by Homes, A. M.
“A lot of pet anxiety in the third world?”
“Human use,” he says.
“I didn’t know anyone still did electroshock.”
“It’s very popular,” he says. “Made a real comeback as one of the few successful treatments for drug-resistant depression.”
Something about the way Rosenblatt says “treatment for drug-resistant depression” makes me think of those commercials for detergent that show the detergent lifting grass stains right out of the khaki knee and washing them away. I now have electroshock and Tide inexorably bound in my mind.
“I had no idea,” I say. I honestly thought it had been banned as inhumane and perhaps cruel. “By the way, what does this place cost?” I ask.
“Your brother has very good insurance.”
“How good?”
“As good as it gets.”
“Where do people go from here, you know, when they ‘graduate’?”
“Some go to other residential programs, others to a transitional facility, and some go home.”
“How about jail?”
“You sound angry at your brother,” Rosenblatt notes.
“Just a little,” I say.
“You’d like him to be punished.”
“I don’t think he can be punished—at least, that’s what my mother used to say.”
“Really?”
“Yes, she often said, it’s funny about your brother, he can do whatever he wants, because if you try to punish him he doesn’t care.”
“Interesting. Do you think it’s true?” Rosenblatt asks.
I nod. “It’s hard to make much of an impression on him,” I say. “Speaking of which, when will I be seeing George?” I check my watch; it’s five-thirty.
“Dr. Gerwin, who is taking the lead in your brother’s care, would like to speak with you briefly, and then we’ll take you to George.” He pulls out a typed schedule and hands it to me. And then he hands me a second sheet—a feedback report. “If you could complete this before you depart and leave it with the front desk. The reports are graded, and we earn points, like miles that can be used for travel, shopping, or other services, depending on the grade.
“I’m about to go for a jog,” he says, looking at Tessie. “I’d be happy to take the dog.”
I think of Rosenblatt and his cat experiment. “Thanks, but I’ll keep her with me.”
Back in the main building, Dr. Gerwin and I meet in a small room like the kind of place you’d go to sign up for a gym membership or apply to join the navy—generic, antiseptic. We shake hands, and then immediately he pumps foaming Purell onto his hands.
“Perhaps I should as well,” I say, trying to make light of it. Gerwin pushes the Purell towards me; I fill my hands with foam and rapidly rub them together. “What fun.”
Gerwin looks like the actor Steve Martin; his features are somewhat rubbery, but his facial expression remains fixed, as though he has studied himself in the mirror and decided this one—a kind of tolerant but uncommitted half-smile—works best. He pulls out a manila folder and makes himself comfortable behind the small desk.
“When did you first see a psychiatrist?” he asks.
“Me?”
“Yes,” he says.
“I didn’t. Or I should say I don’t. I’ve never seen a psychiatrist.”
“Does it seem strange to you, to have come this far in your life without getting help?”
“No,” I say.
“Moving on,” Gerwin says, “your sex life.” And I’m not sure if it’s a declarative statement or a question.
“Yes,” I say.
“How would you describe it? The flavor?”
“Vanilla,” I say.
“Any sex outside of your primary relationship?”
“No,” I say, wondering how much he knows about the events that have brought us to this moment.
“Prostitutes?”
“Is this about me or George?” I ask. “Feel free to write down ‘defensive’ there, in that box. I want to help my brother, but, that said, I do feel I am entitled to have a private life.”
“Yes, we all have a private life,” Gerwin says, echoing my sentiment. “Prostitutes?” he asks again.
“No prostitutes. A private life—by that I mean one not discussed with you.”
“From our perspective, given the circumstances, it would be useful to discuss certain things.”
“Better for you than for me,” I say.
“How do you describe your emotional life?”
“I don’t have one,” I say honestly. In this arena I am actually jealous of Nixon—he was a good crier, you might even call him a crybaby. He often wept, or more like sobbed, openly. “I avoid emotion.”
“We all have our strategies,” he says. “If something happens that you don’t like, if someone treats you poorly, what do you do?”
“I pretend it never happened,” I say.
We find George on the tennis court, with the ball machine firing balls at him and a coach shouting at him to swing, flatten out, follow through.
“He’s got a strong backhand,” the doctor says, watching through a window.
“Always did,” I say.
At the end of George’s lesson, I’m invited to meet him in the locker room. Gerwin takes Tessie, and I go in to find George naked in the shower, talking to me through the soap and water.
“Is Tessie with you?” he asks.
“Just outside. I didn’t bring her in; she doesn’t like tile. Your backhand looks good,” I say, trying to make conversation. I’m not sure what the hell I’m supposed to talk about.
“They say I’m making progress.”
“That’s great,” I say, and I’m half wondering if he thinks he’s on some sort of executive retreat and not an inpatient in a lunatic asylum.
“Almost time for dinner,” he says. “You staying?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’ll be here tonight and tomorrow.” It’s all a bit strange, out of body. I’ve been sent by his doctors into the locker room to reunite with him while he’s naked and floating in what would appear to be a heavily medicated, post-game high.
“I’ll let you get dressed,” I say, preparing to leave. I exit and find Gerwin, who hands me the leash, with Rosenblatt and the tennis coach, all standing around talking about how good it is that George is “back in the game.”
When George comes out of the locker room, Tessie sees him and pulls hard on the leash. George gets down on his knees, in front of her, butt in the air, arms extended—play position. The dog is excited but suspicious. George rolls onto his back, puts his hands and feet in the air. The dog acts like she’s pleased to see him but knows he’s nuts. I feel the same way myself—cautiously optimistic.
“Smart girl,” I say.
As we go into the dining room, one of the staff takes Tessie, leading her off “while you have dinner.”
George turns to me and says, “You look old.”
“I had a little incident,” I say.
“Didn’t we all,” he says.
“I had another one,” I say. “After that one.”
Rosenblatt, Gerwin, and the tennis coach follow us into the dining room.
We sit. I tuck the accordion file of papers I brought from home and have been carrying everywhere under my thighs. A waiter asks how many of us would like a “berry blast.” They all raise their hands.
“Are you in or out?” the coach says, looking at me.
“What’s a berry blast?”
“A green-and-red smoothie, antioxidant-rich, with added omega-3,” he says, as though it’s obvious.
“Fine,” I say, “I’m in.”
“What’s the candy bar?” George asks.
“A Toffee-Mocha Musketeer.”
I’m wishing I knew what language they were speaking. “I’ll have the steak,” I say.
“We’re vegetarian,” the waiter says. “I can bring you seitan piccata. It’s a mock meat; people say it tastes like veal.”
“Can’t wait.”
The waiter takes the rest of the orders and lets us know that the salad bar is open. I look at the other guests. It’s hard to tell who’s on staff and who’s a patient; everyone looks like they’re dressed to play golf. On the other side of the salad bar, there’s a door leading to what looks like a private dining room. Suddenly there’s a burst of commotion as an entourage sweeps across the main dining room and into that small dining room. In the middle of it all, surrounded, I see the back of the head of an older man with thick white hair—the former hopeful.
“You’re a historian?” Gerwin asks, attempting polite conversation.
“Professor and author; I’m working on a book at the moment.”
“My kid brother thinks he knows a thing or two about Nixon,” George adds.
“I’m older, actually, by eleven months. I’m older,” I repeat.
“What is it about Nixon that interests you?” Gerwin asks.
“What isn’t interesting? He’s fascinating, the story is still unfolding,” I say.
“The fact is, my brother is in love with Nixon, he finds him compelling despite his flaws. Kind of like me, a regular laugh riot,” George says.
“Speaking of you, will George go to jail for the rest of his life?”
“We’re not the ones who make those decisions,” Gerwin says, as if protecting George.
“We’re not legal types,” the coach says.
“Nothing like cutting to the chase,” George says.
“George, have you told these guys the story of how Dad once knocked you out and how you saw stars for a week?”
“Remind me,” George says. “How does that one go?”
“You were giving the old man a hard time about something and he asked you to come closer and you did and then he said, ‘I don’t ever want you to be confused about who’s the boss,’ and he popped you one. Pop was like a Mafia man, always bullying and berating, a very primitive man.”
“You’re saying bad things about him because he liked me better,” George says.
“I’m okay with how much he liked me or not,” I say. “When I look back at you, George, I think we should have read the writing on the wall: the coffee cup smashed against the kitchen cabinet, the body-sized dent in the Sheetrock, the trash-can lid bent.”
“Outbursts against inanimate objects don’t always signal that you’re going to kill your wife,” Rosenblatt says.
“You’re right. George, do you remember the time a psychiatrist asked you, ‘Have you ever hit a woman,’ and you said, ‘Only on the ass’?”
George laughs heartily. “I do, I do,” he says.
“What about target games?” I ask George’s team. “What about when you’re playing carnival games on a boardwalk, shooting a straw of pellets at Mr. Magoo, only you turn your rifle away from Mr. Magoo and aim right at your brother?”
“Out of context, it’s hard to evaluate,” Rosenblatt says.
“Did he tell you about how he ran me down with the car?”
“There you go, dragging out that old chestnut, your favorite of them all. And I didn’t run you down, I bumped you.”
“On purpose.”
George shrugs. “I won’t deny it.”
“His nickname in high school was Vanquisher.”
“Enough,” Gerwin says. “The point of this dinner was to talk about mindless things, and simply get along.”
“Yeah,” George says. “Put a cork in it.”
I dig into my seitan piccata, which tastes like breaded cardboard with a kind of gummy lemon-caper-cornstarch gravy. During the meal, I ask Rosenblatt about when I might have a few minutes with George alone to go over some private family business, house repairs, the children, pets, financials.
“It’s not on the schedule?” he asks, perplexed.
I shake my head. “It’s why I’m here; I need to speak with him. How about tonight, after dinner?” I suggest.
Rosenblatt looks at me like the thought never occurred to him. “Could do,” he says, taking out a pen and scribbling it in on the schedule.
And so, after Tofutti with fake hot fudge and pots of green tea that taste like fish water, Gerwin, the coach, and Rosenblatt stand. “We bid you adieu,” Gerwin says, “for tonight.”
The coach slaps George on the back. “Proud of you,” he says. “You’re really working hard.”
They are so fucking encouraging that it’s nauseating. “Are all the patients treated like this?”
“Yes,” Gerwin says. “We’re about creating a safe environment—much difficulty comes from fear.”
“I’ll be over there”—Rosenblatt points to a table near the door—“if you need me.”
“Fuckin’ freak show,” George says when they’re all gone.
“And you’re the star,” I say.
“How’s my dog and kitty?”
“Fine,” I say. “It would have been nice to know about the invisible fence, but we figured it out.”
“Are you giving Tessie the vitamins and the anti-inflammatory?”
“Which ones are hers?”
“In the kitchen cabinet, the big jar.”
“I thought they were yours,” I say. “I’ve been taking them daily.”
“You’re a moron,” George declares.
I pull the accordion file out from under my ass. “There are some things I have to ask you. I’ll start with the small stuff: How does the outdoor light for the front yard work? Also, I met Hiram P. Moody, he came to the funeral—does he pay all the bills? Is there anything I need to know or keep an eye on, about the accounts or how Moody gets paid? What’s your PIN number? Also, I tried to use one credit card but it was password-protected; they asked for your mother’s maiden name, I typed in Greenberg, but it didn’t work.”
“Dandridge,” George says.
“Whose name is that?”
“It’s Martha Washington’s maiden name,” he says, like I should know.
“Funny enough, that had never occurred to me; I thought they meant your mother’s maiden name, not like the mother of America.”
“Sometimes I forget the actual family, but I never forget Martha,” George says. “I’m surprised you didn’t know, you call yourself a historian.”
“Speaking of history, I tried to enter your place of birth as New York, but again I was wrong.”
“I use Washington, D.C.,” George says. “It’s really a question of what I can keep in mind.”
“Exactly,” I say. “And before I forget,” I say, triggered because the word “mind” rhymes with the word “online,” “I met a friend of yours.”
“Oh,” he says, surprised.
“She says your dick tastes like cookie dough and says you know her better from the back than the front.”
The face George makes is priceless. “I’m not sure what this is all about,” he says, flustered. “You said you wanted to ask me about some things in the house, and now this bombshell. Are you sure you’re not working for the enemy?”
“How would I know? Who is the enemy, and do they identify themselves? And while we’re sailing down the slippery slope, does your lawyer visit you? Are they preparing any kind of a defense? Do you receive any calls or letters?”
“Nothing,” George says. “I have been forsaken, like Christ on the cross.”
I am amused by the grandiosity of George’s comparison of his situation to Christ on the cross. “Are you making friends here?”
“No,” he says, getting up from the table, “they’re all wack jobs.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have to take a leak,” he says.
“Are you allowed to go by yourself?” I ask, genuinely concerned.
“I may be insane, but I’m not an infant, you asshole,” he says, and exits the dining room.
Rosenblatt, sitting up front writing in his charts, shoots me a look—all okay?
I give him the thumbs-up.
The dining room is empty except for one guy setting tables
for tomorrow and another working the carpet sweeper.
When George comes back, it’s as though we start fresh. He smells like rubbing alcohol. “I Purelled,” he says. “I did my hands and face; it felt so good, I took my shirt off and did my pits too. I love the smell, very refreshing. Gerwin’s got me hooked on the stuff. All day long I see him washing himself—can’t help but wonder what’s going on there, what makes him feel so dirty.” George winks at me.
I ignore the wink and tell him about the trip to school for Field Day. “I stayed in a B&B for a hundred eighty a night—everything was sold out, the woman rented me her kid’s room. I had a Hello Kitty mobile spinning over my head all fucking night.”
“I have a room at the Sheraton; it’s booked and paid in full for the next five years.”
“How would I know?” I ask.
“You wouldn’t,” he says.
“So that’s why I’m here: there are things I need to know. Do you think the children should see you, should they come for a weekend?”
“I don’t think children are popular here,” he says. “I’ve never seen any.” George looks wistful, lost in time. “Do you remember the day—a long time ago, we might have been eight or nine—when I punched a random stranger, some guy who was walking down the street?”
I nod: who could forget?
“It was fantastic,” George says, clearly still getting pleasure, if that’s the word for it, from the incident. “I saw him double down and wonder what the hell, and I felt fantastic—high.” He shakes his head, as if clearing the memory and coming back into the present time. “We were lucky little shits who got what we needed.”
I shrug. “Speaking of oddities,” I say, “there’s a particular memory that keeps coming back to me.” I pause. “Did we screw Mrs. Johannson?”
“What do you mean, we?” George asks.
“I have a memory of the two of us screwing the neighbor lady: you giving it to her on the king-sized bed, me cheering you on, bursting with pride—go, go, go. Then, when you were done, she still wanted more, and I gave it to her.”
“I screwed her and maybe I told you about it,” George says. “I used to mow their lawn, and then sometimes she’d invite me in for lemonade, and then she started inviting me upstairs.”