The Trouble with Eden

by Lawrence Block

  He saw the doors open. Warren came through them, flanked by a stoop-shouldered doctor and a nurse with a clipboard. Behind them were two middle-aged women in white, both with prominent jaws. Warren held a pipe in one hand and was gesturing with the other as he spoke. Even his walk was different, Peter noticed.

  “They’re coming,” he told Gretchen. “Don’t be afraid. Don’t ever be afraid.”

  “This is Mrs. Vann,” Warren said now. “Mrs. Vann, there are some people here who want to meet you. They’re going to help you.”

  “Warren, I want to go home.”

  “Just come out for a moment. Then we can go.”

  She looked at Peter. “Go ahead,” he said softly. “We’ll be able to handle this.”

  And she trusted him. She got out of the car, crawling past the steering wheel, while Peter let himself out the other side. He walked around the car to stand beside her.

  “Mrs. Gretchen Vann,” Warren was saying. “Mrs. Vann, this is Dr. Moeloth. He’s going to—”

  “Why are you talking like that, Warren?”

  “Try to concentrate, Mrs. Vann. I am Dr. Loewenstein. We went for a ride in the country, you and I and Robin, and now we are—”

  “Dr. Moeloth?” She smiled perfectly, the panic and confusion gone from her voice now. “There’s been a rather horrible mistake and I’m sure you’ll straighten it out for us in no time at all.” The doctor was nodding with interest. “This man is not a doctor,” she went on calmly. “He’s an actor named Warren Ormont. He managed to win the confidence of Peter and myself and now he’s trying to dupe you.” A sudden intake of breath, and she spun to face Warren.

  “What did you say about Robin? Peter, we trusted this man. What has he done with Robin?”

  Dr. Moeloth said, “Tell me about Robin, Mrs. Vann. Just be calm now.”

  “I’m perfectly calm. Robin is my little girl.”

  “Your little girl.”

  “My daughter. He’s kidnapped her. First he posed as my friend and now he’s posing as a doctor. I think this is a matter for the police, Dr. Moeloth.”

  Moeloth nodded encouragement. “Very interesting,” he said. “And this young man with you, Mrs. Vann. Could you tell me who this young man is?”

  “This is the only person on my side.”

  “I see. And his name?”

  “Peter Nicholas.”

  “Yes, of course, Mrs. Vann. And his relationship with you?”

  She hesitated. “Well, it’s no secret. We live together.”

  “You live together.”

  “We are lovers. I’m not ashamed of it. We are lovers and the whole world is against us.”

  Warren took a slip of paper from his pocket and passed it to Moeloth. The doctor unfolded it and studied. He read aloud, “Robin Vann, parents Harold and Gretchen, born November 17, 19—”

  “That’s my daughter’s birth certificate, Dr. Moeloth. Petey, why did you give it to Warren? That’s my daughter’s certificate, Doctor.”

  “Yes, of course. And your daughter is how old, Mrs. Vann?”

  “She’ll be four years old in November. That’s what it says November 17th.”

  “Yes, of course. November 17, 1949. What year is it now, Mrs. Vann?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Sex—male. This is the birth certificate of your son, Mrs. Vann.”

  “I don’t have a son.”

  “I see.”

  “Only God has sons. Daughters belong to the Devil. Everyone knows that.” She fought the panic in her voice. “He’s an actor, Dr. Moeloth. He doesn’t even have a beard. He looks like Benjamin Franklin. Look!”

  She pulled Warren’s beard. He drew back after one fierce tug, and the two heavyset women in white moved easily to take hold of her arms.

  “Oh, God,” she said. “Oh, my God.”

  He walked to her, saying that it was all right, that it would be all right. She said, “Oh, Petey, tell them. For God’s sake tell them!”

  He reached her and took her hand. “Don’t worry.”

  “Petey—”

  “I’m Robin. It’s all right, Mom. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  And he did not turn his eyes from hers. He let her hold his gaze, and his own expression did not change. That was the hardest part of all.

  Warren was chatting easily with Moeloth. “An interesting personal mythology,” he was saying. “I only wish it would have been possible to persuade her to undergo therapy. But her refusal was consistent with her particular paranoia.” There were terms Peter did not understand; then Warren said, “There are names that will recur. Warren and Peter seem to have been former lovers of Mrs. Vann’s, but it’s unclear whether they existed other than in fantasy. They constitute a dualism for her, innocence, youth and age, good and evil—the poles seem to vary… .”

  Peter looked at Gretchen. She was standing a few yards away. The matrons were holding her arms but she was offering no resistance. She had fought them for a moment, fury dancing madly in her eyes, and then had suddenly gone completely acquiescent.

  The nurse presented Peter with the clipboard. He signed the involuntary commitment papers, signing his name as Robin Vann and his relationship as son. The nurse moved off. Warren was still talking with Moeloth but Peter did not pay any attention. He let his eyes play around the area. Sunday was visitors’ day, and groups of people moved around the lawn. It was impossible to tell the patients from their relatives.

  “Little firsthand experience with psychotics,” he heard Warren saying. “Occasional menopause psychosis and the usual run of neurotics.”

  “I envy you,” Moeloth said.

  “Oh? And I thought it was I who ought to envy you. It’s a rare day when I feel I’ve accomplished a thing. My patients improve or don’t and I can’t always convince myself that I’ve had any effect either way. I could as well have been a dermatologist.”

  Moeloth chuckled. “Neurosis and dermatology. No one dies; no one ever gets well. Do you think we do much better? I like to think so but I couldn’t make much of a case for what we do. We keep them safe; we keep them comfortable; we keep them where they can’t do any harm. When their conditions are temporary we provide a place for them to recover. We release some who ought to stay and others who probably should not have been here in the first place. You know there’s little chance that we’ll help her at all.”

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “Does the boy know?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re absolutely set against shock? Both insulin and ETS?”

  “Yes.”

  “Despite your lack of experience with psychotics? But I’m riot trying to argue you out of it. We find it useful. It’s valuable on an institutional basis. It controls. At times perhaps it disciplines. One does not want to admit as much, but it is so.”

  No shock treatments, Peter thought. Definitely not that. They had agreed on that point at the beginning.

  The nurse said something to Moeloth, who turned to Peter. “Robin, your mother would like to talk to you before they show her to her quarters.”

  To her cell, he thought. He looked at Gretchen. She was smiling at him.

  He walked toward her.

  “Oh, Robin,” she said. “It’s all so difficult. I’ve been so bad.”

  “It’s all right,” he heard himself say.

  “I’ve been a bad mother.”

  “You’re a wonderful mother.”

  “My poor baby.” She turned to one of the matrons. “Let me say good-bye to my son,” she said.

  Warren was saying something cautionary. The matrons still held her arms. But Peter could not walk away, could not deny her this.

  He said, “It’s all right. Please let her go, please give us a minute.” The matrons dropped their grip and moved just a few yards away. “Please,” he said to them. “Let us have some room.”

  He did not know what she would do. It did not matter what she would do. He walked to her and she he
ld out both her hands. He took them in his.

  “Oh, my son,” she said, and moved to embrace him. She whispered quickly in his ear. They spoke in whispers until she released him and held his hands again. Her expression became maternal. “Mother loves you,” she said. “Always remember that, Robin.” Then she turned from him and went to join the matrons.

  “How are you holding up, Peter?”

  They had been driving in absolute silence for about ten minutes. He did not answer immediately and Warren had to repeat the question.

  “I’m all right,” he said.

  “It’s over now.”

  “Yeah.”

  “She even acknowledged you as her son. I wondered if she wouldn’t try that. She used it to convince them of her sanity, and all it did was reinforce the illusion.”

  “That’s not why she did it.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No. She wanted to be able to say good-bye to me. She had something she wanted to tell me. She—”

  He broke then. Warren slowed the car, pulled onto the shoulder. He reached a hand toward Peter, then withdrew it without touching him. Peter said, “You might as well drive. I’m all right.” He wiped his eyes and took a deep breath. “She said—I don’t know if I can say this—”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “She said she was sorry she lost control, but she didn’t realize it was all part of the plan, and that we couldn’t tell her in advance because it would have ruined her performance. She said she understood, and she begged me to forgive her for the one moment when she stopped trusting me. And to tell you she was sorry. She was sorry.”

  Warren didn’t say anything.

  “She said it was wonderful of me to lead them away from Robin. That I should be very careful not to put myself in danger while I was playing the part of Robin. I don’t remember everything she said. Let me think. She’s going to keep on eating. That’s part of it. She knows she’ll be strong as long as she keeps on eating. And nothing will ever break her will. She kept saying that she was strong, and that I would have to be strong, too.”

  “And you’re positive none of this was an act.”

  “No, absolutely not. I didn’t realize she loved me that completely.” His voice cracked but he checked it. “It’s all so awful. She’s in there and she’ll never get out. She won’t, will she?”

  “Dr. Loewenstein would offer hope. No, she’ll never get out.”

  “That fucking place. Anybody could put anybody else away. You sign a slip of paper and two dykes from a ladies’ football team take her away. It shouldn’t be that easy.”

  “It’s not. Give me a cigarette, will you? Thank you. It’s not that easy. I had to show identification. They were very apologetic but explained it was procedure. And then when I filled out certain forms I forgot a detail and had my nurse called at her home. Anne supplied the missing details.”

  “What happens if they call the real Dr. Loewenstein?”

  “He’ll have to say the right things. What possible choice does he have? David knew that when he agreed. He also knows there’s little likelihood of it. I made it clear to Moeloth that she was not to be regarded as my patient. No, it was a good charade, Peter. There was never a point this afternoon when I was worried.”

  “I thought they’d see the birth certificate was phony.”

  “The only changes were two numbers and a letter. The actual certificate is a mess, but the alterations don’t show on the photostat I showed Moeloth.”

  “I didn’t know it was a stat. The other thing that got me was when she grabbed your beard. I kept seeing it coming off in her hand.”

  “But we talked about that!”

  “I know.”

  “You knew I attached it properly when we stopped for gas. That was the whole idea, to have her grab it like that.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “But you forgot?”

  He shook his head. “No, I was afraid you forgot. All the way there I wasn’t sure if you remembered or not, and when she grabbed it—”

  “That would have been something.” He started to laugh, stopping just short of hysteria. “They would have kept all three of us,” he said. “They never would have let us out of there.”

  And later: “There was something you said to that doctor. About the two of us being opposite poles in her life.”

  “The two of us? Oh, the concepts of Warren and Peter, the dualism. What of it?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I was just thinking. I guess we were the two men in her life she loved.”

  “And the two who loved her.”

  “And the two who did this to her.”

  “No one else could have done it.”

  “Right. You can’t be betrayed by your enemies, can you?”

  “Is it betrayal? I think I did it for her, not to her. Admittedly it’s always a comfort to see things that way. I think we should declare a moratorium on the soul-searching, Peter. For the sake of our own sanity, such as it is.” He sighed heavily. “It ended well. I hadn’t even dared to hope for that.” He smiled, as if at a memory. “You left her with a kiss.”

  “Yeah, me and Judas.”

  “Oh, stop that, Peter. Just stop that.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Hugh said, “You know what the trouble is? The trouble is it’s Sunday.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “Well, I’ll say it is. In Pennsylvania it is. You can’t get a drink in Pennsylvania on a Sunday. And if you don’t think that’s trouble—”

  She giggled. “But we just got a drink,” she said. “Drinks. One for each of us.”

  “Quite true. The Markarian liquor cabinet does not recognize the blue laws of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. But Trude Hofmeister does.”

  “Trude Whatmeister?”

  “Not Whatmeister. Hofmeister. At Tannhauser’s.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Which means that either we have dinner without wine or we go somewhere in New Jersey.”

  “So?”

  “So this is a celebration. The greatest author in the world and the most beautiful girl in the world are celebrating the completion of the finest novel in the world. For that we need good food and good wine. And you can’t get wine in Pennsylvania, and you can’t get a decent meal in New Jersey, and that’s all because it’s Sunday.” He raised his forefinger. “Make a note of that, Miss Markarian.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In the future, significant works of fiction are not to be completed on Saturday night.”

  She wrote on the palm of her hand with her fingertip. “Not to be completed on Saturday night,” she echoed. “I shall never forget that, sir.”

  “I sincerely hope not.”

  “Never ever. Which’ll we do?”

  “Which which?”

  “Go to Tannhauser’s or go someplace in New Jersey?”

  “Ah, that which. A demanding decision, Miss Markarian. I don’t think I can make a decision like that on an empty glass.”

  “I’ll fill it up for you.” She walked a few steps, then turned. “You’re happy, aren’t you?”

  “How in the world can you tell?”

  “Because you’re so silly.”

  “‘You silly Daddy.’ You used to call me that when I would joke with you.”

  “I remember.”

  “Yes, I’m happy, kitten. Deliriously happy. Do you know something? I have never been so happy in my life.”

  This was true. There was always happiness in completing a book, always a measure of pride and satisfaction and pleasure, but in the past it had always been qualified by a feeling of loss, a vague discontent. He had often compared it to postpartum depression; a mother feels joy in having brought a living being into the world but cannot always escape the feeling of having given up a part of herself. He had come to recognize in himself that particular sensation, an empty feeling within him where there had previously been substance.

  He had felt aspects of that the night befo
re. This morning, when he awoke, he felt nothing so much as the agony of impatience. He’d gone downstairs hoping to find Karen, anxious to know what she thought of the book, and found instead that she was still asleep. The manuscript was on his desk, neatly arranged as he had left it. He assumed she had read it but could find no certain proof. And he had thought then of the mindless tricks of embryonic writers who would submit manuscripts with an occasional page inverted so that they could determine, after having been rejected, whether they had at least been read. “I always leave those pages inverted,” an editor told him once. “Let ’em hate me.”

  So he had had the day’s first drink while he waited for her to wake up and come downstairs. The desire for a morning drink surprised him but did not disturb him greatly. If it was not his custom, neither was it something he had passed a personal law against. He was jittery, impatient, and a drink would sand off the sharp edges. It would have been foolish to pass it up and have coffee instead.

  And then, after he had finished his drink and washed out his glass, he heard her moving around upstairs. He made himself wait for her in the kitchen, busying himself by preparing their breakfast. As she burst into the kitchen, he turned around, almost afraid to see her reaction.

  And she said it was the best thing she had ever read in her life.

  “I read it all the way through. I’m a fast reader but I didn’t want to miss a word, and sometimes I would go back and read something over because there was so much to it that I wanted to absorb a second time. And when I finished I wanted to wake you. Then I was afraid I would sleep too long and I was going to leave you a note to wake me first thing in the morning. And then I set my alarm clock for the first time in ages and went to bed and thought maybe the clock would go off before you were ready to get up so I shut off the alarm. There must be a thousand parts of it I want to ask you about. Is it all right to ask things about it? Is that all right?”

  It wasn’t just that she loved the book. It was that she liked it for all the right reasons. There were things he had done not knowing whether they would work or not. Some bits and pieces were important to him but would have no individual impact on readers. A book was always quite different for the person who wrote it. Its most perceptive reader could not see it in the same way. He was certain it was the same with the product of anyone’s labor; the fruit tasted differently to the man who planted the tree.