“I think you ought to see someone.”
“What do you mean?”
“A psychiatrist. You are feeling things you shouldn’t be feeling.”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“It’s coming out in your sleep,” she says. “It isn’t healthy. You need somebody to work through this with you.”
I consider. If I keep talking in my sleep, I will give enough of the truth away that she will have a hard time dismissing it.
“Do it for me, honey,” my wife says.
“Okay,” I say. “Anything for you.”
CHAPTER 7
Therapy
“Fochs,” the therapist says. “Interesting name. German? Long O or short? Mine is German too: Feshtig. And a provost for the Church of the Blood of the Lamb no less.”
“Yes,” I say. “Appointed almost a year ago now.”
“Good for you,” he says. Reaching his hand out, he draws me into his office. “Please, sit where you’d like.”
I look around. There are several chairs, a bench, a teak desk, a chair on casters.
“I don’t care where I sit,” I say.
“Chair, then?” he asks, and gestures. I choose a chair and sit, and he sits across from me. It feels as if the floor is yawning open between us.
We sit looking at one another, until I smile and look away. I look at his shelves, the books there, all titles I do not recognize. I look at his desk, its surface spare, almost devoid of objects.
He asks me if he can tape our meeting and I tell him yes. He turns on the tape recorder and we chat for a while, general information. When it starts getting personal, I steer him away. He sits looking at me, waiting.
“I filled out a form up front,” I say. “It says why I’m here. Did they give it to you?”
“Tell me,” he says.
“Well,” I say. I consider what to say, how to phrase it. How much of the truth I can tell him without things getting messy. “I have been having bad dreams.”
“What sort of bad dreams?”
“More like disturbing thoughts and feelings,” I say. “The dreams came later. I imagine myself doing awful things and sometimes I can convince myself I have actually done them. Though, really, I never do them,” I say.
“Tell me about these thoughts and feelings,” he says.
“I think,” I say. “I think it all started when I was called to be provost. They called me to be provost but I’m not really worthy. I’m not the kind of person that should be provost.”
“Why not?”
“If I was the right kind of person, I wouldn’t be having thoughts and feelings like these, would I?”
“What sorts of thoughts and feelings are they?”
“About children,” I say. “My guess is they are a result of feelings of inadequacy over being called to be provost. I’m certain of it.”
“So the thoughts tell you that you aren’t worthy to be provost because provosts don’t have such thoughts, but at the same time they didn’t start until after you became a provost?”
“Yes,” I say, though it sounds odd when he phrases it that way.
“They didn’t start before you were provost?”
“Before?” I say. “Never.”
He makes a note to himself on a pad of paper.
“What do you mean improper?” he asks.
“You know. Wrong thoughts.”
“What makes them wrong?”
Some people need everything spelled out for them it seems. I consider how most people would respond to this, then feign discomfort, as if I am reluctant to speak.
I realize I have not thought enough about how I should proceed. I mumble out noncommittal responses until the questions turn elsewhere. He asks me questions about my parents, but I know I don’t want to tell him the truth. I begin to make up a family for myself, the family I would have liked to have had growing up. This goes on for a while until I worry I am making up more than I can keep track of. I stop answering or answer vaguely though he keeps prodding, until finally he stops, looks at me closely.
“I’d like to try something unorthodox,” he says, or something like that. “Do you mind following me along?”
I must admit, I am curious. “Why not?” I say.
“If I say to you, you’re no longer a person, you’re an object, what’s the first object that comes to mind?”
“Well,” I say. “I don’t know. A slice of paper I suppose.”
It’s the second thing that comes to mind and I don’t think it means anything, except maybe for “slice,” which comes out because knife is the first thing that comes to mind. He begins to question me and I answer as I can, slowly realizing that with a little explanation the image is as good as any other. I have two sides, but only one can be seen at a time. I’ve never felt like I had an inside, always felt like I was on top of my skin rather than down inside of it. I have never felt any sense of something inside nor, quite frankly, a sense of something beyond. What matters is what I can touch and feel, the surface of my skin shaping itself to meet the objects around it. The soul is tactile and comes and goes.
To think such thoughts makes me feel like I am hovering over the edge of a great void. I realize I am learning about myself something that, finally, I am not certain I care to know.
“All I want,” I offer, “is for you to cure me of my thoughts.”
“I understand,” he says. “But sometimes these things take time. What we need is to determine what lies behind the thoughts, what made you have them. That’s the only way to make them leave you for good.”
“The thoughts come from my feelings of unworthiness about being a provost,” I say. “I told you that already.”
“Yes,” he says. “Perhaps. What we must discover, then, is what exactly makes you uneasy about being a provost. Why is your uneasiness manifested in this fashion instead of another?”
I know I have no interest in allowing him to uncover the truth. I have come to see him not because I am interested in him discovering what I am, but because I need, in some form, to vocalize what I have been doing to children over the last decade, and what in particular I have done in the last few months. I have kept too much inside and it is beginning to spill out. I need to release some of it.
So, I will meet with him a few times. So, I will talk the worst of it out, under the premise, for him, that I am speaking not of anything I have actually done but merely of my thoughts and dreams and fears. I will lighten the load a little, I will brag a little, I will enjoy myself. And then, when he comes a little too close to the truth, I will cut off treatment, go home to my wife, and sleep soundly, without dreams.
PART THREE
FURTHER RESEARCH
Aaron P. Blanchard, Apostolic Elder
The Corporation of the Blood of the Lamb
Church Headquarters Facility, Floor 25
Doctor Feshtig,
It has come to my attention that you are preparing a summary of Provost Fochs’s case. I must counsel you that it is not felt to be in the best interest of the Church for you to publish such a study. If you choose to publish, there will be severe repercussions.
Because of the sensitive nature of the Fochs case, I must insist you allow the Church to have full access to your notes. I must require as well that you share them with no one else until the Committee for the Strengthening of the Church has examined them fully and made any necessary modifications.
I know you will not be pleased about this, but I must insist you obey. Please understand the public furor it would cause both within the Church and outside of it if the internal disturbances and delusions of a provost were made known. The reputation of the Church must be upheld.
If you go to the Lord in prayer, you will reach the same conclusion I have and will forward your notes as per my request. If you are unable to cooperate, I must ask for your resignation from the Zion Foundation.
Yours in Christ,
Elder Aaron P. Blanchard
Alexander Feshtig<
br />
Zion Foundation Institute of Psychoanalysis
Elder Blanchard:
I do not know how you managed to gain access to my preliminary study of Fochs. Quite frankly, I don’t care to know. There is always someone willing to serve the Lord who feels that his obedience to God justifies taking every liberty.
I have seen this coming for some time. The claims you yourself publicly make for the freedom of the Zion Foundation, for our ability to operate separately from the Church, are obviously empty. I am disappointed with you, with the Church, and with our foundation.
Despite all claims the Corporation of the Blood of the Lamb makes to be a divinely inspired Church, it seems oddly as eager as any worldly institution to soil its hands in a little impropriety, to cover a few things over if that means furthering the cause of righteousness. What happens to the claims of divine guidance at such moments? Can such guidance be flicked on and off like a lightbulb? Do you believe you can hide from God?
What few of my files you have will do you little good: the provisional evaluation in them was based on the belief that what Fochs described as his disturbing dreams, thoughts, and feelings were indeed restricted to dream, thought, and feeling. But I have discovered enough since writing that initial study to realize that Fochs’s “dreams” and “thoughts” are in fact real experiences, acts he has committed. It is much worse than you thought, Elder: you do not have a disturbed provost who is thinking shocking thoughts; you have a provost involved in the destruction of children, who feels no remorse, and who has used his church position to prey on children. Was “divine guidance” accidentally switched off when Fochs was called to be provost?
I want my papers returned without delay. As to your suggestion that I resign, I have no intention of doing so. But I will not cooperate either.
Sincerely,
Feshtig
Aaron P. Blanchard, Apostolic Elder
The Corporation of the Blood of the Lamb
Church Headquarters Facility, Floor 25
Director Kennedy,
It is of the utmost importance that I obtain all materials related to Doctor Feshtig’s analysis of Provost Fochs. A great deal is at stake, none of which I am at liberty to discuss. I would suggest you do all you can to accommodate the Lord in this matter.
I understand you had a certain amount of difficulty obtaining the materials you have already sent. Trust me when I say further papers must be obtained by whatever means possible, even means that, in normal circumstances and without the direction of the Lord, both you and myself would shy away from. It is at crossroads such as these that those who truly love the Lord, those who are willing to serve his Church with all their might, mind, and strength, distinguish themselves from the common herd.
I command you to take any and all action you deem appropriate toward the resolution of this matter. Though I in no way care to have my name or the Church’s name associated with whatever course of action you choose to undertake, and though I would prefer not to be appraised of the details, trust that the Church will always be there to uphold and defend you.
Yours in Christ,
Elder Blanchard
Alexander Feshtig
Zion Foundation Institute of Psychoanalysis
Elder Blanchard,
I was summoned this morning for an urgent interview with my provost. When I arrived, I was made to understand that my worthiness to be a member of the Bloodite faith was being called into question. I was told that someone had reported that in my psychiatric practice I was “preaching a vision of the world and the soul contradictory to the true vision offered by the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.” He said that he had been told that I had “resisted helping the Church” in my professional capacity and that I was “openly preaching a nihilistic rejection of the soul that contradicted the Church’s recent Statement in Support of Family Values.” When I questioned him as to who had raised these charges, he at first would not say, but did indicate that it was “somebody worth listening to.” After a great deal of prodding, he reluctantly admitted it had been you.
It seems you are trying to intimidate me into cooperating. Clearly you have no compunction against avoiding all proper channels and inflicting your will on a provost in awe of your authority: someone who is, for you, a disposable token in a game of power.
As to your accusations regarding my world view, it is true that I do not attempt the same sort of simpleminded synthesis of the gospel and the psychiatric profession as would someone like Director Kennedy with his so-called “Christianalysis.” Kennedy is, quite frankly, in flight from an understanding of the self, using clichés and the worst religious inspirational propaganda to paper over people’s problems. He does considerable damage to his patients, distancing them from the possibility of cure.
I will not have someone who knows absolutely nothing about my profession dictate what my actions should be in regard to my patients. I will not allow my integrity to be ground up in the gears of the Church just to keep from getting on your bad side.
It is clear that you are covertly encouraging my local provost to have me excommunicated. I ask you to have the dignity to confront me directly instead of hiding behind my provost, pretending that these decisions are being made locally rather than at a higher level.
You shall have no further information on Fochs unless you go through proper channels and receive permission from Fochs himself. Until then, there is no justification for sharing anything with you. I will not do so.
Feshtig
Memorandum, Zion Foundation Institute of Psychoanalysis
From: Feshtig
To: Kennedy
I arrived at my office this morning to be confronted by your clumsy attempt to simulate a burglary to gain access to my papers. You have, of course, what you wanted (or rather what the Church—i.e., Blanchard—wanted), but consider, Kennedy, what you have had to sacrifice to gain it.
The next time you attempt this, you would do well to keep the following in mind:
—You took only my Fochs file. When you are simulating a burglary, you should take more than just the item you are after. You’re a psychologist, for Christ’s sake. Can’t you at least make some pretense of actually thinking like a burglar?
—Usually a burglar has to have a way in. In this case, the door was locked, the windows unbroken. Am I to believe that the burglar picked the lock, overturned my furniture, pried my private cabinet open with a crowbar, took Fochs’s papers, and then carefully locked the door as he left?
Kennedy, you are obviously not cut out for burglary. This is serious business. Stop and consider where this is leading you. In a short period of time, you have begun, in the name of God, to sacrifice all your ethics. Where will you draw the line? It is apparently acceptable for you to lie and steal. Why stop there? What is there to restrain you from killing someone if Blanchard asks it? Are you comfortable believing that the Church will never ask that of you, just as you were comfortable not long ago believing that Blanchard would never ask you to do anything dishonest.
Are you willing to turn your life over to a leader who is eager to abuse your willingness to be used?
In any case, congratulations. You have found in my office enough to keep Blanchard happy for a few hours. You should be proud of yourself. He’ll leave you alone. At least until he needs something else.
Feshtig
Notebook
Some thoughts and further discomfort about my (ex)patient Fochs. His dreams have an alarming habit of resurfacing as news stories. In the newspaper today, two mothers claim their boys were sexually abused by one Provost Fochs, six months ago. The particulars correspond with Fochs’s dream of the two boys in all important points.
My responses complicated by Kennedy’s unexplained interest in the Fochs case. I am looking harder for ghosts than perhaps I should.
Listening again to the Fochs tapes, speeding through. Strikes me differently when I hear his disembodied voice—something disingenuous about his words that his pr
esence masked from me before. Though perhaps I am reading into his voice what I expect (and fear) to find.
Calls to Fochs’s office, two attempted through the secretary, one by myself from the gas station on the way home. Never an answer.
A bad night. J. gone to spend weekend with his mother and me left alone in the house, no moon, the windows black and expressionless. Even when I press my face to them I can hardly see out. I keep going out to stare at the yard until my eyes slowly adjust to the dim shapes, then back inside again.
A dream of my own, stolen from Fochs’s repertoire. The girl’s head hanging back between the shoulders, a pulpy sack. No more than that, a frozen sepia locket, slowly fading from vision and falling asunder.
I awoke terrified and stumbled about the house, turning on all the lights.
Not worth interpreting.
Called Fochs, no answer. Hiked in the morning, up through the aspens to where I could see the whole smog-ridden valley spread below. A smudged but dizzying prospect.
…
I drove across town to the address Fochs had listed on the clinic’s forms. No home there, only an empty and overgrown lot humming with grasshoppers.
I tried the telephone number again, received no answer. Opening the telephone book, I looked up Fochs, Eldon. He was not listed in any of the communities in the book. I should have thought to demand the name of his congregation, though most likely he would have lied about that as well.
There was, though, in nearby Carswell, a Myra and Zina Fochs. Farm Route 12, #4. I wrote the address down.
Trouble at work, Kennedy angry with me. I am the one who should be angry with him.
J. retrieved. Briefly uncomfortable for me to see my former wife, but over quickly. J. spoke nonstop and with great nervousness all the way home.
I dialed Myra and Zina Fochs’s number. An answering machine picked up and a male voice I didn’t recognize asked me to leave a message. I considered, then hung up.
Father of Lies Page 8