I also warned Halley that I wouldn’t be available to tuck her in and refused to discuss why although she was sure to learn the reason from Stick. When she said, “How about Friday?” I said softly, “No.”
I can imagine what Stick fantasized Edgar and I would say to each other during the ride to temple. In fact, we reminisced about Great Neck High, the old men who played gin at the country club, and the toughness of his father and my uncle in business. Edgar launched into an anecdote about Bernie to illustrate. “You know,” Edgar said, “when your uncle bought Home World he was having trouble with the Mafia hijacking trucks. Hijacking! The union drivers would pull over nicely at such and such a time in a rest stop and have a cup of coffee while goombahs would take their load. Then they’d call the cops. It was a regular thing, taking about ten percent off the top. That was fucking up his profit margin big-time. So supposedly Bernie goes to see the Godfather—who’s drooling in a wheelchair in his mansion. Somehow Bernie knows him—”
I explained, “When they were kids they used to lead gangs against each other in the Bronx.” I knew the story he was telling, but I was interested in his version.
“No kidding? That’s for real?”
“That part is real,” I assured him.
“So Bernie tells him …” Edgar started to laugh and he began again, “So Bernie, he brings this big hulking Jew with him,” Edgar laughed again so hard that he paused, swallowed and continued, “Bernie says, ‘This man here is on a leave from the Israeli Army. He needs work and he has lots of buddies from Tel Aviv who need work and if my trucks keep having trouble, they’ll be riding in every one for me as security men. You know about the Israeli Army,’ Bernie says. They’re used to fighting Arab terrorists so they don’t mind getting their hands dirty,’” Edgar smiled. “And that was why the Home World trucks made their rounds without losing any inventory. Now here’s the payoff. Supposedly the big hulking Jew was a cantor from a synagogue in Texas.” Edgar laughed. We were exiting the LIE, heading for Community Road. He looked through the smoked-glass window at a Mercedes flanking us. The driver was a jeweled woman with a deep tan. Beside her was an African-American nanny. In the back, a toddler sat beside an infant in a car seat. “God,” he said to their comfortable domesticity, “I wish that story was true.”
“It’s true,” I told him.
“Really? You’re shitting me.”
“I know it’s a true story.”
“Are you sure? You knew it? Why didn’t you stop me?”
“I’m sure. I didn’t stop you because I wanted to know if you had it right. And you don’t. The hulking Jew wasn’t a cantor. He was a colonel in the Mossad.”
“You’re shitting me,” Edgar said.
“No. Uncle was good at matching men with jobs they were qualified for.”
“Don’t be a bleeding heart.”
“Between the two of us, Edgar, you’re the sentimental one.” He was. He stayed beside me through our entrance at the temple and, despite gestures of invitation from men important to him in business, pulled me down the center aisle row after row. Twice I mumbled, “Here’s good.” Edgar insisted on our progress until we got to the front where Julie sat in a black dress, an arm around each of her children.
“I brought him,” Edgar said to her.
She stood up. I had only a moment to see that her hair was cut very short, her skin looked five years younger than when we last saw each other, and that her warm brown eyes, calm before she saw me, were immediately wet. She was in my arms and that’s when I knew something was wrong with me. Julie’s strong back, the feel of her long body in my arms, had always, always and I thought forever, been both a thrill and a comfort. Although my mind told me to embrace her thoroughly, if only to express sympathy, my body revolted. My arms were stiff, my legs tense, and my belly reluctant to be flush with her.
“It’s so good—” she said in my ear and tried to squeeze my unyielding chest. “It’s so good to see you.”
I pulled away as soon as I could, mumbling I was sorry. She wiped away a tear and smiled. “Here are my babies,” she gestured to a handsome eleven-year-old curly-haired boy and a shy nine-year-old girl—my cousins, and I realized in a flash, the only heirs I was likely to have. Was I that alone? Not even to have been introduced to my future?
The listless ceremony began. Her dead father, Harry, was the loved parent; Ceil had been a critical and self-absorbed woman. Probably I was the only one who knew how little Julie liked her and felt loved by her. Not that the loss of her mother left her cold. On the contrary, she wept harder at this funeral than at her father’s, out of guilt and regret.
But I wasn’t the only one who knew what she was feeling, I reflected. I looked around for her husband and only then noticed he wasn’t present.
When we rose to follow the casket to the grave, Julie gathered her children with one arm and reached for my hand with the other. “You’re with us,” she said. Her eyes were red and tears kept flowing, although her voice was strong and clear. As we led the way out with the other Rabinowitzes, between mumbled thanks to mumbled expressions of condolence, Julie whispered asides to me. I didn’t prompt them and they were non sequiturs, as if I were a part of her mind. “I’m thinking of moving to New York,” she said, a moment after being released from a hug by Cousin Aaron. Guiding her boy and girl into the limo parked behind the hearse, she thanked the rabbi for his eulogy, then said to me, “I’m getting a divorce,” and ducked inside.
Confronted by her son’s earnest face, I didn’t feel I could follow up on that news. Julie put her daughter in her lap. Margaret leaned her head on her mother’s breasts and closed her eyes. I looked at her boy, Brian. “He’s very good at math,” Julie told me, another non sequitur.
“And basketball,” he told me.
“I bet,” I said. He was tall. “Do you know why six is afraid of seven?” I asked.
Cousin Margaret lifted her head and giggled. Brian frowned at me. “That’s old,” he said.
“You’re right,” I agreed.
“What’s old?” Julie said.
“Why is six afraid of seven?” I asked Julie.
Brian looked at his mother sideways and smiled. “She doesn’t remember anything,” he told me. “That’s an old joke, Mom.”
Margaret said, “You know why, Mommy.”
“I don’t,” Julie said with a pout.
“Because seven ate nine!” Margaret said and laughed loud, showing a row of big and little teeth.
Following tradition, we buried Aunt Ceil both in symbol and fact, each of us in turn digging a shovelful of earth from a mound to the right of the grave and tossing it on the casket. Julie went first. She stabbed at the dirt and flipped the shovel over casually.
She turned to Brian, doubtful whether to offer him a turn. He had no doubt. He took the shovel confidently. He dropped a heaping load into the grave and whispered, “Goodbye Grandma.” He looked to his little sister, pointing the handle at her. Margaret shrank from it.
“You don’t have to, honey,” Julie said.
“Let’s do it together,” I said. Margaret’s hand seemed very little beside mine as we filled only the tip of the spade. We cleared it with a wave over the open earth. “Bye,” Margaret said low and sadly. She ran into Julie’s arms.
Staring down at the smears of brown on the shining black coffin, I thought—Even you, Ceil, will be missed.
While the rest each took a turn, I walked five feet to the right to stand at my mother’s lonely grave, the sister they had killed, to put it as bluntly as I feel. Another fifteen feet to the left and north, was Papa Sam and his wife. Below them I looked at the other solo placement: Uncle Bernie was positioned at the center of the triangle of dead Rabinowitzes, still dominating them. His first and second wives were buried elsewhere. Only he and my mother would rest alone.
Julie’s hand fell on my back, rubbing. Again, I tensed at her touch. She sensed it and stopped. I looked toward the open grave. Her children weren’t in
sight. The line waiting to use the shovel was shrinking.
“I want us to be together,” she said in that oddly calm voice, despite the red eyes and stained face.
“What?” I felt stupid. I knew what she meant. “You mean ride back together?” I said obstinately.
She shook her head and frowned. “You know what I mean. There’s no reason we can’t.”
“When did you—” I stopped because I understood why I didn’t like her touch. I had to think more about the revelation, of course, but the obvious worry had at last penetrated. Perhaps the daily recital of “I love you” to Halley wasn’t all medicine.
Someone called to us. “In a minute,” Julie said. “When did I what? Decide? Always.”
“Always? You said you were over it.”
“You knew I was full of shit when I told you I didn’t love you. You see my kids? Don’t I have great kids?” I nodded. “I have everything but you. And I’m greedy. Rafe, I’m forty-five. I’ve already had my face done. My marriage was …” She reached for me, shyly, fingers lighting on the sleeve of my blue summer suit. “Anyway, why? I heard you don’t—I mean … Are you with someone?”
“You’re upset,” I said.
“Of course I’m upset. My mother’s dead. But I’ve been thinking about it for a … Since I knew my marriage was …” She tugged at my sleeve and looked down.
“When did you break up?”
“In reality a long time ago. You know me. It took four years to get up the nerve to tell him. I did it last January. I was chicken. Hurting the kids, and all that garbage. It’s not garbage, but you know what I mean. It was an okay marriage … But I don’t want okay.” She watched me for a reaction and answered what she thought she saw in my face. “I didn’t just think of this!” Julie looked away at someone whose approach I hadn’t heard. She said, “Sit with them in the car. Rafe and I need a moment.” She turned to me and rubbed at the short cropped hairs above her temple. “What do you think this is? ‘Oh gee whiz, I’ll be in New York, so I’ll come on to Rafe?’”
“You have to give me some time, Julie. I’m in the middle of something important … Important work—”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with your work. I’m sorry. I’ve gotten rude in my old age. You can do your work. I don’t care. I’ll move to New York or wherever you want. I can fail to get my movies made in Indiana just as well as in Hollywood.”
I felt ashamed and nervous. Had I lost control with Halley? The thought of never seeing her smooth white breasts again, of never hearing her naughty girl’s voice asking, “Do you love me?” seemed impossible. And to join Julie in middle age, growing old with a woman whose prime I had missed, seemed grotesque.
“Is it them?” Julie gestured contemptuously to the graves. “They don’t care anymore.” She leaned forward, mouth set angrily, and whispered, “They’re dead.”
“Not to me,” I said and thought it was a lie.
Julie nodded to herself and insisted, “They really got to you.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I’m sorry!” she said louder, topping me. To get away, she walked over Bernie’s grave.
I stayed for only a short time at my uncle’s old house, merely a polite appearance of sitting shiva, instead of the all-night visit I had intended. I expected Julie to be hurt or angry. If so, she didn’t show it. She squeezed me tight, kissed me on both cheeks, on my lips, and finally on the tip of my nose. She said, “Call me.”
I turned to leave. She resumed a conversation with Jerry about the Rabinowitz plot becoming crowded. I reached the double-height foyer, with its long sweeping staircase, and paused on the spot where Julie had tried to defend me from my angry mother the night I found the Afikomen. I heard Julie say loudly, “What we all need is an exorcist.” The room laughed.
My early departure meant I was back at the sublet in time to go to Halley’s for our regular session. I had told her I wouldn’t be able to. Perhaps a surprise appearance would make it all the more effective and I would at last hear grief when I deserted her.
Was effectiveness what I sought? Or consummation?
Probably the reader will be amused that this was when I realized my new method might be impractical. Unless psychiatrists were willing to give up their personal lives how could they imitate it? The obvious to an outsider became clear to me: I was as much on a personal mission as I was engaged in a scientific quest.
At nine-thirty, an hour before I usually appeared to announce myself to Halley’s doorman, I tried to make notes, read, watch television. I microwaved and then rapidly ate a whole bag of Paul Newman’s popcorn, hoping the deafening crunch in my head would silence my nagging desire. I had the night off. I could be myself. So—who was I?
Nothing could distract me. I couldn’t divert my mind from the new questions I planned to ask as I slipped a hand under her pale pink sheets. Who was more addicted, Halley or me? Was her cure fatal to me?
Ten-thirty. Time for me to go, if I was going.
Accept the worst hypothesis, I decided. That was Joseph’s technique, I had learned from Amy Glickstein’s chapters. Presume that I could cure Halley only by infecting myself. With luck I might escape—but accept the worst as inevitable. Was neutralizing her worth it?
That August night was clear. As I walked, a bright new moon peeked out from behind the tall buildings. Between the squat brownstones it seemed to be a friendly lamppost.
“Goodnight, moon,” I said aloud as I turned the corner to Halley’s building. “Goodnight air,” I mumbled to the amber streetlights. And to a wailing ambulance, as the doorman opened the way for me, I whispered, “Goodnight noises, everywhere.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Second Danger
BY LABOR DAY I WAS SO DEEPLY INVOLVED WITH HALLEY THAT I DARED not test how important she was to me. I had her complete trust—she confided everything, no matter how ugly or trivial. That was as thrilling as the convulsions of her narcissistic ecstasies. Every day, I learned more about her self-murder and the temptress she had created to live.
And I had cornered Stick. The once separated and distrustful units of Hyperion were communicating without clearing everything through him; their feeling of independence grew unhindered while he was busy probing for a way to hurt me. I was fully committed to my enterprise, prepared either to cure them or lose myself in their whirlpool of illness. I faced this truth on August 30th, thanks to the banal need to find another place to stay in New York. Susan helped me there. An old friend in the Village, a writer, got a teaching job in the Midwest. I agreed to a six-month sublet at eight hundred a month and moved my few possessions down to a studio apartment on 33 East Ninth Street. More than two weeks later, on September 17th, I left for Vermont the night before Stick and the others to prepare for the retreat. My intention, because of the intense level of the countertransference, was to provoke a crisis, in the hope we could achieve a breakthrough.
The Green Mountain resort had no mountain in view. Instead, the five-story stone hotel overlooked a golf course. Behind it were six tennis courts, a heated swimming pool, and, about a quarter mile away, a large cabin for the “encounter sessions.” The cabin was set on the western border of a man-made pond. The pond and its immediate environs existed solely for use by retreaters. Rowboats were available. They could cross to the sandy beach on its northern shore where a swimming area was marked off by a string of red and white striped buoys. In its center floated a wood platform and an eight-foot diving board. The pond was stocked. The east shore was set aside for fishing with the understanding that every catch must be thrown back. Also, there was a camping area, with two discreet outhouses, in a meadow ringed by pines and cedars hidden away off the east shore, if retreaters decided that a night under the stars would be helpful.
Ten rooms in the stone building were booked for me, Stick, Halley, Andy Chen, Jack Truman, Tim Gallent, Jonathan Stivik, the operating system programmer, two regional sales managers—Carl Hanson and Joe Gould—and the only ot
her woman besides Halley, Martha Klein. Martha worked under Halley as the market researcher for Centaur and the rest of the new PC line.
I shooed away Green Mountain’s retreat leaders, declined their offers of foam bats (to strike people with as a “playful acting out of aggression”), their New Age music tapes for meditating nude (“Body awareness can strip away hierarchical stereotypes and build self-esteem,” I was told), and also their “cooperative tasks,” basically scavenger hunts designed to require team effort for success. However, I did accept exclusive use of the cabin, the pond and its amenities.
At eleven o’clock Friday morning, I lingered over room service breakfast. The others were due in the late afternoon. The room was pleasantly furnished, as if it were a rustic inn, with a four-poster bed and plain pine furniture. I mulled over how to make use of the encounter meetings since I had rejected their gimmicks. I had the television tuned to ESPN, listening with one ear to their college football forecast show for Saturday’s games. After a long silence, Albert had gotten a message to me and we had talked by phone for over an hour. He was excited. His college coach had been tough on him, he said, especially about his fitness. (The coach didn’t really mean fitness, he meant his bulk. He wanted Albert—at seventeen, already six foot three and two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle—to get even bigger.) Nevertheless, Albert would be starting tomorrow at middle linebacker, a great honor for a freshman. “It’s happening for me, Rafe. It’s happening,” Albert said, the thrill in his voice obviously exciting me too, since I was now watching a mind-numbing hour-long sports show on the off-chance I would hear Albert’s name mentioned. I was disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to attend the game, or see it for that matter, since I would be busy with the group all day Saturday.
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