The guests were quiet as Hillary had recounted a similar retelling of the story.
“Still,” she concluded, “it’s an interesting concept, getting someone else or something else to pay the price for you.”
Jenny glanced at the slider half opened to the balcony. “I heard a rumor that someone in the witness protection program lives here.”
“A flasher, too,” Babs added, turning to me. “I heard it from that amateur paparazzi.”
“So about Dorian Gray,” Harry addressed Hillary. “How did he strike the bargain?”
“If I remember right, Dorian just makes a wish. Sorcery is only implied.” She twirled her wine glass. “The idea of transferring a soul is nothing new. The notion came way before organized religion.”
Babs looked at Harry. “Yeah, it’s like those primitives. They won’t let their pictures be taken. They’re afraid the snapshots will steal their essence.”
Considering Wolf as Harry’s Son
One weekend night, nearing our bedtime, Harry hovered over Wolf on the recliner looking cute as an adolescent abandoned to sleep. When I asked his motive, Harry answered, “That manny of yours, he’s forever around. He’s like the skunk at a garden party. Or the turd in the punchbowl. You keep pretending you don’t see it, but it’s still there.”
From Harry’s criticism, I assumed he had something radical in mind. And given Harry’s jealousy toward Wolf, I had an inkling of what it was. An ultimatum, either him or Wolf. That didn’t bode well for ever getting Harry on board with manny manufacturing.
“Harry, sweetie, don’t you think it’s kind of good he’s always in plain sight?” I said preemptively. “You know, out in the open where we can keep an eye on him. That way you’ll know if any alterations start to take place.”
“It’s more like he’s keeping an eye on us,” Harry said in a hushed tone.
“I’m sure he wouldn’t seem intrusive, if you viewed him differently. Or in a different role actually.”
“Such as?”
“Well, such as your son. A sort of chip off the old block.” I dismissed Harry’s grimace and continued. “You two look so much alike you could be mistaken for father and son.”
“A son. My little boy. My big boy,” Harry crooned as if taken by the idea.
“As parents we’ve already missed a lot. His first steps, his first tooth, his first word. Not really, but on the plus side, we didn’t have to put up with sleepless nights and dirty diapers.”
As I spoke, I realized I’d just assigned myself the role of my manny’s mom. To make my maternity official, I’d need to adopt the little wooden darling. In the event of a divorce, my being legally responsible for Wolf would help eliminate a custody battle. Legal guardianship would also put me in charge of the manny’s future family tree. In terms of manny marketing, I could spin off as many branches as I pleased.
Harry again eyed Wolf, lazing comfortably in his favorite chair. “Hard to take pride in a son like that. He always looks so…so stoned.”
“Typical teenager.”
I again turned to Harry, looking puzzled as I spoke. “Since Wolf has attained full manny-hood, adoption’s probably not necessary. But I do think that we should consider drawing up wills to avoid dying intestate and having Wolf sold at an estate sale.”
While Harry’s confusion deepened, I created a mental portrait of my newly established family. First, I saw Harry in his fancy dress uniform standing behind me with his hand on my shoulder as I, covered with diamonds and wearing a flowing red gown, sat on a golden thrown with Wolf, also in uniform, perched on my lap.
“Life comes without guarantees.”
“True,” I said, wondering what prompted that thought, “but some are assured a better outcome than others. That’s how mannys can be of benefit. Listen Harry, a manny could help civilize the human family. As a prop to practice on, a manny could teach people to treat one another with more dignity and respect. It’s like what happened to Jeffery Dahmer. If you see a family member abusing a defenseless manikin, you know you got a problem in the making.”
Harry had been staring at me as if I had a problem. “Honey?” He stepped closer and spoke in a confidential tone. “Don’t tell anyone else about the stuff you just said.”
“Why not?” After a length of silence, I narrowed my eyes. “Oh, I get it. Trade secrets, right?”
Harry’s mouth pinched into a weak smile. “I guess with you under a strain, struggling to make our ends meet and looking for a job and all, it’s okay if the manny sticks around a while.” Harry took my hand and kissed my fingers. “Later on, when you’re less stressed,” he said in a consoling tone, “we’ll work something out.”
Manipulating Harry
The next morning, another ruckus outside my apartment door, I looked through the peephole and saw trash scattered down the hallway. Right away, the sight told me I was viewing another example of Spike’s handiwork.
“I’ve had it with that rotten dog,” I said on my way into the kitchen. Harry was at the counter, plugging in the electric coffee pot. “He’s torn up another garbage bag some tenant put out in the hall and must have forgotten to dump down the trash chute.”
“So complain to the Pritchards. They might get rid of him,” Harry said.
“I can’t do that. They paid a fortune for the animal. Anyway, no one else would have him. He’d have to be put down. I couldn’t live with myself, let alone next to the Pritchards.”
“We can move,” Harry said.
I liked my apartment; I liked the entire building and its many amenities. More so, my expenses at Whitehall were predictable and there were too many costs associated with the process of moving.
“Why should we have to move and sub-let when Jason’s the one causing the problem?”
Harry snorted. “A guy afraid to leave the building will not be going anywhere soon.”
“He doesn’t have to leave. Management could find him another apartment.”
“If the Smiths even hint at the idea, Jason would suffer a coronary and sue their asses off. Remember how he panicked that time Ruthie was gone and Spike got out?”
I recalled the incident that happened last year before Harry got shipped out. Jason was about to go down to the game room, reserved that day for his appointment with Dr. Britonia, his psychiatrist. He had just stepped into the hallway when Spike zoomed past him and down the fire escape. Since Ruthie was off doing errands, Jason banged on our door, looking for help. It took Harry and the two gay guys on the third floor to get Spike leashed and muzzled in the alley.
“You could talk to Jason’s doctor in confidence,” Harry said. “Seems he’d be the best to advise you.”
I elevated my head. “Great idea. I’ll find out when his next house call is, and I’ll ambush him after their session.”
“Too obvious,” Harry said. “Jason will find out. Better to make an appointment yourself.”
“Me? How about you?”
“You make a better case. It’d be more authentic. Besides, you’re here alone most of the time, and it’s you the dog upsets.”
I considered his suggestion and groaned. “I can’t do it.”
Harry threw his hands upward. “We can’t leave here and we can’t stay here, either.”
“Is this is a ruse to get me to see a shrink?” I asked suspiciously.
“Come on, we’re settled here. This guy won’t laugh at you. He hears strange stuff all the time.”
“Harry, there’s nothing wrong with me.”
“I know, honey, you just have a few quirks.”
“I’ll tell you what’s quirky. Some guy at a party who imitates a wooden doll and pretends he’s lost his soul.”
“My soul wasn’t lost. It was sold without my consent.”
“It’s your soul,” I said, likewise getting louder. “I can’t sell it. You have to do that yourself. So I don’t see what you’re all worked up about.”
Harry paused, a ponderous expression on his face. “We�
�re soul mates, right?” he asked, and I nodded. “And we live in a community property state where married couples share fifty-fifty, right?”
Again I nodded.
“So you see, Judy, you can, too, sell my soul.”
I frowned, wondering how I get into these debates.
“Logically,” Harry continued, “it figures that the only way for me to get my soul back would be to return Wolf to Mr. Gippo for a refund.”
“Are you saying you actually went to see old man Gippo to buy back your soul?” I slapped my forehead. “And you call me loopy.”
“I didn’t go for that reason. I was on the waterfront anyway. That’s where I’m stationed, remember? I went there to see if I could get the manny’s eyes fixed. It’s my fault they’re broken.”
“And while at it, you just thought you’d ask if you might work a trade.”
“Well, that’s not the all of it. Because, guess what? Old man Gippo’s shop wasn’t there. It never existed.”
I stared at him in disbelief.
“I asked around, and everybody pointed me in the direction of a place where they make wooden toys by hand. The toy makers have been around that area of Pike Place for years, but they never heard of a woodcarver named Gippo.”
“Maybe he closed up shop. Maybe he retired. He was old, maybe he died.” The fog was thick the day I walked into Gippo’s store. It had swirled around me and buried the world in a fuzzy gray haze, but not so dense that I couldn’t see.
“Or maybe you just made up Gippo because you were too embarrassed to admit that you got Wolf from the battered suitcase of some sidewalk vender.”
I rolled my eyes. He’s back to twilight Willy and his trunk again.
“It’s ridiculous to imbue junk from a street peddler with special qualities,” Harry elaborated with conviction, “so you go on to concoct some lame fairytale to justify your fascination with the thing. Sometimes, when you tell a joke, you even look right past me toward Wolf as if to catch him laughing. It’s irrational.”
This entire discussion seemed irrational to me, still I tried to see it from Harry’s perspective and maintain some semblance of sanity. A navy man duty bound to uphold the status quo, Harry abhorred radical changes.
“I don’t see why I should see a shrink when you’re the one who needs his head examined,” I told him. “Should I again remind you of the party last week, your little performance, inviting an audience in to watch you morph, with your flattened-down hair and vintage sailor suit. Hey, why don’t you see Jason’s shrink, tell him the story you just told me?”
Harry waved his hand at Wolf. “If I did that, you can bet I’d tell the whole story. Not just my part, but yours too. Including your notions about that spindle-shanked dingus and your nonexistent woodcarver.”
On the surface, this argument seemed utterly inane. We acted like two spoiled kids fighting over a toy. Yet underneath there lurked a more serious issue, a contest of wills.
“I guess to some extent we’re both wrong,” I conceded. “Neither of us is willing to compromise.”
I went on to ask him to humor me for the time being. The manny was important to me. I never had much guidance growing up. My mother was distant; my father was uninvolved; both were absent in different ways. The manny filled a need during the long periods I spent alone and he toured.
Doing my wistful best, I said, “The manny never gets up and sails away.”
With a warm embrace, Harry likewise apologized. He did however agree that a move would deplete our savings.
“The cost of visiting Jason’s doctor would be a lot less than anything else we’ve come up with,” he said.
We exchanged kisses, and in a weak moment, I agreed to call Dr. Britonia for the sole purpose of discussing how Harry and I might deal with a mentally disturbed neighbor to avoid the hassle of a pricey move. Yep, the manipulation had worked, all right, in Harry’s favor.
Visiting a Shrink
The following day, I phoned Britonia’s office and spoke to the receptionist. I had hoped to hear an excuse for the doctor not to see me: he took only referrals or he was too busy. Instead, she said he’d be delighted to meet for a brief consultation. I thanked her and jotted down the Kirkland address, in the Evergreen Hospital complex, only a thirty-minute drive away.
“One other thing,” the receptionist cautioned after hearing the reason for the appointment, “the doctor can’t break client-doctor confidentiality if you mean to talk more about a client other than yourself.”
Two days later, around two in the afternoon, I sat in a chair across from Dr. Britonia’s desk.
After telling him something about myself, I explained the reason for my visit: the manner in which one of his patients, a close neighbor of mine, deals with his phobia is interfering with my life.
Dr. Britonia informed me that he did not discuss the diagnosis or treatment of his clients with anyone other than certain family members. He then clarified a few definitions and symptoms. A phobia is a fear thought to be produced by an intimidating situation that is then transferred to other similar situations, with the original being repressed or forgotten.
Agoraphobia, the fear of open or public places, is a particularly crippling illness, he explained. Panic attacks, or the sudden onset of intense apprehension, are common with agoraphobia. During an attack, a sufferer generally experiences a rapid heart rate, chest pains, and shortness of breath.
“It often feels like an impending heart attack. Sweating, trembling, even fainting is not unusual. It’s possible that you’ve observed,” Britonia said, leaning closer to me, “that a person with this disorder always tries to be in the company of a companion who tolerates his behavior.”
“Which is why I haven’t complained to either of the Pritchards’ about their vicious Rottweiler,” I told him. “We get along fairly well, and if I said anything to them, or worse, to management, everybody might end up enemies.”
“I knew Mr. Pritchard had a watchdog, but I had no idea it was vicious,” the doctor said.
“His wife takes care of it, but she’s barely able to. Spike’s too strong. He’s destructive and out-of-control.” I moved to the edge of my seat. “I don’t mean to invade Jason’s privacy and disrespect doctor-patient confidentiality, but both Jason and Spike have gotten worse since Ruthie dated Mr. Kin, he’s the manikin Spike’s always after.”
“Interesting,” the doctor noted, arching his eyebrows.
“It’s rumored that Ruthie’s hired a hit man because she’s so stressed out from putting up with Jason. I mean, she would have gone off the deep end long ago, if it weren’t for the manny. While she has no intention of snuffing out Jason, the idea’s made him so jumpy, I’m worried that sometime during one of his panic attacks, he might sic his dog on an innocent bystander.”
“Such as Mr. Kin, your manikin.”
“Correct. Wolf isn’t your straight-up cookie-cutter manikin. He’s almost life sized and carved out of wood. And has articulated joints that allow him to skate and dance and jog, but he doesn’t do those things on his own, like…you know, Willy, the dummy from the Twilight Zone.”
“Yet he’ll improve once his reassignment is complete,” the doctor said.
Baffled, I gazed at Britonia. Though I had spoken about things in general when I first came in, I didn’t recall mentioning anything about Harry’s transition—or his reassignment, to use the doctor’s psychiatric word. But then I didn’t have to, owing to the gossip Britonia was likely privy to during his visits to Whitehall, Gasbag Central.
“Harry, my husband, says things like that. Only joking, I don’t think he’s serious.”
The doctor offered a sly grin. “A wooden replica of one’s self might make some people uncomfortable.”
“Harry considers it a tribute. The manny’s like a sculpture meant to memorialize him.”
“I see. He considers it a tribute, yet he feels threatened by it.”
“Well, it’s the silliest thing, but my husband seems to thi
nk that I have somehow made a deal with the Devil to transfer his physical being to the manny. And the reverse too.” I laughed. “Not only do I have no idea where to find a lawyer to work a satanic contract, I think it’s impossible for me to swap somebody else’s soul to get rich.”
Britonia stroked his chin. “How did you acquire Mr. Kin, if I’m not being too inquisitive?”
“The place is closed down. It went out of business.”
“I’m not sure I’m following.”
“The manny’s glass eyes were damaged in a minor shakeup. So to make up for slapping him around, Harry tried to get them fixed, but the woodcarver’s shop was no longer there. Harry wouldn’t have lied about something that could so easily be checked.”
The doctor wrote on a sheet of paper in a folder opened on his desk. “So, you’re here for what reason?”
“Because I can’t afford to move from Whitehall, but I can’t stay put, either.”
“Because the Pritchards’ dog wants to kill your manikin.”
“No, the dog can’t kill him. But he can chew him up the same as he did to Miss Kitty so he could leave her paw at my door as a warning for me to back off.”
Britonia scrawled another note on the paper. The word certifiable, I imagined. As he lowered the pen and looked up, I feigned a pleasant smile. Yes, I answered when he asked if I had a good diet and got enough rest. No, I answered when he asked if I took drugs or drank to excess.
Britonia hinted that I consider therapy for myself. To top it off, he handed me the card of someone whom he preferred I consult.
“Seeing both you and Jason presents a conflict of interest,” he said in concluding our meeting.
Getting a Splinter
I’m really awful at the details involved in changing residences. Last time we moved from military housing to our present address was to put me closer to my job. To save money, we rented a truck, packed the boxes ourselves, and got a fellow sailor to give us a hand. To simplify the process, Harry insisted that I label the boxes so that they could be put in the proper locations. I marked most of the boxes “miscellaneous.” The assistant mover was happy about the convenience of leaving most boxes in one room, but Harry was stymied.
Me and My Manny Page 11