The combatants sat in silence, their chairs far apart, and faced Lisa, not each other. Lisa was silent as well and looked from one to the other to start. The therapist’s expression was pleasantly neutral … Kathryn’s was unpleasantly neutral … and Peter continued to grin. He tried his best to stop, but only succeeded in contorting his mouth into a kind of odd grimace. He folded his hands in his lap to appear less threatening, and hoped no one mentioned his facial tick. He was ashamed of it, and could not control it.
Lisa finally asked after a too-long silence, “Who would like to start?”
Lisa was met with more silence. “Okay then, I’ll start. My name is Lisa. I’d like to welcome you, Kathryn, and disclose that I have seen Peter only once before this. I’m a neutral third party here and will only try to facilitate communication. Don’t look to me for affirmation or judgment. We’re just here to try to get a constructive dialogue going. I might ask you a question, if you will permit me,” she said, looking at Kathryn.
“Why did you come here today?”
Kathryn answered sharply, “I came because he told me to come here before we sold the house and split the money.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“Peter, why are you here today?”
Peter answered in a conciliatory tone, “I want to talk constructively in a safe environment.” He was still grinning his involuntary grin, but he hoped he sounded sincere. He was sincere.
Kathryn broke in, “He’s lying again. He told me we were going to figure out how to sell the house.”
“Peter, did you say that to Kathryn?”
“Among other things, I mentioned that we could discuss that topic if it came up.” Peter didn’t want to sound like a politician, but knew a statement like that combined with his grin would not fly.
It didn’t fly.
Kathryn broke in, “You are such a liar! Can’t you tell he’s a sociopath?” she asked, looking at Lisa.
“Why do you say Peter is a sociopath?”
“Because he’s incapable of telling the truth. He lies even when he doesn’t have to. He lies as a way of life.”
“That’s quite an accusation, Kathryn. Not everyone who lies is a sociopath. And everyone lies. Sometimes the lies are just to protect others or ourselves from hurt. Isn’t that true?”
“I don’t lie! You said you wouldn’t take sides. You’re siding with him right now.”
“Kathryn, I am merely trying to facilitate the dialogue. If you misunderstand me, I’m sorry.”
“You can be as sorry as you want; you don’t have to put up with his lies.”
“Peter, I wonder if there’s anything you want to say?” Lisa asked, turning from Kathryn to Peter.
He looked up, still grinning at Kathryn, and said, “I’m sorry I hurt you.”
Lisa prompted, “And …”
“Kathryn, I can’t change the past. I can try to change the future. I’d like to start doing that today.” Peter knew this statement was the only remaining card he could play to get Kathryn back. He really wanted to change. That was the main reason he had started seeing Lisa.
Kathryn screamed, “Liar!”
Lisa said gently, looking at Kathryn, “Let Peter speak for a minute, please.”
Peter looked at the floor and said quietly, “I don’t have much more to say.” His grin had faded.
Lisa was silent for a moment and looked from one to the other and asked, “What is the most important quality in a marriage?”
Her question was met with silence.
“Wouldn’t you both agree that it’s trust?” And she looked at her patients who, in turn, greeted her with more silence.
Lisa went on, “How do we gain trust? By being trustworthy, and telling the truth about every important thing?”
Silence.
“Peter, this might be hard for you, but are you willing to tell Kathryn here and now the truth about whatever she might ask?”
“Maybe.”
Kathryn came back quickly, “Maybe isn’t good enough.”
“Okay, I’ll tell the truth. I’m starting to feel like I’m on trial here.”
“Kathryn, is there anything you want to ask Peter?”
“When was the last time you fucked that whore?”
“If you mean Frannie, five or six months ago. She’s a sexual service worker and not a whore. We only did it three times in total; it wasn’t even full intercourse. From then on we were just friends. She’s a good person.”
Kathryn looked at Lisa with wild eyes and shouted, “There you go … more lies!”
Peter shouted back, “I’m not lying!”
Kathryn hissed the words, “And that’s another lie. I’m getting out of here.”
“Kathryn, you can leave any time you want, but I think we have some issues on the table that should be attended to,” Lisa offered in a very quiet voice that forced the two combatants to listen.
“You and your sociopath here can attend to them. He’s the crazy one.” With that, Kathryn stood up. She paused on her way out, staring daggers at Peter, and made her final pronouncement.
“You were the only man I ever loved and you turned out to be a bastard.”
Peter held his tongue, but he also held her gaze until she turned and went out the office door, slamming it so hard that the windows rattled.
Unnerved, Lisa said, “Is she always like that?” It was a rhetorical question asked in an ironic tone.
“Yeah, these days she’s always like that. I think I made her like that.”
Lisa quickly cut in. “I’m sorry about that. It was very unprofessional. I was startled when she slammed the door that way. My remark just slipped out in that tone of voice.”
“It’s okay. She scares me too - a lot. But she wasn’t always like that. She scares a lot of people; it used to be her job during the last recession when she was the head of the State Department of Education. They called her ‘The Hammer’ down at the State House, but she was usually okay to me before I fucked things up.”
“Peter, I didn’t mean to sit in judgment. I understand that the best people are often not themselves when they are under stress and she appears to be very troubled. Do you understand the extent to which she is upset?”
“I don’t understand Kathryn at all. I guess sometimes crazy is in your genes. She has this nutty sister who’s a regular at the funny farm.” Peter was trying to change the topic before he broke down completely.
Lisa offered, “Some mental illness runs in families but it’s not the rule. We just don’t know enough. But if everyone understood everyone, people like me would be out of a job. I think we could make good use of our remaining time. Agree? Most of the hour is left. What are you feeling right now?”
“Lisa, I want to kill her.”
“Kill who, Peter - Kathryn? Can you tell me why you feel that way?”
“You’d feel that way, too, if she killed your children. You have children, don’t you?”
“I do have children, but this is about you, not me, Peter. Your file says that you don’t have any children, so you can’t mean that literally. Please explain.”
“Well, I don’t have any children, but what do you people call it, ‘sublimation’ or some ten-dollar word, when we substitute one thing for another? She slashed my three best paintings and spray painted the word ‘whore’ over them. Those paintings are my children — you know, my creative product. They’re what I do best in the world. I’m really a fine artist. I just do graphic design and write ads for money. Did you know that Andy Warhol was a graphic designer first and a famous guy later?”
“How do you know Kathryn did it?”
Peter started yelling, “Look, the house was locked and the curtains were gone, along with some cutlery. Who else would steal curtains and dirty cutlery from the dishwasher but a disgruntled wife who still has a house key? Besides, she called me the next day from a blocked number about some bullshit thing, saying in
this stupid cutesy voice that she thought I might want to talk to her. When I started to yell at her, she said very calmly in her patronizing fucking way that I must be going crazy: she never took anything and I was just making up stories. She’s the liar. How can someone be like that? It’s sick.”
In a firm tone, Lisa said, “Okay, Peter, yell if you have to. I don’t mind, but there are other people in the building. Take a minute if you need to. Then tell me more about what happened. You said you want to kill her. Are you actually planning to kill her?”
“Yes. Well, no. Well … I’d like to, but no, I’m not planning it.”
“Let me get this clear. You would like to kill Kathryn, but you’re not actually planning to. Is that correct?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Peter just wanted to leave. He didn’t know if he was mad or sad or guilty or just tired. He didn’t care to find out right now.
“Go on, Peter.”
“She knew what would hurt me the most and did it by wrecking my paintings. Did I tell you she also robbed me of over sixty-five grand, and left my dog out to die in the street? Yeah, she let my dog out, and he’s a hunting dog and just follows his nose and never comes back again if he goes out without me. He has no car sense and we live on a fairly busy road. I’ve seen him just standing there in middle of the road, looking perplexed. When he gets out by accident, he just runs. He’s been limping recently and he probably hurt himself even worse by running. If he hadn’t come back in one piece, I’d really have killed her. I must be like a lot of the nuts you deal with - people who think that a dog is their only friend.”
“Peter, I can see that you have a lot of anger. That’s natural, given what’s happened. Now tell me, have you ever acted on your anger, you know, hit or harmed any person or animal? I have to ask you again, have you ever hurt yourself?”
“No, to all of the above.” Peter remained silent for a minute.
“Peter, what do you do when you get angry if you don’t act on your feelings?”
Peter was silent for another minute. Tears formed in his eyes but they didn’t make it over the rims to roll onto his cheeks. “I guess I fantasize a lot. I plan ways of getting even, but I never really do anything. Most of the anger goes away eventually.”
“Can you tell me about your fantasies?”
“No.” And Peter was silent for another minute. His fantasies centered around wanting Kathryn dead, but he was not prepared to share that here and now.
“No, you won’t tell me, or, no, you haven’t been fantasizing about Kathryn?”
“Both, sorta; I don’t know. I love my dog …” Peter began crying in earnest. He chanted silently, “I love my dog. I love my dog. I love my dog. I love my dog. I love my dog.”
“There are tissues on the table to your right if you need them. You don’t have to talk until you’re ready.”
“It’s okay, I can talk. I just don’t have anything more to say right now. I’m ashamed of what I’m thinking, and I’m ashamed of what I did to her that made her want to destroy my paintings. She must feel bad, too. But I still hate her and want to kill her. I can’t get that out of my mind, and I can’t tell you what I’m thinking. Not now. I’m too ashamed.”
Kathryn’s voice shouted in Peter’s head, “You’re pitiful when you beg. You’re mentally ill, Peter.”
Lisa asked softly, “Peter, what do you want to talk about now?”
“Lisa, I just want to leave, even though I know our hour isn’t up. Maybe you’d like a coffee or something before your next patient?”
“No, Peter, what I’d like is to know that you’re all right. I help people for a living. You can tell me anything and it stays right here.”
“I don’t have anything else to say.”
“Peter, you told me you were a poet as well as a painter.”
“Yeah, so? It’s been a long time since I wrote anything decent. I wrote a novel, I guess you would call it that, when I was in my twenties. Even then, I knew it was so bad it would never get published. I don’t even know where the manuscript is any more.”
“You think you’re some big-deal writer. Show me one thing you’ve written that anyone has given you a dime for, except those ad slogans you write for a bunch of local plumbers and florists. Writer, my ass!”
“So, could you paint or write what you’re thinking about and bring it to me next time? Or send it to me the day before our meeting, if you would? Do it anyway, even if you don’t intend to let me read or see it.”
Peter looked up and his eyes brightened just a little, and he said, “Yeah, I could do that, I guess.” No one had ever asked him to paint or write before.
“Peter, thank you. I can only guess at your state of mind right now. We still have 15 minutes; are you sure you don’t have anything else you want to say? Maybe tell me about your dog. You love him. What do you love about him?”
“Rex is just a dog, but he doesn’t judge me. He always seems happy to see me and always wants to play. What isn’t to love about a dog? Humans cause all the trouble in this world with their thinking and judging. Dogs are dogs and seem happy with that. I’d like to be a dog.”
“You’d better keep that dog of yours locked up in the kitchen. He’s getting hair all over the new carpet upstairs - the carpet that I paid for and you said you would vacuum.”
“What kind of dog would you be?”
“A nice one like Rex.” Peter fell silent again. “I really want to leave now.”
“Okay, Peter. If you’re done, you’re done, I guess. But you’ll write or draw what you’re thinking and try to get it to me before our next meeting - yes?”
“Sure, I’ll do something.”
“Our hour is about up. Peter, we’ve made some progress here today,” Lisa said. Like the last time, she reminded him to see her assistant on the way out to get his receipt and book another appointment.
Peter left the office and went back into the waiting room with a plastic smile for Shelly. Off the cuff, he asked her, “Would you happen to know any good divorce lawyers?”
Shelly stared right through Peter’s chest as if he were invisible and asked in a slow monotone, “How would you like to pay, Mr. Broviak? When would you like to book your next appointment?”
Chapter 7
Outside the building that housed Lisa’s practice, Peter took a more direct approach to finding a lawyer by calling his friend Wilbur’s office. Wilbur was a flamboyant criminal lawyer, and their friendship dated back a few decades.
“Hello, Molly, is Wilbur in? I need a lawyer.”
“Mr. Broviak, Mr. Dupuis is in conference and is likely to be there all afternoon, but I’ll give him your message. I hope you don’t need a criminal lawyer, Mr. Broviak.”
“Not yet, Molly. I need a referral to a divorce lawyer.”
“Oh, I can do that for you, Mr. Broviak. I can give you the name of the lawyer who handled Mr. Dupuis’ three divorces. He thinks the world of her, Mr. Broviak. She’s almost like family. I hope I’m not saying too much here, but you’re like family, too.”
“Molly, Wilbur got skinned in his last two divorces. I don’t think I want his lawyer to represent me.”
“But she did very well on his first divorce. Even the best lawyers don’t bat a thousand.”
“Molly, just have Wilbur phone me.”
“Okay, Mr. Broviak, but I know the person he’s going to recommend.”
“Thank you, Molly … Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Broviak. I’ll e-mail you the name of the divorce lawyer, anyway. I know whom Mr. Dupuis always recommends. I know more about his business than he does.”
“Yes, Molly, I am sure that you do. Just have Wilbur phone me, please.”
Peter shut his phone and walked to his car. It was a lovely spring day with not a cloud in the sky. The contrast between the lovely world outside and the ugly mess inside his head just made him more miserable. Peter had read somewhere that most suicides occurred on sunny Sunday mornings in April. It was the contrast betwe
en the cheery outer weather and the gloomy inner weather that pushed people over the edge. Peter was glad it wasn’t Sunday.
Peter got into his car. He put the key in the ignition, looked up at the windshield and in his peripheral vision, saw three little dolls trapped under his passenger-side wiper. The dolls were naked. He hopped out of the car, ran to the passenger side and pulled up the wiper. He grabbed the dolls and examined them. Two of the dolls were female and one was male. One female doll was headless, as was the male doll. Peter dropped the dolls to the pavement like they were radioactive waste and jumped back a few feet. He looked around, embarrassed at his fright, but also to see who might have put them there. To his great relief, no one was around - including any spectators to observe his reaction.
He went back to the driver’s side and sat down for a minute to calm his nerves. His cellphone rang just as he was leaving. The muffled female voice said, “Keep. Sweep. Weep.” Peter pocketed the phone and headed home. He needed to see Rex, and he needed a drink.
Chapter 8
Peter was badly rattled by his encounter with the dolls and the creepy phone call that followed. He could not believe it was Kathryn doing these things - she was so self-controlled and scrupulously law-abiding. But nothing else made sense. She had the keys to his house. She knew exactly where he was going to be yesterday, and she knew his schedule in general. She knew his cellphone number. And she hated him.
Peter’s many murder fantasies regarding Kathryn started to run wild but always came back to a detailed long-range shooting scenario. He liked that fantasy best. A long-range shot seemed clean and safe and easy to get away with. To do it, he needed a “clean” rifle - one that was untraceable and could disappear after he did the deed.
Peter called his friend Gregor and got his voicemail. After the beep, he said, “Hi Gregor, give me a call. I want to know about a rifle, and you’re the man who knows everything about guns. I’ll be at my business number.” Gregor was Peter’s sometime/longtime hunting companion.
Peter’s phone rang as soon as he hung up.
How to Kill Your Wife Page 4