The last week of August, Gene appeared. He had followed his mentor to Minotaur. Its research and development labs were in Tarrytown, thus Gene had moved his family to northern Westchester county. I hadn’t heard from Toni since our Rosenhan conversation. Gene told me she hadn’t been much use to him; he stopped seeing her after only three sessions. “It was a practical problem anyway. I had to make this decision and it was tough. I was scared to stay and scared to go.” He wanted to see me professionally. He felt the new job—he was going to be project director for Minotaur’s new machine—would put him under unbearable pressure. Unbearable was his word.
“I don’t see adult patients anymore, Gene. I’m devoting all my time to the clinic. The few adults who come here will see other therapists. I specialize in working with children who have been severely abused. I’m not up to date treating adults.”
“You mean they’ve made therapy new and improved?”
“There’s always good work going on. It’s no different than anything else. If you came to see me you’d have to play Candyland and draw pictures with Crayolas.”
“Sounds okay to me. I’m pretty good at Candyland. I’m better at Monopoly.”
I laughed. “You sound healthy to me, Gene. Are you sure you really feel the need for therapy? Feeling pressure at taking a new job is realistic, you know.”
“Well … thanks. But …” He sighed. “Forget it.”
“No. I don’t want to forget it. Go on. But what?”
“I remember you saying I could always come and speak to you. For a tune-up, you called it.”
“A tune-up?” That sounded like Rafe the cocksure therapist. As if I were a master mechanic and people were machines that could be regulated with precision. I had promised him I would always be there to listen. He had trusted me with his tenderest feelings and now I was too busy?
I explained that I had moved from White Plains. The new clinic was in Riverdale. He said the drive was no problem and that his schedule was flexible, since he was a project director. He came at lunchtime, the hour I took off as part of relaxation from compulsive work. The construction of rooms for monitored interviews started at that hour, since we tried to keep the mornings quiet. The work crews were installing video cameras behind one-way mirrors—to lessen their obtrusiveness and improve the coverage for the sake of testimony. Our objective was to meet the requirements of the law without inhibiting the children. Every minute of contact had to be recorded or we could be accused of influencing the process and yet, particularly for early sessions, the obvious presence of cameras is distracting. We planned to show the children the equipment and the one-way mirror, then go into the regular rooms—they don’t seem much different from a cheerful kindergarten—and forget their existence. (Although some therapists tape without telling the children, I felt that was unfair. Unfair and too similar to the kind of lying typical of abusive adults.) We were going to videotape whether or not the law was potentially involved. How could we know in advance, for one thing, and the tapes should provide a useful tool for therapists to review and evaluate.
Gene recognized the video cables on his way in. I explained over the noise of the drilling and apologized.
“Are we being recorded?” he asked. He was in jeans, a wrinkled white button-down shirt and Top-Siders. His black hair was long, one bang cutting off an eyebrow. The style seemed too youthful for an adult. His face had few lines. With a little hair dye he could pass for an eighteen-year-old. Maybe he wasn’t clinging to youth emotionally; perhaps, chemically, he wasn’t a man yet. How could I know? (Joseph Stein, with whom I had renewed our childhood friendship after a twenty-year hiatus, had become a world-renowned neurobiologist, devoting all his energies—as have dozens of other talented people—to discovering how the brain works. Although Joseph still had faith that one day science would be able to locate the precise mechanism the drives every action, thought and feeling of humans, he frankly admitted to me that, as of today, we know very little; each discovery leads to more questions.) Gene not only wanted to be a boy—so did his body. What, in the end, do we really understand about rates of aging? It so often seems that everything in human nature can end up being argued as to which is first, the chicken or the egg. I wanted to keep an open mind. After years of training and work I was less sure of all theories. And how confident could I be of technique? Gene and I didn’t seem to have changed much. We were back where we started, asking the same questions.
“Recorded?” I stalled.
“I saw video cables and tape machines,” Gene pointed outside.
“That’s for the rooms where we work with children. Unfortunately, with kids, everything becomes a legal issue. We’re required to report to the police any accusation, whether we believe it or not. I want to stop child abusers, of course, but the truth is, I care much more about helping the kids. There’s part of me that wishes we were only asked to ease their pain, not help punish the guilty. The recording equipment isn’t used with adults unless they are accused of hurting kids.” Gene continued to look outside. After a silence, I added, “This is a safe place. What you say to me stays here.”
“I remember you used to say that all the time. But it isn’t true.” Gene smiled in my direction, although his eyes avoided mine. I was pleased that he had chosen to contradict me. In reviewing notes from our earlier work together, I concluded his trouble expressing anger hadn’t been worked through. I had been wrong not to encourage him to resist me actively.
“You don’t feel this is a safe place?”
Gene’s eyes were focused on my shoulder. They briefly scanned my face and settled on a point off to my left. He crossed his legs. “Oh, I guess it’s safe. I didn’t mean that. I meant it’s not true that what I say here stays here.” He paused and added softly, “I’ve read your books.”
I had published only two that contained histories of my patients. Following tradition, I summarized, with the names altered and other details changed for further disguise. Nothing I had written was like this text. Certainly nothing was revealed about me, and little of the real dialogue. Even so, I had asked my patients’ permission first. More to the point, I hadn’t used Gene’s case in any form. “I’ve never written about you, Gene.”
Gene brushed his long bang off his brow and glanced at me. This time, as he smiled, some teeth showed. “The Vomiting Boy?”
“Ah,” I said, understanding.
“You changed a lot, but that was me, right?”
“No,” I said. “You’re not the Vomiting Boy.”
Gene looked directly at me. He swallowed. His Adam’s apple seemed very prominent, more than I remembered. He uncrossed his legs. “Really?” he said, astonished; and a little sadly, I thought.
“It’s discouraging,” I said. “I had the same shock as a medical student. There are so many commonalities in human experiences. Vomiting is often a release of suppressed rage, especially in children. The Vomiting Boy was a different patient. I asked if he minded that I use his story and he agreed, provided I change facts that would identify him.” I paused. Gene continued to stare at me with a mix of confusion and sadness. I added softly, “I would never have written about you without asking first. And of course you could say no.”
“I never want you to write about me,” he said. He pressed his knees together and crossed his arms. He looked at my chest.
“Fine.” An observer might think he was in my office under duress. Of course, I hadn’t asked to see him, I had discouraged him. This apparent contradiction didn’t confuse me. For one thing, I believed he was disappointed that he wasn’t the Vomiting Boy.
“There’s stuff …” Gene looked out my window and fell silent. The Venetian blinds were open. Vans, a Dumpster, and a wheel of electronic cables dominated the view.
“Do you want me to close the blinds?”
“What? Oh. No.”
“There’s stuff—you were saying.”
“That’s why I couldn’t talk to Toni. You know. There’s stuff I just can’t h
ave anyone else know.” He smiled. “It’s not kid’s stuff anymore. Just the work things alone are big secrets. I don’t even want them to know I’m seeing a shrink.”
“No one has to know anything. I won’t write anything about you or discuss your case with anyone. But, as I think I’ve said before, I’m not treating adult—”
“I can’t,” he cut me off. He shook his head well after saying the words, back and forth, again and again, denying it over and over.
“You can’t what?”
“I can’t see anyone else. I don’t trust anyone else.”
“And yet you thought I had betrayed you?”
“No.” He frowned.
“No? You thought I had written—”
“Yes, yes you’re right. Are you always right?” His tone was intensely annoyed. That was new to me.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I think you’re always right.”
“Well,” I said, smiling, “you’re wrong.”
Gene didn’t get the joke. “I know. I always seem to be wrong.”
“What are you always wrong about?”
“I’m always wrong with women. Does any man ever win a fight with a woman?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Whom have you been losing fights to?”
Gene shifted in his seat. It was a captain’s chair, comfortable, but plain. My seat was an indulgence, a black leather Knoll Pollack swivel. Behind me were built-in book shelves, to Gene’s right were built-in filing cabinets. The door was solid pine, the walls and ceiling soundproofed, as were all of the consulting rooms. I had grown weary of white noise machines. Gene looked at all these things, as well as the halogen standing lamp, the other armchair. “There’s no couch,” he said, looking out the window. A worker walked past with a take-out container of coffee, smoking a filterless cigarette.
I got up to shut the blinds. “No, there isn’t,” I agreed. “They’re distracting me,” I said about the workers as I rotated the Venetians halfway, enough to block the view, yet allowing strips of sunlight to penetrate.
“You don’t use the couch with kids, I guess.”
“Sometimes. I don’t plan to see children in this office. Maybe some of the adolescents. I warned you, I’m not set up for traditional long-term therapy. Do you want to lie down? There’s—”
“No, it’s okay,” he said quickly.
I was amused by a recollection of our first conversation, the desires reversed about lying on couches, but the attitudes almost identical. “You’re a man, now, so it’s time to sit up,” I said. My tone was unusually lighthearted. Why? Did I think he was taking himself too seriously? How would I know?
Gene nodded. He continued to look around; at my phone, a typewriter on a side table, photographs of my mother, my father, Uncle Bernie, Julie, Grandma Jacinta and Grandpa Pepín, framed diplomas and a drawing in charcoal by “Timmy.” It was a representation of one of his dreams—a boy playing soccer on a frozen lake, standing atop blue water and kicking a gleaming white ball over a blood-red horizon.
“Why are you here, Gene? What’s on your mind?”
“I still can’t sleep.”
“Trouble falling asleep or staying asleep?”
“Both.”
“Have you had a checkup recently?”
“Yeah. I had to when I changed companies. For the insurance. I’m fine.”
“What wakes you up?”
He was looking at “Timmy’s” drawing, frowning at it.
“Dreams?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said.
“What dream wakes you up?”
“I don’t know if it wakes me up.”
“What dream do you remember best?”
“I’ve had this one many times.” A saw revved up close by my window. Evidently they weren’t as soundproofed as I hoped. Gene jerked to look in its direction, but he kept talking, “I’m in a gym. I think. It’s a little like the gym at One Room. Big and empty, with windows at the top. It was in the basement so the windows were almost at the ceiling.”
“Are you alone in the gym?”
“At first. It’s very still and peaceful. I think somebody wants me to do something, but I don’t know what.”
“Does not knowing worry you?”
“I’m not worried at first. And then she appears.”
The saw whined and shut off. Its silent aftermath added drama to my question: “Who is she?”
“I don’t know,” he was quick to say. He held his breath for a moment and added, “Just the sight of her scares me.”
“What does she look like?”
“Sometimes she’s blonde. Kind of, you know, sandy blonde hair like my wife. But she’s not my wife. Sometimes she has black hair, but it’s the same shape. You know, the same hairdo.”
“Long hair?”
“No. More like a helmet. She’s wearing a dress, a long print dress, but it has no top.”
“So it’s a skirt?”
“No. It isn’t. I don’t know how to explain, but it’s a dress with the top off.”
“So she’s bare-breasted?”
“Yeah.”
“What do they look like?”
“They’re huge. I mean, you know, like Playboy centerfold breasts, only they’re not pretty. The nipples are big and hard and very brown, sticking out at me.”
I wrote down—nipples/penises. Gene noticed and frowned. Anyway, it was silly to take notes. I opened my drawer and put the yellow pad inside.
“Does it excite you?”
“No.” The no was said defensively, fast and too loud. I said nothing.
Gene glanced at me, brushed his bang, although it hadn’t fallen back across his face. He took a breath and said, “She walks toward me and opens her mouth wide.” He stared at nothing. The skin under his eyes was darkened by fatigue; and the eyes were bloodshot.
“Un huh. And does she say something?”
“I think she’s going to.”
“What do you think she’s going to say?”
“What?”
“What do you think she’s going to say?”
“She never says anything.”
“I know.”
“You do? How?”
“You would have said already. What do you think she’s going to say?”
“Something nice. I don’t know what.”
“Something about her breasts?”
“Her breasts are gone now.”
“Gone? Or she’s clothed?”
“No. I don’t notice them. She spits at me.” Gene looked down at his lap. He fit the fingers of both hands together and twisted. “She doesn’t say anything. I’m sure she’s going to be nice, but she spits at me.”
“What happens to the spit?”
Gene looked up. He cracked his knuckles so hard that the noise made me queasy. “What?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Well, I don’t know. I guess—No!” Gene sat up, fingers separating, eyes up toward the ceiling. “I scream—‘Go away!’” Gene blinked fast and said in a rush, “I don’t wake up. I thought I woke up when I yell, ‘Go away,’ but actually the room disappears before the spit hits me. That’s what happens. I couldn’t remember why I didn’t think the dream wakes me up. It’s the second part that wakes me up. They’re connected.”
“I see. What’s the second part?”
A pause. Gene interlocked his fingers again. I hoped he wouldn’t crack them. “I’m at my terminal,” he said finally, as if he were making a judgment.
“Your terminal?”
“Yeah, before the spit lands I’m at my terminal, going over the board design for the, well it should be Black Dragon, but it’s not. I’m still working on Flash II. Black Dragon is the—”
“Don’t explain now,” I cut him off sharply. “You’re at a terminal … ?”
“Yeah. Mine.”
“And … ?” I was urgent.
He answered quickly, “The spe
cs don’t make any sense to me. They should. They’re simple stuff. Just the memory chip locations and—well, it doesn’t matter. I should be able to understand them, but I don’t. And then I realize all I have to do is hit Escape—That’s weird.”
“What’s weird?”
“Well, I use a mouse—you know, I mean, in reality. I don’t hit keys when I’m touring the machine.”
“Un huh. But in the dream you think about hitting Escape …”
“Escape. Pretty obvious, huh?”
“Maybe. Go on.”
“Okay, so I realize if I hit Escape, the screen will clear and I’ll understand everything, I’ll understand the whole machine, in one clear image, you know, I’ll have it all and we’ll be golden.”
“Do you hit Escape?”
“Yeah,” he said sadly.
“What happens?”
“The garbage freezes on screen, the whole machine freezes. So I go crazy. Do something you’re not supposed to. I make a terrible mistake.” He stopped, panting breathlessly.
I waited. Gene rubbed his chin, then frowned. “What do you do?” I prompted.
“I turn it off. That would erase all the garbage—but it would also erase the answer.”
“And then you wake up?”
“No. Not yet. I turn it off, but it doesn’t go off. The screen clears, though.”
“And that’s what you wanted.”
“Yeah—”
“You made a terrible mistake and got what you wanted.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. A message comes up, like one of Skip’s practical jokes.”
“Who’s Skip?”
“One of the hackers at Flash. He liked to play practical jokes. Bug your program so you think it’s malfunctioning and, just when you think you’ve got it licked, he’d have a message come up in Calligraphy letters. Very elegant and obscene.”
“What’s the message in the dream?”
He said the words slowly, with portent and doom in his voice: “You are a son of a bitch.” Gene nodded and spoke to himself, “They’re connected. Not different dreams but the same.”
Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil Page 38