“Not a bit,” Gray said. “There’s only one question. How would you know whether you were getting worse or better?”
“Hell, isn’t that obvious?”
“Not always. Suppose, twenty years ago, you were treated by a physician, and as a result you developed a high fever. Would you be worse or better?”
“What’s the gimmick?”
“The old fever treatment for syphilis worked pretty well, until antibiotics were improved. High temperature killed the bugs. But unless you knew what to expect, you’d certainly think you were getting worse.”
Pope said, “In other words, you want people to take you on faith.”
Gray smiled.
“Competence can’t be taken on faith,” he said. “Your own doctor—or Doctor Bronson—can tell you where the local psychoanalytic institute is. You can find out there whether an analyst has been adequately trained.”
Pope grunted.
“That still wouldn’t satisfy me.”
“The relatives of a patient—and the patient—have a right to ask the analyst any questions they like about his qualifications. They should, if they’re doubtful.”
“And he can always say he can’t answer because of professional ethics.”
Gray laughed.
“That applies to the patient’s right of privacy, not the analyst’s. Let me ask you something. Is there anyone in medicine or psychotherapy whose judgment you do trust?”
“Sure,” Pope said.
“Then you can ask for a consultation. Usually the family physician and another psychoanalyst are called in.”
“To examine the patient?”
“It isn’t always necessary,” Gray said. “In this case, since I gather you’re the one who’s dissatisfied, I suggest that you go ahead and investigate. I’d prefer it.”
There was a pause. Pope idly slapped his fist into his palm.
“You know what happened night before last?” he asked.
“I know some of it.”
“And you still say Howard’s getting better?”
Gray nodded.
“That doesn’t make sense,” Pope said flatly.
“From one viewpoint, as I say, the patient does get worse before he gets better. It’s the job of the therapist to modify the disturbing influence of the invisible writing as it comes to light.”
Pope considered.
Gray went on. “Everybody tries to shield himself from whatever’s neurotic in his own nature. You do that; so do I.”
“Hell, I’m not neurotic.”
Gray said, “Is there anything you try to avoid thinking about?”
There was a long pause. Pope glanced at Gray, looked away, and stared at the desk before him.
“That’s damned nonsense,” he said with sudden anger.
“Well, I can’t read your mind,” Gray said, “but it doesn’t take a psychoanalyst to guess that you did think of something painful just then. That’s what’s happening to Howard Dunne now, but it’s a good deal more difficult for him.”
“There’s all the difference in the world!”
“You became angry, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t knock you down, the way Howard did with Farragut. Served him right, though.”
“How angry does a man have to be before he knocks somebody down? Haven’t you ever done it?”
“Sure,” Pope said. “But that’s—” He paused.
After a while Gray said, “The family is usually a focal point in a neurosis. Symptoms may be stirred up there pretty easily. What the family finds it hardest to understand is the change in the patient. I’d prefer that you checked up. I’ve suggested some ways.”
Pope said, “All right. I’ll do exactly that. But just what do you want from me? Doctor Bronson wasn’t too clear.” He hesitated, and suddenly relaxed into a grin. “Maybe I didn’t give him much time to talk.”
Gray said slowly, “A psychotherapist shouldn’t interfere in his patient’s life. That’s essential. I can’t tell you what to do, Mr. Pope. I did want you to know more about what psychoanalytic treatment involves, and how to satisfy yourself that Howard is being competently treated.”
Pope nodded.
Gray went on. “There’s one thing. I wouldn’t bring it up at all, but before I accepted Howard as a patient, you told me that you’d cooperate. Now I realize that you’re anxious. But my responsibility to my patient comes first. I feel that it would be unwise for you to move into the Dunne house. I’d like your assurance that you won’t.” Gray looked steadily at the other man. “At least, until you’ve satisfied yourself about me. Let’s say till after a consultation has been held.”
Pope said slowly, “What about Mary? I’m really worried about her.”
“You might talk to her about that. After all, she could take a vacation herself for a few weeks. Wouldn’t that help?”
“Not a bad idea,” Pope said. “I suppose … yes, Mary could do that. All right, then.”
Gray said, “You’ll postpone any decision about moving in until after a consultation?”
Pope nodded.
“Fair enough,” he said.
Gray hesitated. There were other questions he badly wanted to ask—about the dead Eleanor Pope, for example. But now was not the time.
Later. But—how much time was there?
The next interview with Dunne might give him that answer, he thought. It would probably be the most difficult session so far.
13
At five o’clock Howard Dunne came into Gray’s office and sat down. He was wound up as tightly as a steel spring. Gray braced himself. He waited, and so did Dunne.
Presently Gray asked, “Is it hard to start?”
Dunne looked at Gray, seemed to catch himself, and glanced away again.
“Yes,” he said. “I want to talk. But I can’t.”
“What would you like to do?”
Dunne didn’t answer. The tension grew. Gray waited, feeling more and more that he must be careful not to make any wrong moves. Dunne was facing a crisis.
“I’m just sitting here saying nothing,” Dunne said, after a long time.
Gray took out cigarettes and held the pack out to Dunne, who took one. Both men lit up. Then, suddenly, Dunne crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray beside him and said, “Do you still have my pipe?”
“Yes,” Gray said.
“I’d like it back.”
“What does that mean?” Gray asked.
Dunne said angrily, “I just want my pipe back!”
Gray took the pipe out of his desk drawer and looked at it, watching Dunne at the same time.
“Here it is,” he said. “It’s a good-looking pipe.”
Dunne didn’t answer. He thrust the pipe into his side pocket.
“It’s more than a pipe, isn’t it?” Gray asked.
No answer.
“Did your father use a pipe?”
“Yes, he did. I’d almost forgotten that. A pipe—and a key ring. I wasn’t allowed to have a key to the house. Not till after my father left.” He stopped. It wasn’t merely a pause. Dunne’s whole body stopped. He seemed frozen and immobilized.
Again Gray waited. Dunne’s tension increased.
A sound of voices grew louder. They didn’t stop. Conversation and laughter seemed to make eddies in the watchful air.
Gray said, “Excuse me,” and got up. He went into the outer office. The outer door was wide open, and, a little way down the hall, a group of people were laughing together. Gray closed the door, came back and re-entered his office, closing that door, too. Even before he sat down, he realized that the tension in the air had subtly lessened.
Something had changed.
Howard Dunne had shifted his position. He was more relaxed now, the tightness about his eyes smoothed out, his whole body settled back in the chair. He gave Gray a glance that seemed to reveal relief.
Gray said, “What happened?”
“Nothing. I guess I must have left the door open whe
n I came in. Sorry you had to get up and close it.”
“That’s all right,” Gray said. “Would you like to open it again?”
Dunne smiled.
“We’re not talking about the same door. I mean the real one. The office door. You haven’t shut me out. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
Gray smiled too.
“You’re the one who said it, though,” he said. “So the important point is why you thought it.”
“I guess it’s the idea of doors,” Dunne said, almost casually. “Keeping Sam out. Mary said Doctor Bronson had talked to her. Thanks.”
“That’s all right,” Gray said. “How is it working out?”
“Fine, as far as Mary goes. But … did you talk to Sam?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t get anywhere, did you?”
Gray said carefully, “Do you remember how much you distrusted me when you first came here?”
Dunne laughed.
“I distrusted everybody. But especially you. Yes, I remember. It’s different now.”
“You trust me somewhat more now,” Gray said. “Sam’s attitude toward me is rather like yours when you first came here. He doesn’t see the many ways in which you’ve improved, and he feels threatened in some ways by your improvement That means he isn’t sure whether I’m competent or not.”
“He’s a God damned fool,” Dunne said.
“But do you feel afraid of him?”
Dunne was silent.
“Suppose Sam felt satisfied of my competence? Would that make a difference in his attitude, do you think?”
Dunne frowned thoughtfully.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I guess—but he’s planning to move in with us, and—what the hell can I do about that? Mary says she’ll go along with me now, whatever I decide, but—that bastard still scares me. Still—whenever Sam’s convinced somebody’s okay, he stops pushing. Like that manager of his, Hoyle. The guy’s always right, and Sam’s found that out by now. So he’s stopped arguing so much with Hoyle. I guess it would make a difference. But how can you convince Sam of anything?”
“I think a consultation would do it,” Gray explained. Dunne listened thoughtfully as the analyst went into details.
“Would Sam have to know what—what I’ve been saying during analysis? I mean—”
“I know what you mean,” Gray said. “No. And he wouldn’t even be present. He might want his own doctor here, and in that case—even though it would be confidential—I’d make certain I’d say nothing that could be embarrassing. I believe a general sketch of the situation and treatment would be enough. These would be professional people who understand a good deal more about psychotherapy than Sam does. There wouldn’t be any need to go into details.”
Dunne said, “Well—all right. But—” He frowned again. “How soon could you do it? Sam … he’s going to move in, you know.”
“He agreed to wait on that until after a consultation. That can be arranged—well, perhaps the day after tomorrow, if we’re lucky.”
Dunne said blankly, “He’s not moving in?”
“He told me he’d do nothing until after the consultation.”
“I haven’t seen him since yesterday,” Dunne said. He reached into his pocket and took out his pipe. “If I’d known—”
“Yes?”
Dunne looked almost frightened.
“When can I see you again?” he asked.
“When do you want to?”
“Tomorrow?”
“All right.”
Dunne glanced at the door.
“Tomorrow,” he repeated.
“There are alternatives, you know,” Gray said. “We’ve planned one. But there are others.”
Dunne was silent.
“I’ve stayed overtime, haven’t I?” he said at last. “I’d better go.”
“Not if you don’t want to.”
But Dunne was on his feet.
“It’s all right now,” he said. “Tomorrow I’ll … well, I’ll see you again. Five o’clock?”
Gray hesitated.
“Yes, five o’clock will be fine.”
“I’ll be here.” Dunne noticed that he was still holding the pipe. He slipped it into his pocket with sudden haste.
Gray said, on impulse, “You know, I’ve never given you my home phone number.” He scribbled it on his desk pad, tore off the slip, and handed it to Dunne.
“Thanks,” Dunne said abstractedly.
“Call me if you feel like it,” Gray said.
“Sure,” Dunne said. “But I won’t need to. It’s all right now.”
He opened the door quickly and went out. The outer door closed.
Gray drew a long breath. He felt very tired. And, more than that, a faint uneasiness that had come in with Dunne had not subsided with his leaving.
He would feel considerably better after the consultation, he decided.
That happened sooner than he expected. A telephone call verified the consultation; Pope’s physician and a psychoanalyst suggested by him were to be present, with Gray, who requested that Dr. Bronson be present too. After some persuasion by Gray, the appointment was fixed for the next day.
Gray had two more patients that evening. His schedule was disarranged, but that could not be helped. Dunne’s needs were pressing now. By the time the psychoanalyst locked his office door, he was tired and ravenous. But he remembered to take with him his notes on Howard Dunne. By tomorrow, he must have the essential data ready for presentation to Bronson and the others.
At home, he worked on the records while he made a sketchy meal. It was past eleven when the telephone rang.
Gray got up quickly and crossed the room. But when he lifted the receiver to his ear, there was only a faint buzzing. Gray hesitated. He cradled the phone and stood there waiting and wondering.
14
Gray slept badly. He dreamed that he was looking for Howard Dunne in a bare, foggy place, and that Dunne’s voice, thin and faraway, was calling out for help. The sense of urgency grew stronger. Gray groped through the fog, trying to locate the source of that thin cry. Then the fog was swept away by a rushing wind, and Gray saw that he stood in an empty plain, perfectly bare, stretching to the horizon. There was no sign of Dunne. Gray felt a sense of deep relief, and wakened with the insistent crying still in his ears.
Beside the bed the telephone was ringing.
He lifted the receiver. The luminous clock dial said four-thirty-five.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Gray?”
“Yes.”
The voice changed.
“This is Harry Zucker. Sorry to bother you at this hour, but it’s official. Do you have a patient named Howard Dunne?”
“Yes. You know that already. Why?”
“He’s dead.”
“…What?”
“This is official business, Mike. I’ll have to see you. Can you come over to the Dunne place right away?”
“Of course,” Gray said remotely. “What happened?”
“We’ll talk about that when you get here. Do you have the address?”
The doorbell suddenly shrilled.
Gray said, “Yes, I’ve got it. I’ll be right over. Can you—”
“What?”
“Nothing,” Gray said, glancing at the door. “I’ll see you soon.”
He hung up, switched on the light, and thrust his arms into a robe as he hurried barefoot out of the bedroom toward the door. He opened it. Mary Dunne stood in the hall.
“Come in,” Gray said.
She didn’t answer. She didn’t even hear him, and Gray wasn’t sure she saw him. She gave him a blind, bright stare.
Gray put his hand gently on the woman’s arm and drew her forward.
“Come and sit down,” he said. “It’s cold out. I’ll fix you some coffee.” He guided her into the kitchen and switched on the light. There was coffee on the stove. Gray turned the gas on and the flame lit with a small whisper of sound. Mrs. Dunne l
ooked puzzledly at the blue fire.
“Will you get the cups, please?” Gray asked. “They’re up there.” He found spoons, laid them on the kitchen table, and watched Mrs. Dunne place cups and saucers beside them. She hesitated, and then sat down.
“Do you use cream?” Gray asked.
“No, I … Howard’s dead.”
Gray sat down opposite Mary Dunne and looked at her steadily. Inwardly he felt sick.
“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked.
She picked up her empty cup and put it down again.
“I didn’t know where to go,” she said. “I went out … I had to do something. And then I found I was coming here. I got your address from the phone book. You see … I had to ask you something.”
“What?”
“It’s my fault,” she said. “It is, isn’t it?”
“What is your fault?”
“Howard,” she said. “But I don’t even know … They wouldn’t tell me. The police, I mean. When I got home, they were there, and—Howard—”
She began to cry, her slight form shaking. “I’m sorry,” she said chokingly.
“It’s all right,” Gray said. His head was aching, and he had a curious sense of loss and emptiness. But he told himself that, as yet, he didn’t even know what had happened. It didn’t help much. He kept remembering his old, recurrent dream of a girl standing under the threatening London sky, while the thud of bombs grew louder, and he could do nothing to save her. It’s happened again, Gray thought, and then shook off the thought angrily.
After a while Mary Dunne could talk again.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “The—the coffee. It’s going to boil.”
Gray got up, poured coffee, and sat down again. Julia, the cat, came into the kitchen, walked under the stove, and watched Gray fixedly.
Mary Dunne tried the coffee.
“I don’t even know how it happened,” she said. “When I got home, the police were there, with Sam… Finally I went out. I didn’t take a coat. They must be looking for me…. Howard talked to you. You must know. And I have to know. I mean, whether I’m to blame.”
There was a pause. Then she said, “But I am. I know that.”
Michael Gray Novels Page 7