Flesh and Blood

by Jonathan Kellerman

  I expected protest, but she sat there, pouting. “That's not fair. I told you everything. There's nothing wrong with me.”

  “I'm not saying there is, Lauren.”

  “So what's the point?”

  “I'd like to learn more about you—”

  “I'm not worth learning about, okay? My life's boring, I already told you that.” She ran her hands over her torso. “This is it, all of me, nothing exciting.”

  I let several seconds pass. “Lauren, is everything really going as well as it could for you?”

  She studied me from under grainy, black lashes, reached into the purse again, and extricated a pack of Virginia Slims.

  When she produced a lighter, I shook my head.

  “Oh, c'mon.”

  “Sorry.”

  “How can you do that? People coming here all stressed out. Don't they complain— wasn't Jane climbing the walls? She's a chimney.”

  “Mostly I see kids and teens,” I said. “People manage.”

  “Kids and teens.” She gave a short, cold laugh. “Every teen I know smokes. Are you allergic or something?”

  “Some of my patients are.”

  “So why does everyone have to suffer because of a few? That's not democracy.”

  “It's consideration,” I said.

  “Fine.” She jammed the pack back into the purse. “How much time left now?”

  2

  THE SECOND TIME she was twenty minutes late, hurried into the office muttering what might have been an apology.

  Same getup, different color scheme: black tank top, sunburn pink shorts, lips coarsened by bright red paste.

  Same precarious sandals and cheap little purse. She reeked of tobacco and a rose-heavy perfume. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hair was mussed.

  She took a long time settling in the chair, finally said, “Got hung up.”

  “You and your friends?”

  “Yeah.” Hair flip. “Sorry.”

  “Hung up where?”

  “Around . . . the pier.”

  “Santa Monica?” I said.

  “We like the beach.” She massaged one bare, bronze shoulder.

  “Nice sunny day,” I said, smiling. “Classes must have let out early.”

  Sudden, bright laughter tumbled from between the crimson lips. “Right.”

  “School's a drag, huh?”

  “School would have to be on uppers to be a drag.” She produced the cigarette pack, bounced it on a shiny knee. “When I was little they tested my IQ. I'm supposed to be supersmart. They say I should be studying more. I say I'm smart enough to know it's a waste of time.”

  “No interest in any subject?” I said.

  “Nutrition— love that garlic bread. Is today when we talk about sex?”

  That caught me off guard. “I don't recall our scheduling that.”

  “They scheduled it. I've been instructed to talk to you about it.”

  “By your parents?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “It's mostly Lyle's idea. He's positive I'm doing the dirty, gonna get pregnant, stick him with a ‘little nigger grandkid.’ Like if I was, talking to you about it would help. Like just because I don't talk to them, I'm going to throw up my insides to some outsider.”

  “Sometimes talking to an outsider can be safer.”

  “Maybe for some people,” she said. “But explain me this: When you're young everyone's always knocking into your head never talk to strangers, beware of strangers, watch out for strangers. So now they're paying for me to tell my secrets to a stranger?”

  She ran a fingernail under the seal of the pack, slit it open, played with the foil flap. “What bullshit.”

  “Maybe they're hoping eventually you won't consider me a stranger.”

  “They can hope all they want.” Low, tight laugh. “Hey, I'm not trying to be rude, it's just coming out that way— Sorry, you seem like a nice guy. It's just that I shouldn't have to be here, okay? Face it: They're just using you to punish me— like grounding me or threatening not to let me get my license next year. None of that worked, and this won't either. You have to care to be controlled, and I don't do caring.”

  “What are they punishing you for, Lauren?”

  “They say it's my attitude,” she said, “but you know what I think? I think they're jealous.”

  “Of what?”

  “My happiness.”

  “You're happy and they're not.”

  “They're making themselves out to be all . . . in control. Especially him.” She lowered her voice to a hostile baritone parody: “‘Lauren, you're screwing up your life. This therapy crap is goddamn expensive. I want you to go in there and spill your guts.'”

  Last week she'd talked about spitting out secrets. The emetic approach to insight.

  “So,” I said, “your parents aren't happy, they're taking it out on you, and I'm the weapon.”

  “They're stuck where they are and I'm cool, free, enjoying my life, and that bugs them. Soon as I get my own money, I'm out of there, bye-bye, Lyle and Jane.”

  “Do you have a plan to get money?”

  She shrugged. “I'll figure something out— I'm not talking right now. I'm not impractical, I know even McDonald's won't hire me without their permission. But someday.”

  “Did you try to work at McDonald's?”

  Nod. “I wanted my own money. But they said no. ‘No outside work until your grades come up.’ Which they won't, so forget that.”

  “Why won't your grades come up?” I said.

  “'Cause I don't want them to.”

  “So it's a few more years of this.”

  Her eyes shifted. “I'll figure something out— Listen, forget sex. I don't want to talk to you about it. Or anything else. No offense, but I just don't want to spill my guts.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay, great.” She shot to her feet. “See you next week.”

  Ten minutes to go. I said, “No way you can stick it out?”

  “Are you going to tell them I split early?”

  “No, but—”

  “Thanks,” she said. “No, I really can't stick it out, this is hurting my head— Tell you what, next week I'll come on time and stay the whole time, okay? Promise.”

  “It's only ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes too long.”

  “Give it a chance, Lauren. We don't have to talk about your problems.”

  “What, then?”

  “Tell me about your interests.”

  “I'm interested in the beach,” she said. “Okay? I'm interested in freedom— which is exactly what I need right now. Next week I'll be good— I mean it.”

  Next week. Conning me or did she really intend to return?

  “I've gotta get out of here.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Take care.”

  Big smile. Hair flip. “You're a doll.” Swinging the purse like a slingshot, she hurried out. I caught up with her in the waiting room, just as she whipped out her lighter.

  Jamming the cigarette in her mouth, she shoved at the door. I watched her trot down the hall, a girl in a hurry, haloed by a cloud of smoke.

  I thought about her a few times— the image of selfdestructive escape. Then that faded too.

  * * *

  Six years later I was invited to a bachelor party the weekend before Halloween.

  A forty-five-year-old radiation oncologist at Western Pediatrics was getting married to an O.R. nurse, and a consortium of hospital physicians and administrators had rented the presidential suite of the Beverly Monarch Hotel for the send-off.

  Steaks, ribs, buffalo wings, assorted fried and grilled stuff on the buffet. Iced tubs of beer, serve-yourself bar, Cuban cigars, gooey desserts. My contact with the honoree— a mumbling loner lacking in social skills— had been a few stiff, unproductive discussions about patient care, and I wondered why I'd been included in the festivities. Perhaps every face helped.

  There was no shortage of faces when I ar
rived late. The suite was vast, a string of mood-lit, black-carpeted rooms packed with sweaty men. Penthouse level— no doubt a great view— but the drapes were drawn and the air felt heavy. Suit jackets and neckties were heaped on a sofa near the door under a hand-lettered sign that said, GET CASUAL! I made my way through testosterone guffaws, random backslapping, blue cigar fog, the strained glee of boozy toasts.

  A crowd swarmed the food. I finally got close enough to redeem a skewer of teriyaki beef and a Grolsch. Belched cheers and scattered applause from the next room drew me to a larger throng. I drifted over, found scores of eyes trained forward on the hundred-inch projection TV the hotel provided for presidents.

  Skin flicks flashing larger than life. Bodies squishing and squirming and slapping in time to an asthmatic sax score. The men around me gaped and pretended to be casual. I wandered away, got more food, stood to the side, chewing and wondering what the hell I was doing there, why I just didn't wipe my mouth and leave.

  A pathologist I knew sauntered by with a whiskey in his hand.

  “Hey,” he said, eyeing the screen. “Aren't you the guy who's supposed to explain why we do this?”

  “You've obviously mistaken me for an anthropologist.”

  He chuckled. “More like paleontologist. I'll bet cavemen painted dirty pictures. How about we videotape this and show it at Grand Rounds?”

  “Better yet,” I said, “at the next gala fund-raiser.”

  “Right. Ten-inch cocks and wet pussies— better have oxygen ready for Mrs. Prince and all the other biddies.”

  A roar from the wide-screen crowd made both our heads swivel. Then a sharp peal— flatware on glass, shouts for quiet, and the vocal buzz faded out, isolating the thump-thump of the porn soundtrack. Moans continued to thunder in stereo. A woman's voice urged, “Fuck it— fuck me,” and nervous laughter rose from the audience. Then a tight, abrasive silence.

  A thickset, ruddy man holding a nearly full beer mug— a financial officer named Beckwith— stepped into the space between the two front rooms. His eyeglasses had slid down his meaty nose, and when he righted them beer splashed and foamed on the carpet.

  “Go, Jim!” someone shouted.

  “Get a neuro workup, Jim!”

  “That's why pencil pushers can't be surgeons!”

  Beckwith staggered a bit and grinned. “Here, here, gentlemen— and I do use the term loosely— Look at what we've wrought— is this a goddamn blast or what!”

  Cheers, hoots, nudges, bottoms up.

  “You're sure blasted, Jim!”

  Beckwith rubbed his eyes and his nose, gave a one-armed salute, splashed more beer. “Since all of us are such serious, no-nonsense citizens— since we'd never dream of abandoning God and spouses and country and moral obligation except for the direst emergency”— raucous laughter—“thank God we've got ourselves one hell of an emergency, brethren! Namely the impending sentencing— uh, matrimony of our esteemed— steamed-up— buddy, the eternal, infernal, nocturnal Dr. Phil Harnsberger, wielder of the radioactive cancer-killer beam, better known to all of us as El Terminador, aka He Who Lurks Behind the Lead Door! Come on out, Phil— where are you, boy?”

  No sign of the groom.

  Beckwith cupped his hands into a megaphone. “Paging Dr. Deathray! Dr. Deathray to center stage, stat. Come on, Phil, show yourself, boy!”

  Chants of “Phil, Phil, Phil, Phil . . .”

  Then: “Here he is!”

  Thunderous ovation as the crowd rippled and Phil Harnsberger, clutching a martini glass, was expelled from its midst and shoved next to Beckwith.

  Balding and normally pallid, with a pink-red mustache demeaning his upper lip, the radiotherapist was flushed incandescent. His smile was a paranoid smear, and he seemed on the verge of tipping over. He had on a black T-shirt so grossly oversized that it skirted past the knees of his slacks. A yellow cartoon silk-screened across the front portrayed a hefty, leering bride gripping a leash that tethered a pint-sized groom prostrate before a hanging judge and looming scaffold. A bold legend protested: I Dint Kill No One, Yer Honor, So Why the Life Sentence?

  Beckwith slapped Harnsberger on the back. Harnsberger flinched and tried to down some martini. Most of the liquid ended up on his chin, and he wiped himself with his sleeve.

  “Sterile procedure!” someone shouted. “Call the fucking JCAH!”

  “Fucking germ culture— stat!”

  Beckwith slapped Harnsberger again. Harnsberger labored at smiling.

  “Hey, Phil, hey, old guy— and I do mean old— speaking of which, it's about time you lost your cherry!” Stooping, Beckwith pretended to search for something on the floor, examined Harnsberger's cuffs, finally straightened and picked the olive out of Harnsberger's martini. “Ah, here it is! Turned green from disuse!”

  Whoops from the crowd. Harnsberger smiled but hung his head.

  “Phil,” said Beckwith, “you may be pathetic, but know we love you, big guy.”

  Silence.

  “Terminador?” said Beckwith. “Do you know it?”

  Harnsberger muttered, “Sure, Jim—”

  “You know what?” said Beckwith.

  “You love me.”

  Beckwith backed away. “Not so fast, Lone Ranger!” To the crowd: “Don't ask, don't tell is okay for those fruits in the Navy, but maybe someone should inform the bride!”

  Harnsberger flushed. Wild laughter. Beckwith closed back in on his target, going nose to nose. “Seriously, Phil, you're sure you're having a good time?”

  “Oh, yes, absolutely—”

  Beckwith reached around and delivered yet another backslap, hard enough to cause Harnsberger to drop the martini glass. Beckwith crushed the glass underfoot, ground the shards into the carpet. “Like the Jews say, mazel tav— happy batch-day, Phil. Sure hope you're enjoying your last meal— er, last rites. Grub to your satisfaction?”

  Harnsberger nodded.

  “Get enough to drink?”

  “Yes—”

  “'Cause none of us want you pissed off and beaming that death ray of yours down at us, Philly.”

  Shouts of agreement. Harnsberger simpered.

  Beckwith said, “That's also why none of us want to be around when you get the bill!”

  Momentary panic in Harnsberger's eyes. Beckwith slapped him again. “Scared you there, huh, boy? Nah, don't get your co-jone-jones in an uproar, it's all taken care of— lifted it out of patient funds.” Beckwith rubbed an index finger against a thumb and winked. “Sorry. No kidney transplants for Medi-Cal patients this month!”

  Peals of merriment.

  Beckwith took hold of Harnsberger's arm. “And now, for the pièce de résistance, Phil. Pieces. So to speak— Sure you've eaten enough?”

  “I'm sure, Jim.”

  “Well . . .” Beckwith grinned. “Maybe not.” He flourished an arm. Nothing happened for a moment; then the lights dimmed and music surged from behind the giant TV. Warp-speed disco beat, louder than the porn score.

  The crowd parted, and two women in long black trench coats pranced into the clearing. As Beckwith slipped from view they positioned themselves on either side of Harnsberger.

  Young women— tall, shapely, coltish, stepping high on spiked heels. Wide-smiling— tossing the smiles as if dispensing candy— they rotated their hips, thrust their pelvises, made the exaggerated moves of trained dancers. Long mass of coal black hair on one girl. Her partner's coif was white-blond, boy-short, gel-spiked.

  Synchronized butt shakes as they flanked Harnsberger, rubbed his neck, kissed his cheek, bumped his hips. A pair of tongues flicked the radiotherapist's ears, now crimson. His face was polluted with arousal and fear.

  The girls stomped and shouted, stroked their crotches, pretended to go for Harnsberger's fly, threw back their heads and pantomimed openmouthed laughter, began shoving him gently between them— back and forth, the way baby jackals play with a rabbit.

  The music took on even more speed. Off came the trench coats; the girls wore identical
black leather bustiers, black thongs, garter belts, and fishnet stockings.

  Several beats of bump and grind. I stared along with everyone else, caught a side view of busty profiles, heard the girls whoop and laugh as they continued to tease Harnsberger. The black-haired girl tickled his chin, veneered herself against him, ran her hands over his head, messed his hair. The blonde took hold of his face, kissed him long and hard on the mouth as he tried to wriggle away, hands flying wildly. Suddenly he succumbed to the kiss, getting into it. He was reaching for the blonde's rear when she shoved him away, did an athletic squat, danced back up to him, shook her head from side to side, peeled back a bustier cup and flashed a nipple, let the leather flip back up.