Wolfman - Art Bourgeau

by Art Bourgeau

  Charles listened. When she was finished he said, "What an interesting case. Complex, intelligent, responsive. What's bothering you?"

  "What he's not telling," she said.

  "Nothing unusual about that, especially with symptoms this complex. Besides, it’s early, you’ve only touched the surface. You know that." He stopped for a moment. "But then you're not talking about his past, are you? You’re talking about the present."

  She lit another cigarette."He broke in on one of my sessions today . . ." She considered telling him that Loring had stolen her scarf afterward but didn’t, even though it was what had led her to call Charles for lunch. The scarf was such a bare statement of Loring's need. To discuss symptoms with another professional was one thing, but to tell about the scarf would, somehow, be a sort of betrayal on her part . . .

  Charles's eyebrows raised at this information. "I see, and what did you do?"

  Margaret turned and looked out the window. In the near distance she could see the Cathedral of Sts. Peter and Paul.

  "I sent him away."

  "And . . . ?"

  "I didn’t want to, he was in a bad way. He needed me — "

  "Needed you . . . or needed to see you?"

  She took a drag on her cigarette. "Same thing."

  "No, it’s not, you know that . . . is he attractive?"

  "That's inappropriate. You wouldn’t ask a man that. This is a professional situation we're talking about."

  "That's true, it is a professional situation we're talking about, but I think it's a valid question. And one that I most certainly would ask a man describing a similar situation with a female patient."

  "I just don't much like the way you're putting it. You make me sound like a so-called typical female. Is that how you really think of me?"

  "No, of course not, and I'd think after all these years you'd know that. Let’s table the question."

  "Let's not. Yes, he is attractive. One of the handsomest men I've ever laid eyes on. Satisfied?"

  Charles nodded, continued in a soft voice as if her outburst never happened. "Is he the first patient who has ever broken in on one of your sessions?"

  "There have been others."

  ". . . And you sent them away, too," he said. When she said yes, he said, "But something made this one different. What was it? Was he suicidal? Did he threaten you or appear violent when you told him to go?"

  She shook her head. "He would never hurt me." She realized she'd better explain that, even if she wasn't being entirely honest. "He's not that kind of man, he’s very gentle, he could never hurt anyone. That’s what makes it so bad. When I sent him away I really hurt him, I know I did. He thinks I rejected him . . ."

  Damn it, this wasn't how she planned it. Everything she was saying was coming out wrong. Charles was being argumentative. She looked away. God, was she going to cry?

  He put a hand on her arm. "What you're telling me is dangerous ground. You did the right thing to send him away. If you’re going to help him you’ve got to maintain control, and from what you’re saying he does need your help."

  "That’s what I'm trying to tell you," she said.

  "Margaret, what you’re going through happens to every analyst at some point in his career. He meets a patient who gets around his reserve. Not as often as the public thinks, but it happens. Patients can be very seductive. You’re alone with them for long periods of time. They expose themselves to you. A special closeness develops. It's almost sexual by definition. Sex is, after all, the physical communication of unspoken needs."

  "It's not like that, Charles. I'm not going to go to bed with him, for God's sake."

  "But you’re thinking about it."

  Instead of denying it, she straightened and asked him why he said that.

  "We’re discussing distance. If we look at ourselves as the center, and the people of our lives as concentric circles around us, like rings on a tree, the most distant circle is our enemies. The closer in we get, the more intimate the relationship, until we reach the center, which is symbolized by the sex act, when the statement of closeness is made by one partner actually being inside the body of the other."

  He paused to light a pipe. "Your exact words a moment ago were — ’I’m not going to go to bed with him.' You didn't say, ’I'm not thinking about going to bed with him.' Which indicates to me that you’ve moved him one concentric circle closer to the center. More important, you’ve gone from a passive, romantic speculation to an active denial, which, as you well know, means that in your own subconscious you’ve accepted the possibility as reality."

  "No Charles, you’re wrong. What I'm telling you is that . . . what I’m telling you is that this is a patient I’m very concerned about. Period"

  "No," he said gently, "you're telling me that you're human, that you're afraid you're about to make a mistake, that you need help."

  She looked at him. "What you're saying doesn’t make me sound very professional, does it?"

  "Bullshit. I’m not Bill Buckley. Your libidinal considerations aside, what we're talking about here is plain wrong from every standpoint. Sheer folly, as they would have said in the nineteenth century. There are no grounds on which you can justify it. Patients are like your children. They trust you. You can't betray a trust."

  "Charles, you're way out in left field. What I want to talk about is the best way to help him."

  "That's what I’m talking about, too . . Look, satisfy an old man’s curiosity. Tell me your dreams."

  She looked at him for a long moment. It was a mistake to come here, but if I don’t answer him he’ll think something worse anyway. "All right. I dreamed about him twice. Each time we were in a house. He was in the kitchen making dinner. I came and stood in the doorway — "

  "I won't insult your intelligence by interpreting that one for you . . . What about your waking hours? Your wish-thinking?"

  "Can I have another glass of wine . . . no, make it a Perrier," she said, remembering the Valium.

  He caught Keith’s eye and ordered.

  "I think Adam is having an affair . . . with one of his students. She's nineteen. A friend told me about them. At first I didn't believe it, hated her for telling me. You know . . . kill the messenger, but after a while I couldn't deny it any more. Oh, he has an excuse every time he’s late or goes out at night but . . ." She turned to look out the window again. Damn it, she needed someone to care about her for a change. "Charles, nineteen-year-olds can be very indiscreet, and heartless. Every night she calls. If I answer she just listens, doesn’t say a damn word. Adam calls it a prank caller, but I know it's her." She paused. "But there have been times when I pretended to myself it was my patient, not her."

  "Is this a what's-fair-for-the-goose deal?"

  She whipped around to look at him, her eyes angry. "Don't humiliate me. We've been friends too long. I didn't come here for that."

  He was silent for a moment, then: "I'm sorry for what's happening between you and Adam. I don't want to see you hurt, but — "

  She shook her head. "I know what you're going to say — but you're not listening to me, you're projecting — "

  "I'm projecting? Talk about transference. Margaret, face it, you're becoming emotionally involved with a patient who has a very complex psychological disorder. Run-of-the-mill neurotics don't go around having psychotic episodes in men's stores."

  Loring's face came to her mind. Charles was no god. Loring was her patient. Charles didn't know him. "It wasn't psychotic. It was hysteric. There's a big difference, I believe."

  "I’m aware of it, I only hope you are. From the way you described him, he could also be schizophrenic. The symptoms are often similar, but they're worlds apart in what could happen."

  "He's not schizophrenic."

  "How do you know? Have you given him a Minnesota Multiphase or done any other testing?"

  "No, it's too early. His therapy is just getting underway."

  "Then I'm going to keep the book open on whether he’s schizophreni
c, and so should you. But that doesn’t change things, you’re upset yourself, and you’re letting a very disturbed person become obsessed with you. Sleeping with him is not the question, we both know that the wish can have the effect of the deed. The absence of the physical can be just a salve for conscience. What I’m saying is that you’re endangering both of you by continuing with him under the present circumstances. I think you should withdraw and refer him to another analyst."

  She reached for her cigarettes. "That’s not what Freud would say. He would say the solution to the conflict is through catharsis — "

  "Screw Freud," Charles said, "and don’t try to cite Jung’s affairs with his patients, either. I’m talking about what's right and wrong for you and for this patient. I’m not talking about a relative situation. With the present stress in your own life, you just cannot help him."

  "Charles, please believe me. This time the wish is not the deed. I’m not going to sleep with him. I want to help him."

  He looked at her for a moment. Finally he said, "I believe you . . . on both counts, but the best way you can help him is to cut him loose. Don’t endanger yourself and your patient, too," he repeated.

  She shook her head. This time this wise man was plain wrong. There was no danger. She was grateful to Charles for the past, but she’d been wrong to involve him in this situation. It wasn't something even Charles could take in second-hand. She would help Loring herself. "I’m sorry. I can't," she said. "To withdraw would be the real danger." She honestly believed that.

  CHAPTER 12

  BRIAN COLLINS quietly slipped on his dark jacket and left by the back door of the West Mt. Airy twin. His mother had gone to bed early. She was a sound sleeper and wouldn't miss him. The night was his, he thought as he stretched in the cold air, looking up at the sky. There were clouds. It might rain before morning, but the moon still shone brightly. A bomber's moon was what it was called in the novel he was reading. That's all he needed, just enough light to see by. He headed for the garage where he kept his bicycle. He hadn't been back to the park since the night he encountered the man with the gun. It was the first time he'd ever shot anyone. Always before they handed over their money without a fight.

  Inside the garage he didn’t turn on the light. He didn’t need it, the garage was his domain, he knew every inch of it by heart. His workshop was there, his chemistry lab from years ago, even a couple of well-worn copies of Playboy and Penthouse. He went to an old sofa in the corner and lifted one of the cushions. Wedged there was the gun. He picked it up and twirled it on his finger cowboy-style. The weight felt good in his hand. The gun was his proudest possession, even though he couldn’t show it to anyone. It was exactly like an old West Colt .45 except it was a .22. He’d taken it and a box of shells from a house on Livesey Street in his second burglary. That was over a year ago. So much had happened since then.

  Also wedged among the cushions was a pint of Gordon's vodka. In the faint light he could see there wasn't much left. He took off the top and drank from it, grimacing from the sterile non-taste. If he had his choice it would be bourbon, he liked the brown color and its sweet richness better, but it left a strong odor his mother could smell on his breath. He replaced the top and wedged it back among the cushions. What he really wanted was a line or two of coke, but he'd been out for over a week. Maybe tonight would change all that, he thought as he jammed the gun into the waistband of his trousers and zipped his jacket again.

  The vodka bottle had been full his last time in the park, but the shooting left him so shaky he drank almost all of it as soon as he got back to the safety of the garage, and then paid the price by being sick and throwing up twice during the night. Fortunately his mother thought it was a stomach virus and let him stay home from school the next day. Otherwise he didn’t know what he would have done.

  He pushed his bicycle outside and got on, wishing it was a car. Someday . . . he thought, as he started to pedal. Right now things were too tight. He knew the worried look on his mother's face, and he wouldn’t add to it by asking. The only reason he was able to go to prep school was because of his father’s checks. A couple of times when the checks were late he told himself it didn’t matter, but he knew it did. That’s why he studied so hard.

  As he pedaled toward Emlen he thought about the chemistry he was studying earlier. It was all math, nothing like his old lab in the garage, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't seem to make heads or tails of it. The only reason he continued to take it was because it would be helpful later when he tried to get into college.

  When he reached Emlen he paused to consider his best approach to the park. He didn't really think the man he'd shot was a cop. Every day since he had poured over the papers. There was nothing in them about it, only about the Hightower killing, and they always wrote up every cop shooting. But if he was a cop it could mean trouble in the Valley Green section. They might have it staked out, so he decided to go to Hortter instead. There was always someone parking near where it dead-ended at the stables. Maybe one car would be enough to get him a gram later. That would take about a hundred, which was reasonable to expect from two people parking. He started to pedal again.

  He was fifteen when he burgled his first home, a colonial on Allen’s Lane that belonged to friends of his father who were away on vacation at the time. It was a disappointing experience. He had no way to dispose of televisions or stereos so he had to settle for the less than thirty-five dollars he found in a kitchen drawer. Nowhere near enough to get the Jamaicans to sell him some. It made him so angry that he poured a gallon of bleach onto the Oriental rug in their living room. Several cars passed him before he reached Hortter. Each time he kept his head down so they wouldn't see his face. All together he'd burgled about fifteen homes before he got up his nerve to use the gun to hold up people.

  Since then things were much more profitable. Now he could afford cocaine on a regular basis with even a little extra to share. No doubt about it, he thought, his life had taken a turn for the better. Gone was that feeling he wasn't good enough. He was king of the hill whenever he wanted to be. Who cared if he didn’t play football. He had plenty of friends, people at school who eighteen months ago wouldn't give him the time of day.

  He even had a girlfriend . . . blonde, sophisticated, good-looking. Traci was her name. On Saturdays she would take him to the Germantown Cricket Club or to parties, not that any of that mattered much to him. Not when compared with the pleasure of getting high. That was what really counted, getting to the edge and holding it. A little coke, when that started to get out of hand, a mouthful of vodka or a toke or two on a joint, then a little more coke. Fine tuning, that's what it is, he thought, and the world’s a better place for it.

  At Hortter he turned right. What he was doing wasn't wrong. If those fatheads in Washington would wake up and legalize marijuana and cocaine, it wouldn't be so expensive. Everyone knew the stuff wouldn't hurt you. Hell, half of the people in Congress used it. It was just their hypocrisy that kept them from doing the right thing.

  He crossed Wissahickon Avenue and slowed down. It was only a few hundred yards to what he thought of as his private "fishing hole." He stopped and hid his bicycle up the hill in the woods where no one would see it and went along on foot. In a few moments he saw that fish were present this evening in the form of a station wagon with imitation wood paneling, the kind a family would use. He was sure they had no business here.

  Over the year most of the cars he held up had no business here. Many of them were gays, which pleased him. They were never any trouble. It was almost like they enjoyed it. Not like the tough-looking guy with the gun. Cop or no cop, his car should have been a tip-off, an old beat-up Camaro. Only a hard ass would drive a car like that. It was a mistake he would not let himself repeat in the future.

  He thought about the shooting. It was the most exciting thing he’d ever done, even though in his panic he’d run off without the loot. The fact that there was no mention of it in the papers showed him that th
e man wasn’t dead, but he didn’t care either way. Not any more. Pulling the trigger was easy, and it was fun. He would do it again without hesitation.

  His watch said midnight. He wondered what they were doing now in the car. Timing was so important. The part he liked best was jerking open the car door and seeing the look on their faces. He smiled at the thought of it. Tomorrow night at the basketball game he would have a gram, maybe two, and everyone would get well. Even Traci, if she was especially nice. He pulled the gun from his waistband and spun the cylinder, making sure it was loaded. With a nod to himself he started for the car, thinking he was just keeping with tradition like Billy the Kid or Jesse James, or the guy he’d been reading about lately . . . Charles Manson. All the people who saw society for the crock of shit it was.

  Crouching slightly, he moved closer, being careful where he stepped. Surprise was the key to the whole thing, that and the gun. A few more steps brought him to the rear fender on the driver's side. He was almost trembling with excitement. This was the part he really dug.

  The light came on inside the car when he jerked open the door, and he got a good look at the two people in the front seat. A man and a woman. The woman's blouse was open and her pants were down. The man's fly was open, and they were kissing and touching each other all over.

  The woman let out a little scream when she saw the gun. The man turned around, angry and scared at the same time.

  "What the hell — —" Then he saw the gun, too.

  Brian smashed the man's ear with the gun, and the fight went out of him. Brian smiled at how ridiculous the man looked, all exposed like that.

  "Don't hurt us, please," the woman said, trying to cover her breasts.

  He grabbed the man's hair and pulled him out of the car. His experience with the tough-looking man had taught him one thing . . . don’t be so easy with them. He made the man lie down on the road beside the car.

  "Please stop. We'll do whatever you want," the woman said. He looked at her in the light. The frightened look on her face turned him on. "Move your hands, I want to see you," he said.