdeep-\u00ademotional strain\u201d had a solid line through it, above which the doctor had written a note to me: \u201cHe hasn\u2019t gotten this far yet emotionally.\u201d<\/p>\n

Not much further down the page was the sentence, \u201cHe was once good-\u00adlooking, but now he never slept.\u201d It seemed Collier preferred, \u201cOnce good-\u00adlooking, he was now haggard from lack of sleep.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dr. Collier\u2019s edits went on and on. My favorite was the point where I\u2019d written the simple sentence, \u201cHe took money and rented a house near Woodstock, New York.\u201d Collier had struck an X<\/em> through Woodstock<\/em> and written Rhinebeck<\/em> in its place.<\/p>\n

Dozens of pages had been heavily edited by Collier, hundreds of words swapped out for others. I could only assume the urologist had spent weeks rewriting my novel for me. I read on in disbelief. It seemed the brook <\/em>behind that house in Rhinebeck was better off as a lake<\/em>.<\/p>\n

As for the medical information, that<\/em> was perfectly fine. Not one problem.<\/p>\n

The relief I experienced walking home from Collier\u2019s under a clear blue September sky was short-lived, though. If Collier weren\u2019t my uncle\u2019s colleague, I would have never felt any obligation to communicate with him again. But since he was, and given their relationship, I was going to have to say something more to him, at least acknowledge his efforts.<\/p>\n

I resisted. I considered writing Collier a letter. But I couldn\u2019t. It bothered me for months. Just write him something<\/em>, I would tell myself. Anything<\/em>! Yet I couldn\u2019t bring myself to do it. Neither my brain nor my hand would go through with the action. So I didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n

It still occurs to me on occasion that I should drop a postcard addressed to Collier in the box on the corner. I get edgy. I think that I\u2019ve wronged my uncle. I want to apologize to him. I never even told him what happened. Then I conclude, again, that I don\u2019t have to, and that it\u2019s best to never bring it up again. Sometimes when this happens, I return to Collier\u2019s copy of Balls<\/em>. I look through those pages. I contemplate his edits, and I immediately begin to feel better. It is a beautiful thing to behold.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Julian Tepper is the author of<\/em> Balls<\/a>.<\/p>\n

[tweetbutton]<\/p>\n

[facebook_ilike]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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