Frances and Bernard by Carlene Bauer Page A

that afternoon. He told me that Bernard rang him up shortly before he came to see me and told him some addled things. John said he called me to tell me this and was going to offer to come over because he had a bad feeling about Bernard but I had already left for Mass. Apparently Bernard told John that he had received a revelation in a church in Boston that I was a saint, that I was the only pure thing in New York City, couldn’t John tell, couldn’t John tell that there was light around me because I had not sinned, I had not been touched, that I knew the true purpose of the Church, I was its defender, I was not drinking the blood like milk, the host was solid food for me, that I was a saint and when my book was published everyone would know that. John has been to see Bernard and tells me that Bernard does not remember saying any of this. When John told Bernard what he’d said, Bernard groaned and put his face in his hands and did not speak for a long while. John asked me to go see him because he thinks if Bernard does not hear from me he will not do as well as he might. John Percy does not say much, so if he tells me this, I can be reasonably assured that it is a real possibility.
    I have prayed for Bernard every minute of every day. I am going to see him this week. I am staying with his friend Ted and Ted’s wife.
    Still, I am very angry with him. Please pray for me that this anger dissipates, because I know it is not right to be angry when my friend is suffering. I am very angry with him because in his mania he has confused me with a saint. I itch writing that sentence. I am angry with him because he did something to me in his mind, something that now makes me wonder what else had been in his mind before he said what he did. It’s making it very hard to write—to the point where I don’t know what’s weighing heavier on my conscience, the blank page that’s resulting from my anger or the anger itself. I sit in front of the typewriter and type and then start looking out the window, worrying about Bernard and then fuming at Bernard. And so he’s turned me into a crazy person too—he’s led me into the realm of
what if
and
who’s there
?
    Love,
    Frances
     
    April 15, 1959
    Dear John—
    Your office called and told me you are in England for a few weeks on business. I hope all is going well with you, and you are enjoying your time there.
    You asked me to tell you what happened when I saw Bernard.
    Hospitals are horrible places, and this sort of hospital in particular—it’s supposed to be expensive, but it feels like a dump.
    I walked into the common room and there was a baseball game on—the sound of it like flies buzzing over the heads of the bodies slumped in vinyl padded chairs. Gray linoleum, navy blue vinyl. I had baked Bernard some chocolate chip cookies at Ted’s apartment—Ted said that Bernard was starving and had been making the staff miserable in his loud complaining about the food. So I walked into this awful, cloudy, bruise-colored room and saw Bernard’s big curly head over the collar of a cheap red velour bathrobe the color of port. “Bernard,” I said to the back of his head, and he got up and came to me. He looked exhausted. The bathrobe hung on him like something shaggy and ancient, but he still looked regal, like a chieftain robbed of his scabbard. “Bernard,” I said, and took his hand. “No, no, that’s not enough,” he said. He took the package out of my other hand, put it down on a chair, and then pulled me to him. He was right. That wasn’t enough.
    That over, we took our seats. We didn’t say anything for a while. I smelled the smell of that place—stale, a film of body odor, dust. Ammonia at base. The baseball game droned. I didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t sound inappropriate in its smallness or patronizing in its sincerity. “I made you some cookies,” I said, “because Ted said you had been inciting riots at dinner.” Bernard smiled. But his smile came