A Tightly Raveled Mind

by Diane Lawson

  “I’ll have the same,” I said. “Except scrambled and no meat, please.”

  “Hold the dead pig,” Angie said. “Got to charge you the same price though. How about we just add it to his plate.”

  “No,” I said. “That’s okay.”

  “Excuse me,” Mike said. “Whose plate is at issue here?”

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and a voice said, “Nora, dear.”

  The small-town analyst has no privacy. Patients at the grocery store—All those sodas, Dr. Goodman! Wouldn’t water or milk be better choices for the children? Patients at the synagogue—Good Shabbas, Dr. Goodman. We’ve missed you at services. Patients in the gynecologist’s waiting room—I hope it’s nothing serious, Dr. Goodman. Patients as the naked-you exits health club shower—Good workout, Dr. Goodman?

  Camille Westerman stood behind me, a glum-looking son on either side.

  “I’ve not seen you since the day of Howie’s service. You remember the boys.” She said all this with her eyes on Mike. She removed her hand from my shoulder and extended it to Mike as if she expected him to kiss it. “Camille Westerman.”

  To my surprise and great pleasure, he let the hand hang midair. “Mike Ruiz,” he said, toasting her with his coffee mug.

  “You’re not at all familiar,” Camille said. “You must be from out of town.”

  “San Antonio, born and raised,” Mike said.

  “Really? Alamo Heights High School?”

  “Central Catholic,” Mike said.

  “I see,” Camille said. “Old friend of Richard and Nora?”

  “I’m doing a project for Nora.”

  “Really?” Camille winked at me for the second time in just over two weeks. “May I ask your profession? I’m always in the market for good help.”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  I gave Mike’s ankle a little kick. He pinned my foot with his.

  “Really?” Camille said, her smile taking on strain.

  “Yeah. Really,” Mike said, bobbing his head like he’d done with me in his office that first day. “Nora’s had some unfortunate things happen with her patients.”

  Camille raised her chin. “Oh, yes. The Forsyth suicide. So sad for those children.”

  “And, before that, your husband,” Mike said. “My condolences.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m glad we met,” Mike said, leaning forward to compensate for Camille’s slight backing away. “I’d like to stop by sometime. Go over a few things with you.”

  “Truly? I don’t see what assistance I could be,” Camille said. “And I’d hate to waste your time. You must charge Nora by the hour.”

  “I’ll just stop by.” Mike reached in his pocket and handed her a business card.

  “It would be better if you’d call ahead. Richard has my number,” Camille said. “You do know Richard?”

  “Had an intimate conversation with him just this morning,” Mike said.

  “Let’s get going.” Mr. Alamo Heights Quarterback, who had escaped my notice paying the tab at the register, called to Camille. He stood, holding the door open to the heat of the day with one hand, stuffing his wallet into the pocket of his tight jeans with the other.

  “Good luck with your investigation, Mr. Ruiz,” Camille said, laying Mike’s card on the counter before reaching over to touch my hand. “And do give my best to your Richard. He’s such a dear. And to those darling children of yours.”

  Her look held no benefit of the doubt.

  “Exactly what do you think you’re doing?” I said to Mike, as soon as the glass door closed behind the Westerman contingent. “This is confidential material you’re blabbing about. About my patients. To my patient’s widow. I’m bound to honor people’s secrets. Do you not understand that?”

  “You’re the only one suffering under the illusion that secrets get kept. Small town. Remember?” Mike signaled Angie for the check. “You want results? You need to stir things up.”

  “I forbid you to violate my privacy.”

  “Forbidding is not one of your options,” Mike said. “Your options are to fire me or to shut up.”

  I took the check from Angie and swiveled off my stool.

  Mike’s hand gripped my shoulder. “What’s your choice, Nora?” he whispered in my ear. I could smell his smell. The skin on my neck remembered the touch of him. “We can stop this right now.”

  “I’m not firing you,” I said.

  “Fine. Let’s see how you handle your other option.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Windows down, we drove north on McCullough, upscale old-style mansions to our right, funky owner-operated businesses on our left. Mike took the railroad track at Contour Drive a little too fast, leaving my uneasy, pancake-stuffed stomach lagging behind on the descent. An unnerving visceral sensation, simultaneous nausea and arousal, churned in me. I reached for the armrest.

  “Haaang on,” Mike said.

  And for a dislocated instant, I stood on the front seat of a red Chevy Impala convertible. Stood. Yes. Four years old? Five? No car seat. No seat belt.

  “Hang on,” my father had said, when we took a dip in the road. “Hang on tight,” throwing his head back, tightening the corner of his mouth around his Camel. The summer heat shimmered around us, making us invisible—or so I thought, so I hoped, so I feared—to anyone of a mind to follow. My right hand sought purchase on the upholstery, my left gripped his stiff white collar. That unease claimed my stomach, the same odd tingle between my legs.

  “When are we going back to Grandma’s?” I’d said, though I knew better.

  “Later,” he’d said, meaning Don’t ask. “We’re having fun now.”

  “Hey!” Mike brought me back. “Cat got your tongue?”

  “You told me to shut up,” I said. “And that’s a cliché.”

  “Is this an English test? You should have warned me?” He reached over and squeezed my knee a fraction too hard.

  “I was just thinking about this time Dad kind of borrowed a car from the dealership where he was working. One of the times my parents were split. He was supposed to take me for breakfast. Got a little carried away.”

  “Carried away?”

  “We ended up about a hundred miles south, little town called Nevada, Missouri. Ne-vay-da, with a long a.”

  “He was trying to kidnap you.”

  “No,” I said, but it seemed odd that possibility had never crossed my mind. It would have been the first thing I would have suggested to a patient with that story.

  “What else would you call it?”

  “Just my dad being my dad.”

  Mike caught the yellow light at Basse Road, passing us through the floodplain. The road cradled spots of standing water. The storm sewers churned the rain from the night before. A few dejected golfers dodged the puddles on the Olmos Basin course. The air stank of mold and mildew. A brief stint on Jackson-Keller brought us to the white-painted brick entry to Castillo del Sol Apartments. We negotiated the potholed parking lot of the complex—a shabby gray, two-story place that easily qualified as a dump—to park directly under 2A, the second-floor corner unit furthest from the street. It had taken me a week of sessions to help John work through his guilt at spending five extra dollars per month for his superior view.

  I wasn’t particularly nervous about being there. I knew John made a habit of working in the lab on weekends and evenings. He preferred that solitary time to the staff-filled office. As boss, he had the prerogative. Besides, his van wasn’t in the lot.

  “Castle of the Sun,” I said. “It’s worse than I imagined.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Can’t wait to see what’s inside.”

  “You said we were just going to drive by. You didn’t say anything about going inside.”

  “So stay in the car,” he said.

  And I thought I’d do just that, which would have been the right thing to do. Or which would have at least been not doing the wrong thing. So I sat there for a few secon
ds, watching him cross the parking lot with an unwarranted sense of ownership. And then, because the rebel-analyst in me wanted to see, to breach boundaries, to violate taboos, to see the truth—or because I didn’t want to be alone or be without him or sit with the empty-scared feeling that was taking me over—I got out of the car and ran to catch up with him.

  He gave me that know-it-all look.

  “Changed my mind,” I said.

  We climbed the concrete stairs, the peeling paint of the rusty metal banister scratching my hand. Mike opened the door of 2A with the flick of a penknife. I hesitated on the threshold, blinded by the darkness inside, but he grabbed my wrist, pulled me in, slammed the door and flipped on a fluorescent light over the kitchen counter. There was the single bed, made up with hospital corners. There was the nylon-netted lawn chair and the card table with one frayed straw placemat and a white coffee mug with Tamiflu written in blue letters. All that like I’d expected. What I hadn’t imagined were the two walls of videos and DVDs interrupted only by a small pressed-board computer desk.

  Mike scanned the shelves, letting out a long low whistle.

  “Strange. John never talks about movies,” I said, tilting my head to read the titles. Addiction. Hard. Wet. Lusty. Fatal. Heat. Cum. Pornography. Every blessed one. “I had no idea.”

  “Transvestite prostitute on retainer and all the other stuff and you’re surprised at a little porn?” Mike fumbled in his pockets. “Here. If you’re going to touch anything wear these.” He handed me a pair of latex gloves, put on his own and sat down at the computer. I browsed the DVDs to the tapping of the keyboard.

  Mike let out a whistle, soft and low. “Internet favorites on here I've never seen,” he said.

  “How do you know about this stuff?”

  “Homicide takes you everywhere.”

  I paced around as best I could in the limited space until the corner of a book sticking out from under the pillow caught my eye. I put on my gloves and pulled out a journal covered in soft butter-colored leather, an expensive elegant book that couldn’t have been more out of place. I opened it to the page indicated by the attached silk-ribbon bookmark.

  The entry was headed Friday, June 12: Today Dr. Goodman made me sit in the chair and look at her. She thinks someone may murder me. I hope she’s right. I flipped back through the pages. Session after session chronicled. All about my clothes: Today Dr. Goodman wore the pink silk blouse that shows her nipples. The one with the five pearl buttons. There was a coffee stain on the front that she might have asked me to lick. All about my body: Dr. Goodman seems to have gained some weight. My movements: Dr. Goodman crossed her legs and let her shoe slide off her heel. I watched her impatient foot out of the corner of my eye. My smell: There was a faint smell of curry about Dr. Goodman today. There were sketches done in colored pencil. Of him with me. Me nursing him. Me tying him up. Me changing his diaper. Me with a penis. Him with one. Him without.

  The room started to spin and the oversweet taste of pancake syrup invaded my throat. I dropped the book on the bed and found the toilet, grateful for the apartment’s economy of scale. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, all $5.99 worth and more came back. When the dry heaving let up, I rested my elbow on the toilet rim, forehead in my hand. I felt Mike reach over me, heard the flush, and felt the spray.

  “Guess you didn’t know about this either,” he said, the open diary in hand.

  “Don’t be mean,” I said. “Please.”

  He put his hands under my arms and pulled me up. “Sorry,” he whispered in my right ear. “I shouldn’t have let you come. I’ll clean up. I’ve seen enough.”

  He drove us back down McCullough, me thinking all the time that we’d turn left to cross over the Olmos Dam into Alamo Heights to check out Renee’s condominium or swing by Camille’s place on Bushnell for the promised talk.

  Instead he pulled up in front of my house and sat there with the engine idling.

  “I thought we were working all day,” I said, a panicky sensation taking shape in my chest.

  “You’re sick,” he said, not looking at me.

  “I just threw up.”

  “Go on. Get some rest.”

  I looked out the window, away from him, not moving a muscle. I could hear him drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

  “I can get through this stuff faster on my own,” he said.

  “I’d planned for us spending the day together.”

  “Look, this isn’t like a…”

  “I know.”

  I didn’t want him to say it. This isn’t like a date. You’re not my girlfriend. I don’t like you like that. All those dreaded declarations from adolescence that pop up like dandelions when love rains on the scene. I just sat there and let him drum away, letting the tension build up. Analysts are good at that.

  “This will go better if I do it solo. Don’t pout.”

  I kept looking straight ahead, focusing my gaze on the LeBaron’s bent hood ornament.

  “How about I take you for Greek food tonight?” he finally said. “I can fill you in on what I find then.” I didn’t respond. “Okay?”

  I took my time answering, enjoying the advantage. “Okay.”

  I got out of the car and took two slow steps down the sidewalk. I heard the window creak on its way down.

  “Hey,” he yelled and I turned around. “Wear that blouse.”

  He was smiling.

  Chapter Twenty

  The pink blouse was in my closet, still in a plastic Kraft Cleaners bag with a happy-face tag indicating the successful removal of a stain. I slipped my arms through the silky sleeves and did up the pearl buttons. John was right. My nipples did show, even with a padded bra. I’d never noticed.

  I didn’t bother to change.

  “Looking good.” Mike made a big show of examining me when I opened the door. He looked pretty good himself in khaki shorts and a turquoisey Hawaiian shirt that picked up the color in his eyes. “Our Dr. Perv nailed it.”

  “Cut it out,” I said when he kept ogling me, setting off that taking-the-tracks-too-fast feeling in my stomach. I had to reach up and cover his eyes.

  “Miss me?” he said.

  “Yes. You miss me?

  “Maybe,” he said, steering me out the door.

  Demos Restaurant anchors the corner at North St. Mary’s and Ashby across from the gleaming Greek Orthodox Church. I’d driven past it hundreds of times on the way to drop off my dry cleaning but had never thought to stop in. The North St. Mary’s strip fights a neck-and-neck battle with seediness. Trinity University kids head there to hang out, group dance or listen to music while getting bed-spinning drunk in an ever-changing lineup of bars: White Rabbit, Tattoo, Hardbodies, Tycoon Flats.

  Demos itself proved to be a clean, spare place, still bright inside at eight-thirty that evening with the undaunted summer sun glaring away. A large man with jet-black hair shouted a greeting from behind the counter when he spotted Mike. He came out, wiping his hands on his apron, a wide smile on his face and grabbed Mike by the shoulders to kiss both his cheeks.

  “And who’s this beautiful young lady you bring to my restaurant?” the man said, turning to me, both arms out, palms up.

  “Client of mine,” Mike said, putting his hand in the small of my back to move me along.

  “Client of yours?” I said.

  “What was the right answer?”

  “Forget it,” I said, feeling teased, feeling annoyed, feeling worse than I felt with my father, who could at least hold on to a mood long enough for me to label it. In contrast, Mike seemed to vacillate without cause—one minute I’d feel wanted, the next I’d feel crazy for even having the thought.

  He steered me to a corner table and claimed the seat against the wall, leaving me to wrestle my own heavy wooden chair into place. Things started arriving without our seeing a menu. First came the retsina, flowing into small glasses from a carafe, followed by a rapid sequence of unmatched containers that quickly crowded the blue and white tiled tableto
p—taramasalata, rice-stuffed dolmathes, tiropita, wrinkled Kalamata olives, soupa avgolemono, pita bread cut into quarters, along with several other items I didn’t recognize.

  “Help yourself,” he said.

  “I thought we were going to a real restaurant,” I said.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Mike worked at his food with the same rapid-fire method he’d used on my pasta, punctuating every third bite with a quick swallow of wine.

  Once we’d gone through the appetizers, he seemed to relax. “Good, huh?”

  The small plates were cleared to make space for big servings of moussaka, one for each of us. I leaned over the table, feeling the steam from the plate dampen my face.

  “I try not to eat meat, you know.”

  “Don’t be a pain in the ass,” Mike said.

  Pain in the ass. Far and away, Richard’s favorite term for me. I looked at Mike through a fuzzy-headed tangle of shame and anger. Don’t be a pain in the ass—the perpetual challenge for a child with a bipolar father, for a child with a mother in near-perpetual denial. My childhood left me with psychic software inadequate to answer the simple question, Do I have to eat something I don’t want to avoid hurting the big Greek man’s feelings? You would have thought eight years on Dr. Bernstein’s couch might have taken care of this problem. And it might have—if it had ever occurred to him to ask what I thought about myself instead of beating me over the head with his theories.

  “Ruiz isn’t a blue-eyed name,” I said, stirring the moussaka with my fork. “I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’d guessed they’d be brown.”

  “All Meskins look alike,” he said. “Like all Kikes.”

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “What did you mean?” He reached over with his napkin and wiped the corner of my mouth. “Sauce,” he said. “Didn’t want it to end up on the blouse. You just had it cleaned.”

  “You’re too kind,” I said. “So? Tell me.”

  “Tell you what?”