Control

by William Goldman

  Then his eyelids began to flutter.

  More frightened, Charlotte stretched out, took his hand, made as if to touch it with her lips.

  Theo ripped free of her.

  And on his face now: pain.

  And the eyelids going faster.

  “Not afraid,” Theo whispered.

  “Of course not,” Charlotte whispered back. “Why should you be?”

  “Not afraid!” Theo repeated. And then a third time, loudest of all: “NOT.. . A … FRAID!” And as Charlotte, stunned, rolled up on one elbow she had never seen eyelids move like Theo’s were moving now, because you could not force them to flutter that quickly, no one could bid them to.

  “Theo, Theo listen,” Charlotte said.

  But he was clearly not in a listening mood. His mouth began to work, and finally he was saying “Burr’’ or “Bear’’ or was it “Burden ‘‘ he was repeating over and over?

  Charlotte at last understood. Or at least had a good idea, because when he’d read her his poems, many of them were simply meant to be love lyrics, the outpourings of a delicate creature with too much emotion to know quite where to store it all. But many others had a deeper ambition, they dealt with Him and behavior, and most of all, morality, and torment, and the word he was saying now, that word was “Burn.” “Burn” repeated, but softer until it was a whispered litany, “… burn … burn …” Charlotte knew about his headaches, he had told her, and his black moods were no secret from her either, but this now was undeserved, because he hadn’t done anything, she’d done it all: “I seduced you’’ she wanted to say, though she didn’t because he was not in a mood to believe it, because, as she watched, and she couldn’t be totally sure but as she watched he rubbed his eyes, or she thought he was doing that, rubbing them, except he was rubbing too hard, and as she saw that rubbing them was probably less what he had in mind than tearing them from his sockets she grabbed his small hands and he ripped free but she was back again instantly, tearing his fingers away and he ripped free again and slapped her, slapped her again, and in an instant they were where they had been not all that many minutes before, battling, physically testing one another except before it was a preamble to as close as she could ever come to anything ecstatic, whereas now it was turning into something quite different, a fight for life, for dear life, her dear’s.

  4

  Haggerty’s Kid

  Haggerty knew before he was fifteen that he was going to marry the Rafferty girl down the block. She was Irish, she was Catholic, her father and grandfather had been cops too, she understood.

  She wasn’t a genius, but she was smarter than he was; she wasn’t a beauty, but he never forgot her fifteenth summer when her breasts arrived along with strange thoughts in his head. They held hands and necked and went to Coney Island and she swatted his thick fingers when he got fresh. She was saving it, Helen Rafferty said. For what, ./or what Jesus? Haggerty said. For when it’s legal, she told him. Helen that could be years. Years. She ran her hands along her body. Worth the wait, she assured him.

  They married while Haggerty was at the Police Academy and their first night she demanded to know, after, if it was or not worth the wait and he hurriedly answered yes, absolutely, but inside he was momentarily troubled because it turned out she was more sexually adventurous than he was. That trouble soon gloriously disappeared. He loved her a great deal, as much as he thought was safe. More even.

  But her true value didn’t come till later. The first time he was badly mugged walking a tour, she didn’t ask about it, didn’t weep. She tended him, got him going, no questions at all. She understood not to ask. And the first time he was shot—no, the first time he was badly shot—again her eyes did not moisten. Forthright, let’s improve this, let’s get that working again, on with the next. She understood.

  If their marriage was serene, so was their daughter, Elaine, pretty enough, but not too pretty to cause conceit, quick enough in school but not too quick to cause envy. Helen called her their pink child. Pink skin, favorite color, pink; personality the same. Never a problem at all.

  Frank Jr. more than made up for her. Angry, feisty, raw. He cried when a baby, simmered as he grew. But it was not till he reached h& teens that he began to steal. Haggerty strapped him the first time he was caught. Did no good. Strapped him the second time too. Results the same.

  Haggerty, a detective now, used to take long walks alone on lunch hour to the East River, smoking and staring, the container of coffee his only company. His son was a thief. Frank Jr. stole. A cop for a father—not only that, an honest one—-and he stole. His grandfathers both in the force and he stole.

  Bad situation.

  News began to get out. Frank Jr. was caught a few times, caught at dime stores and candy counters and clothing outfits. And Haggerty couldn’t keep it quiet. It was too juicy. Around the precinct it became common knowledge: Haggerty’s kid was a whacko.

  Bad situation, getting worse.

  Being a cop anywhere is a bitch, but trying to cut it in the Apple squares the tensions. Though there are, occasionally, some strange compensations. Like the plastic surgeon on lower Park Avenue who charges a ton for lifts and tucks but who does kneecaps— policemen’s kneecaps—free. You tear up a knee on duty, you go to lower Park to the surgeon. And in, would you believe, Staten Island, there’s a brilliant dentist who does jaw reconstructions. For cops. As a sideline.

  And then there’s the Lorber Foundation,.

  Ike Lorber wrote books, taught, traveled, lectured, and was generally considered to be just about the most successful, or at least the highest priced shrink in the city. The Foundation—it was really a clinic, but for legal reasons Ike’s lawyers wanted it called a foundation—was a large limestone house on Fifth just below Sinai. There was a receptionist, several other shrinks, several other apprentice shrinks, not to mention Lorber’s wife, Essy, an analyst of distinction on her own.

  Haggerty was just the least intimidated. He mumbled to the receptionist—the elderly prune type—that he had an appointment to see Doctor Lorber and she quick came back with, Which? and he managed that it was Doctor Isaac he wanted and she told him to sit so he sat. Then, a while later, she told him to stand. He stood.

  She beckoned for him to follow so he did that too. Finally, she opened a large door and there, seated at an enormous desk, was the Man himself.

  Haggerty hadn’t known what to expect. Witch doctors weren’t his province and more than that, they frightened him. But you couldn’t be frightened by this guy.

  Placid. That was the word for Ike Lorber. You got the feeling from his expression that he had heard it all, every terror, and no matter what you did, you couldn’t shock him and he wouldn’t think bad of you. Middle-aged, middle-sized, quick-eyed.

  And calm.

  Sit down, Frank; thanks for coming over.

  Haggerty nodded.

  Talking to Captain Hoffman. Said you were into sort of a situation.

  The boy steals.

  And gets caught.

  Yessir. That too.

  Which is worse I wonder.

  Pause. The stealing.

  I took stuff when I was young. Don’t most kids?

  I can’t say. I know that…

  Yes, Frank?

  I know I never took a thing in all my life. Don’t think bad of me, but I never broke the law.

  What a world we live in, Frank, when a man has to say don’t think bad of me about being honest.

  Everybody’s cutting corners nowadays, sir. I was brought up not to. Probably sounds stuffy to you but there it is.

  And the boy’s how old?

  Almost sixteen.

  And this is hard for you, isn’t it, Frank? Being here now, talking about it?

  Pause.

  Take your time, Frank—nothing but time here.

  Pause. Tightness in the throat. Finally: it just fucking kills me, Doctor Lorber.

  Nod. His name?

  Pause.

  Easy, now; really.
/>   Again the tightness. Finally: His name is Frank Jr.

  A glance at the thick appointment book. A scratching out of something. Could you bring Frank Jr. here tomorrow do you think? After dinner I’m free. Eight tomorrow night, that fit with your schedule?

  Nod.

  Writing in something beside where the scratching was.

  He may not want to come, you’re sure you can be here?

  I don’t know that the sun will rise, Doctor Lorber—but I promise you this: the boy will most definitely be here…

  The next evening, in front of the large house, Frank Jr. said, “I’m not gonna talk to no kike.”

  Haggerty hit him hard across the side of the head. “You don’t call me a mick, you don’t call me a spud, you don’t call him a kike.”

  “A hebe then.”

  Haggerty raised his hand to strike again.

  “Well he’s a Jew, I can’t be talking to one of them.”

  Haggerty dropped his hand. “Oh, are you wrong,” he said, and, grabbing his son by the elbow, steered him to the door and rang. Doctor Lorber answered, the three of them talked briefly, then Frank Jr. followed the placid man into the office.

  Haggerty waited the hour.

  They came quietly out, and Frank Jr. asked if he could go outside. Doctor Lorber nodded. The boy left them. Tomorrow night might be beneficial, same time all right?

  Haggerty hesitated. I did some checking.

  Always get another opinion, Frank.

  You cost.

  I know. Outrageously. More than anyone, I hope. It helps my ego.

  It’ll have to be installments.

  Hmm?

  I haven’t got a lot of money.

  Well fortunately I have, Frank, so leave my finances to my accountant why don’t you. Tomorrow night then?

  Is he going to be all right?

  Can’t talk to you, Frank; medical ethics, you understand?

  Frank didn’t, but he said tomorrow night would be fine.

  He brought the boy again the following evening, waited the hour. The third session, the next Tuesday, Frank thought for a moment, that as he waited he heard, ever so briefly, tears. But he wasn’t sure. But on the fourth session, he was.

  Analysis, if it’s anything, is an inexact science, and supportive therapy is lucky when it reaches that level. And there were no Joan Crawford moments for Frank Jr., no epiphanies. But after the sixth session it wasn’t necessary for his father to come along on the weekly meetings. And after four months, the meetings themselves stopped. Frank Jr. wore no halo—he was just an ordinary average run-of-the-mill fucked-up teen-ager now.

  Dear Doctor Lorber:

  Last night at dinner the boy talked about college. Not for long, and he was cautious, but the word did pass his lips.

  I don’t know what someone with my skills could ever do for someone with yours. But I pray for the opportunity.

  Yours Frank Haggerty. Sr.

  Not much of a note but it took Haggerty three days to get the thoughts down. Not three solid days, he did other things. But his mind was always on what he wanted to write. He mailed it fully confident that he would never hear from the great Doctor Lorber again.

  It took a number of years. But he heard.

  “Detective Haggerty, please.”

  “Yes.” It was the receptionist prune.

  “Detective Frank Haggerty?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Doctor Lorber was wondering if you could find some spare time to—”

  “—just tell me when—”

  ‘Tonight”

  It was definitely not the prune who opened the door that evening. Haggerty stood outside the Foundation, perspiring heavily in the June night as this vision appeared in the doorway. Tall, nineteen maybe, athletic build, black hair, skin like Merle Oberon which only made more startling the sea-blue eyes. “You must be Mr. Haggerty,” she said.

  Haggerty never messed around with women, never even paid attention to the young ones. If I was twenty now, he thought, Fd never have got close to you. He nodded at his name.

  She gestured for him please to enter. “My name’s Karen,” she told him, closing the door. “I’m the daughter. You know where Father’s office is?”

  “I think.”

  “Is he ever waiting for you.” She gave him a smile that was as good as the rest of her, turned and started upstairs.

  Haggerty watched her body move. Special creature, he decided. A genuine stunner but didn’t seem conceited. He tugged at his coat, doing what he could with the wrinkles, then headed toward the large office at the end of the hall.

  The placid man was gone. The Ike Lorber waiting inside looked physically like the earlier version. But whereas the former occupant was quiet, reasoned, calm, this one now jumped around, talked nervously, as if there were dashes around everything.

  “—Frank—Frank, Christ, good to see you, how’s Frank Jr?”

  “—fine sir. Lives out west now, Washington, good job with Boeing, doing well…” Haggerty stopped then when he realized the doctor wasn’t paying the least attention. Ike walked around his desk, sometimes pausing briefly at the window, staring out at the small garden in the rear.

  “—You met Karen?-”

  “Yes. Lovely.”

  “—the inside is better than the outside, believe me—gonna make a great analyst—genuine feel for people—brilliant insights —popular at Bryn Mawr—not just a bookworm—adjusted, considerate, I’m crazy about her-”

  “She sounds wonderful.”

  Now Ike Lorber whirled, stared at Haggerty. “—she’s a twin, Frank—she’s got a twin brother—and it’s him, it’s my son that’s killing me—”

  “Drugs?”

  “—if only it was—” He stopped abruptly, sat heavily into his desk chair. “—Can you believe that?—a father saying such a thing about a son?—about a beloved son?—terrible—terrible—”

  “What’s the boy done?”

  “—what has Eric done?—you catch their names?—Karen is Karen Homey Lorber, Eric’s middle name is Fromm—great figures in our field—Frank, from the start this whole Foundation was theirs—God gave us these incredible children, these glories, these fraternal twins were handed down from on high—well adjusted, kind—I stress that because it ain’t easy having shrinks for parents, most of our shrink friends, their kids are more fucked up than their patients—but as good as Karen’s doing at Bryn Mawr, Eric’s that way at Swarthmore—they’ll be seniors next year and already med schools want them—”

  “But he’s changed his mind.”

  “—right—he told me—yesterday—man to man—I didn’t sleep —how could a man sleep?—his mother will die—I’m calm in comparison—”

  “What does he want to be?”

  Ike Lorber shook and shook his head. “A gumshoe,” he said finally. “A shoulder tapper. My glorious son has decided to be a policeman.”

  Haggerty thought it best to say nothing.

  The doctor sat back in his chair, sighing.

  “A passing fancy,” Haggerty said.

  “Eric doesn’t have such things. He ruminates at length before decisions.” He looked at Haggerty now. “Will you talk to the boy?”

  “Of course.”

  “Explain things to him—explain what a horrible mistake it would be—”

  “—but I love the life—I wouldn’t be anything else—”

  “—Frank—Frank Jesus—do I have to tell you the way I feel about the police? How many hundreds of hours do I donate each year? But this is a special kid.”

  “If he can be a great doctor, that’s what he must be,” Haggerty said. “I saw what you did for my son.”

  “Then you’ll help me.”

  “Just tell me how.”

  “I’ve thought exactly how—some night when it’s convenient, I want you to meet Eric, talk to him honestly, take him around with you, show him the reality.”

  “Done.”

  “Plus one more thing.”
<
br />   “Name it.”

  “I want you to scare the shit out of him…”

  ***

  “Will we really see a crime?” Eric asked.