by Wally Lamb
I rolled my eyes. Shifted in my seat.
They were Thomas’s paper dolls, not mine! He’d seen them at the five-and-ten—had begged Ma until she’d finally given in and bought them for him, and when Ray found them, all three of us were in trouble: Thomas, Ma, and me. Guilt by association. Guilty because I was his spitting image. Ray had gone bullshit when he saw those things. Ripped their heads off, their arms and legs. . . . And that hoop over the garage: it was supposed to be for both of us, but Thomas would never come out and play. And when he had to—when Ray made him come out—he was always missing a pass or something. Taking a ball in the face. Running back inside to Ma, crying, chased back indoors by Ray’s ridicule.
“And you feel that may have made your stepfather envious? Your special relationship with God?”
“Yes!”
“Would you say Ray was a religious man?”
“Not half as religious as he thinks he is.”
“Could you explain that, please?”
“PEACE BE WITH YOU! THE BODY OF CHRIST! MAY PERPETUAL LIGHT SHINE UPON YOU! Just because you’re the loudest person in church, it doesn’t mean you’re the most holy. . . . He never even used to go to church at all when we were kids. Not until he turned Catholic.”
“Yes? He converted?”
“To please my mother. They were having problems.”
“Marital problems? How do you know this, Mr. Birdsey?”
“I’m Mr. Y.”
“Excuse me. I stand corrected. But how did you know they were having problems?”
“Because she used to tell me. I was her best friend. She was thinking about getting a divorce. Nobody got divorces back then, but she was thinking about it.”
“No, she wasn’t,” I said.
“No? Could she, perhaps, have been confiding in your brother about such things and you were possibly unaware? Is it possible that—”
“No.”
“No?”
“She started going to see the priest for help. Then he started going, too. Then he decided to turn Catholic.”
“This is true, Dominick?” the doc asked. “He converted?”
“Yes.”
“How old were you and your brother at the time, please?”
“Nine, maybe? Ten? I doubt very much that she was confiding in him about—”
“That’s when he started going to Mass every morning. After work. He worked third shift, and he’d get off and go right to early Mass. He was buddy-buddy with the priests. He used to do all their yard work free of charge. Change the oil in their cars. . . . As if acting like their slave was going to get him into Heaven. As if THAT was going to erase the way he treated us. He used to make Dominick and me shovel snow over at the rectory and the convent and we could never take any money for it. One time, the nuns gave us a box of ribbon candy—my brother and me—and when we got home, Ray made us turn right around and go down to the convent and give it back to them.”
“That is accurate, Dominick?” Dr. Patel asked.
I nodded. Closed my eyes. “Neither of us even liked ribbon candy. You’d think that by this time, the statute of limitations—”
“It was my favorite kind of candy, too. Ribbon candy. . . . You know what it was? Why he had it in for me? Because it began to dawn on him that it was me God had chosen. Not him. Not Mr. Mass Every Day. It made him nervous, too: that the one person he had picked on all his life was a prophet of the Lord Jesus Christ.”
“Did that make him jealous? Knowing that you had been singled out by God for something special?”
“Extremely jealous. The thing he doesn’t realize—that nobody realizes—is that it’s a terrible burden.”
“What is, Mr. Birdsey? Would you explain what the burden is?”
“Knowing! Seeing things!”
“Seeing what, Mr. Birdsey?”
“What God wants. And what He doesn’t want.” Deep sigh. “He doesn’t WANT us to go to war against Iraq. He wants us to love one other. To honor HIM, not the almighty dollar. This country, right from the very beginning, has . . . Look at our history! Look at Wounded Knee! Look at slavery!” He began to sob. “He wants me to lead the way. To show people that their greed is . . . But how am I supposed to do that when they’ve got me under house arrest?”
“When who has you under house arrest, Mr. Birdsey?”
“I just want to wake people up! That’s all. I’m just trying to do God’s bidding. That’s why I did this.”
“Did what?” I said. “What’s he talking about there?”
Dr. Patel tapped a finger against her wrist.
“But nobody understands that it was a sacrifice. Not even Dominick. He says he understands, but he doesn’t. He’s so mad at me.”
“I’ve talked to your brother several times now, Mr. Birdsey. He’s concerned about you, but he’s not angry.”
“Then why hasn’t he come to visit me?”
I closed my eyes, as if not seeing the tape recorder in front of me would make his voice go away.
“You don’t remember? He can’t visit you until his security clearance comes through. It’s a policy here. Your brother wants very much to see you, and he will as soon as he can.”
“Oh.”
“You remember now?”
“I forgot.”
“Mr. Birdsey?”
“What?”
“Did your stepfather ever abuse you in other ways?”
Long pause. “Yes.”
“Would you tell me about that, please?”
Deep sigh. “One time he made me walk on glass.”
“Yes? Continue, please.”
“He broke glass all over the floor—the kitchen floor—and then he made me walk across the room. I had to get stitches. Had to walk on crutches. You should have seen the bottoms of my feet.”
I held my hand up for her to stop the tape. “That was an accident,” I said. “I remember the exact time he’s talking about. Ray had one of his little temper tantrums and he threw a jar on the floor—a canning jar—and then later on Thomas accidentally stepped on one of the pieces and cut his foot. But it was an accident!”
“I see. How often did Ray have these ‘temper tantrums’?”
“What? I don’t know. Not that often. But don’t you see how he’s twisting it around? Thomas? Same as the sled thing. He’s taking these accidents and—”
“You sound protective, Dominick. Do you feel protective of your stepfather?”
“No!”
“Of your family’s privacy then?”
“I’m not ‘protective’ of anything. I’m just saying that Ray didn’t bust glass all over the floor and then say, ‘Okay, Thomas! Walk on this because you’re Jesus’ right-hand man.’ I thought you wanted my insight. I thought that’s what this was all about.”
“It is.”
“Then what are you accusing me for?”
“Accusing you?”
“Or . . . psychoanalyzing me or whatever. I’m not the patient.”
“He used to open up my closet and urinate all over my clothes. My shoes, too. He was always doing that—pissing into my shoes. . . . Nobody else knew about it. He said he’d kill me if I told anyone.”
“Mr. Birdsey, why did your stepfather urinate on your clothes?”
A pause. “That was nothing. That was the least of it.”
“He did worse things?”
“Much, much worse.”
“What did he do that was worse?”
“He used to tie me up and then stick things up my rear end.”
“Jesus! Why . . . why are you dignifying this? If Ray knew he was saying stuff like this, he’d—”
“What kind of things, Mr. Birdsey?”
“Sharp things. Pencils. Screwdrivers. One time he took the handle of a carving knife and—”
“All right, stop it! Stop that goddamned thing! I can’t—just stop it!” I lurched forward and stopped the fucker myself.
We both sat there, waiting for my breathing to calm down.<
br />
“Dominick?”
“What?”
“What your brother said has upset you very much. Hasn’t it?”
I laughed. “Oh, hell, no. Let’s see now. My mother used to get raped and we sat around and watched. Ray used to stick screwdrivers up his butt. This is real easy to listen to, Doc. Piece of cake.”
“Tell me what you’re feeling right now.”
I turned and faced her. “What the fuck difference does it make what I’m feeling? I’m not the one having these sick, perverted—”
“You seem angry. Are you angry, Dominick?”
“Am I ANGRY? Yeah, you could say that. I’m fucking FURIOUS, okay?”
“Why?”
I could feel myself letting go into the rush of it—passing the point of no return. That’s the one thing I understood about Ray: that sometimes rage could feel as good as sex. Could be as welcome a release.
“Why am I ANGRY? I’ll tell you why I’m ANGRY, okay? Because right now I should be over on Gillette Street finishing a paint job I should have finished three fucking weeks ago. But where am I? I’m in a fucking maximum-security nuthouse listening to my fucking fucked-up brother talk about . . . about . . . and she says to me, ‘Why don’t you ever stop thinking about him and think about me, Dominick? Put me first instead of your brother.’ . . . Jesus fucking Christ! When is this shit going to—”
“Dominick? Who is ‘she,’ please?”
“Joy! My girlfriend! I’ve been carrying him on my shoulders my whole fucking life and she goes, ‘Why don’t you ever take care of me?’ Well, I’ll tell you why! I—”
“Dominick, please lower your voice. It’s very good for you to let out this anger, but why don’t you sit down and take a few deep breaths?”
“Why? What are deep breaths going to do? Make him less crazy? Make his fucking hand grow back?”
“It would just make you calm down a little and—”
“I don’t want to calm down! You asked me why I’m angry and now I’m telling you! Do you know what it’s LIKE? Do you have any IDEA? I’m fucking forty years old and I’m still—”
“Dominick, if you don’t lower your voice a little, the security staff will—”
“Other people go to the library and get BOOKS, right? Check out BOOKS. But not my STUPID FUCKING ASSHOLE BROTHER! Not HIM! He goes to the library and cuts his fucking hand off for Jesus! And you want to know something? I got fucking CONNIE CHUNG calling me up! I got some stupid bloodsucker from New York wants to be his fucking BOOKING agent! And I can’t—”
“Dominick?”
“You want to know what it’s like for me? Do you? It’s like . . . it’s like . . . my brother has been an anchor on me my whole life. Pulling me down. Even before he got sick. Even before he goes and loses it in front of . . . An anchor! . . . And you know what I get? I get just enough rope to break the surface. To breathe. But I am never, ever going to. . . . You know what I used to think? I used to think that eventually—you know, sooner or later—I was going to get away from him. Cut the cord, you know? But here I am, forty years old and I’m still down at the nuthouse, running interference for my fucking . . . Treading water. It’s like . . . like . . . And I hate him sometimes. I do. I’ll admit it. I really hate him. But you know something? Here’s the really fucked-up part. Nobody else better say anything—nobody else better even look at him cross-eyed or I’ll . . . And the thing is, I think I finally get it, you know? I finally get it.”
“Get what, Dominick?”
“That he’s my curse. My anchor. That I’m just going to tread water for the rest of my whole life. That he is my whole life! My fucking, fucked-up brother. I’m just going to tread water, just breathe . . . and that’s it. I’m never going to get away from him! Never!”
There was a knock on the door. “Not now, thank you,” Dr. Patel called out.
“The other day? Last week, it was? I went to the convenience store. My girlfriend says, ‘We’re out of milk, Dominick. Go get some milk.’ So I go to the convenience store and I put a gallon of milk on the counter and this clerk—this fat fuck with orange hair and a pierced nose—he’s just . . . he was just staring at me like . . . like I’m . . .”
“Like you were what?”
“Like I’m him! Thomas. Which I . . . Which I probably will be before I’m through. I mean, we’re twins, right? It’s going to happen eventually, isn’t it?”
“What, exactly, do you think is going to happen, Dominick?”
“He’s going to pull me under. I’m going to drown.”
I did her stupid breathing exercises. Laced my fingers like she instructed and rested them on my belly. Filled my stomach with air like a balloon. Breathed out in a long, steady stream. In again. Out. It felt stupid, but I did it. And by the sixth or seventh breath, it worked. Calmed me down. Brought me back.
“It frightens you, doesn’t it, Dominick: the thought that you, too, could become mentally ill? How could it not have frightened you all these years? His brother? His twin?”
De-fense! De-fense!
“It’s not like . . . Look, I’m not saying he never hit her. Ray. He did. It’s just—”
The office door banged open—so loudly and abruptly that the doc and I both jumped. “Jesus!” I snapped at Sheffer. “You ever hear of knocking?”
“At my own office door?” she shot back.
She threw a stack of files on her desk. Took in the tape recorder, the warning look I caught Dr. Patel giving her, the way I guess I must have looked right about then. Sheffer looked a little whipped herself.
Her hands went into the air, palms up. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Give me a couple of minutes, will you? I just need to go to the ladies’ room for a second.”
After the door closed behind her, Dr. Patel asked me if I was all right.
I told her I’d live.
“Which do you want first?” Sheffer asked us. “The bad news or the good?”
“The bad,” I said and, simultaneously, Dr. Patel said, “The good.”
Sheffer said the probate judge had decided to drop the criminal charge against my brother. The weapon thing. The bad news—potentially bad, anyway—was that Thomas had been released to the custody of the Psychiatric Security Review Board.
“The law-and-order guys, right?” I said. “The ones that want to lock up everyone and throw away the key?”
“Not everyone, Domenico. But the headline-grabbers do tend to have a built-in disadvantage.” She looked over at Dr. Patel. “In my opinion, anyway.”
“But Lisa,” Dr. Patel said, “Mr. Birdsey’s case is quite different from some of the other high-profile cases that have come before the Board. There’s no criminal charge, no victim.”
“Arguable,” Sheffer said. “The other people in the library that day were terrified, right? Afraid for their safety? Doesn’t that make them victims? They could argue that.”
I thought of Mrs. Fenneck’s appearance at my front door—that librarian telling me how she hadn’t been able to eat or sleep since. “Who could argue it?” I said.
“The Review Board. Or how about this: that Thomas was both perpetrator and victim. They could say they need to commit him long term to keep him safe from himself. Which may be a perfectly valid point. The weird part—the thing that worries me, frankly—is that they’ve already scheduled his hearing. Know when it is? The thirty-first.”
“The thirty-first of October?” Dr. Patel said.
Sheffer nodded. “Trick or treat, kids.”
“But that’s next week, Lisa,” Patel said. “His medication will have barely had time to stabilize him by then. He’ll have been back on his neuroleptics less than three weeks.”
“Not to mention that the fifteen-day observation period will be up that day.”
“Ridiculous,” Dr. Patel said. “How are they proposing to use our recommendations if we don’t even have time to observe him and write them up?”
Sheffer said the judge wouldn’t even listen to her argument
about postponement. “Ironic, isn’t it?” she said. “I’m usually complaining about how inefficient the judicial system is, but in this case, it’s the efficiency that scares me. Why are they being so expedient?”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” I said. “If this is some kind of bag job—if they’re trying to rush this through so they can sentence him to this rathole for another whole year—I’m going to raise holy hell.”
“You know, Domenico,” Sheffer said. “Hatch might be the most appropriate place for Thomas. Or it might not be. That’s the point: it’s just too soon to call it. But I’ll be honest with you: if you show up at the hearing ‘raising holy hell,’ that may just be your best shot at getting him out of here. At least it’ll make a statement: that he’s got family that cares. That his family might be willing to shoulder some of the responsibility. They might hear that, if you put it right. It all depends.”
“Depends on what?”
She looked over at Dr. Patel. “I don’t know. On politics, maybe. On who—if anyone—might be pulling from the opposite direction.”
When I got up to go, Dr. Patel asked me if I’d wait for a minute while she returned the tape recorder to her office. She’d see me to the front entrance, she said. She’d only be a minute.
Sheffer went over to her filing cabinet. She was wearing a tan suit and little matching high heels. Dressed up like that, she looked even more like a pip-squeak.
“Where’s your sneakers?” I asked her.
“Excuse me?”
“Your high-tops. I almost didn’t recognize you in your lady lawyer disguise.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’ve gotta dress the part for these conservative judges. Nothing wilder than Sandra Day O’Connor. You see the lengths I go to?”
“I’m starting to,” I said. Caught her eye. “Thanks.”
“I just hope it works,” she said. “Rough session today?”
“What?”
“Your brother’s session? You looked a little shell-shocked when I barged in here. Which I apologize for, by the way.”
I shrugged. Looked away from her. “No problem,” I mumbled.
When Dr. Patel returned, she took my arm and walked me back through Hatch’s liver-colored corridors. Past the guard station, up to the metal detector at the front entrance. Under the halogen glare, her gold and tangerine–colored sari was almost too much to take.