by Diane Lawson
“What do you want from me?”
“I can’t want anything from you, Nora. You’re married.”
“So all that’s gone on between us means nothing to you?”
“Yeah. That’s right.” He put the car into gear and fishtailed around the graveled lot. “I’m just another male asshole.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Friday, June 19th arrived with no word from John Heyderman. It was eighteen days after Howard’s explosion, eleven days after Allison’s jump. I did the count every morning upon waking. Mike insisted our Dr. Perv was still alive, said he felt it in his gut. Best odds, he thought, were that John was taking advantage of the situation to indulge his perversion, avoid the Medical Society or both. Mike’s intuition didn’t reassure me. I felt sure John was dead. I thought he was dead because I couldn’t bear to think he wasn’t. Couldn’t bear to think he’d have me carry the burden of my anxiety over him. Couldn’t bear having that chink put in my conspiracy theory. Couldn’t bear having it all come down to accident, misjudgment, overreaction. I sat in my office like a wire ready to be tripped—chewing my nails, monitoring email constantly, eyeing Caller ID every time the phone rang.
Lance, the first patient of my day then, had grown edgier along with me that week. I could make the logical case that his regression was merely a phase of his mental cycle, an expectable pulling back from the progress we’d made analyzing his dream. With Lance, any psychic advance seemed to provoke a retreat, driven by the combined forces of yearning for the painful familiar and the guilt of survival. And I’d been through that sort of loop with him before. Therapists do resonate with their patients’ psychic states, but it can flow the other direction as well, the analyst’s dis-ease infecting the patient.
He was leaning on the door to the outside when I went for him, decked out in his sunglasses and a camouflage jacket.
“What’s up here?” he said, not making a move to come in the consultation room. “Where’s the guy that comes before me? And what’s the deal with the Range Rover lady? She’s been gone two weeks. You never answer that question.”
“You have a fantasy about her?” I said, taking a step back before I realized what I was doing.
“No, Dr. Goodman. Sergeant Lance Powers, reporting for duty, with observations.” He took two quick steps, entering my hallway, and stopped with his back to the wall. “Open that closet,” he said, waving his hand, index finger pointed.
I did.
He scanned the shelves of letterhead, envelopes, disposable towels, toilet paper and cleaning supplies, then stuck his head in the bathroom before sweeping into the main office space. He stood by his chair and nodded his head once, indicating that I needed to sit.
“Why the jacket?” I said. “It’s hot today.”
“Hot today. Hotter tomorrow,” he said. “I have my reasons. You should understand.”
“I need you to help me understand what’s going on.”
“That’s what they want to know. What’s going on? What’s gone on? Watching my house day and night. Unmarked cars up and down the street. Like I wouldn’t notice.”
“You feel like someone is watching you?”
“Not feel, Doctor. Not feel. I see. I know.”
“When did this start?”
“You have that in your records. They’ll want those, you realize. May have them already. They’ll want you too. I’m sorry, Doc. Never should have let you talk me into trusting you. They’ll kill us both.”
“I think we need to talk about medication. Something to take the edge off.”
“I need my edge, Dr. Goodman.”
“This is an excellent day,” Morrie said when his head hit the pillow later that afternoon.
“Really?” I said. My own day had been anything but, defined as it had been by my concern over Lance’s state of mind. “What’s made it so excellent?”
“I figured out the right way to arrange things. I’m putting all my movies in the library room. I have eight hundred ninety-six of those. And I arranged them by category, like comedy and drama. Just like Blockbuster. Then I put my television show DVDs in my mother’s bedroom—the situation comedies on one shelf and the westerns on another shelf and the detective shows on another shelf. Momma liked I Love Lucy and Dragnet best. She would be happy to have them in her room. Do you see how it all makes sense? I don’t know why I could never work it out before.”
Despite the distraction of my anxiety, I recognized the breakthrough it was for Morrie to be able to categorize things by their emotional valence. I put my worry about Lance on the backburner to celebrate the rare happy moment with this odd man.
“It does make sense,” I said. “It makes sense because you’re thinking by emotions.”
“But I still do alphabetical within the categories. I tried making it all by feelings. Like the funniest movie to the next funniest. But that was too complicated.”
“That would be too complicated. I think the way you’re doing it is perfect. Just perfect.” My delight must have come through in my voice.
“I’m not doing it to please you.”
“I know,” I said. “But I can be pleased for you that you’ve solved this problem.”
“I guess that’s okay,” Morrie said. “And another good thing happened.”
“What was that?”
“Dr. Richard F. Kleinberg has time to see me next Tuesday. We start at one o’clock and finish at two-thirty, so I can’t come to see you. An analyst shouldn’t charge me for the session if I’m seeing another doctor for a consultation. Besides this is ninety-six hours advance notice. That’s what Dr. Richard Kleinberg said.”
Screw Dr. Richard Kleinberg. Dr. Richard Kleinberg does not run my business. “Did you tell Dr. Kleinberg that you were working with me?”
“That’s confidential.”
“I have to keep it confidential. You have to tell him.”
“I’ll give him your records.”
“He doesn’t need records. He just needs to hear your story.”
“No. He needs the records.” I could see that Morrie had the urge to rock. “He needs the story in the records.”
“Did Dr. Kleinberg ask you to bring your records?”
“He needs the story exactly in order. You need to give me the records. All my sessions. All my associations. In order. By day.” The feet of the couch complained against the floor in sync with his rocking.
“I don’t even keep that kind of record.”
Morrie sprang to a sitting position. “You have to have records. Otherwise it’s all a waste.”
“No. I remember your story. I know you. I don’t need to write it all down. I keep it in my memory.”
“I don’t believe you. I never remember what you say.” He turned away and resumed rocking, picking up the rhythm. “You were supposed to write it down. It’s all wasted. Nine hundred and ninety-seven sessions. Fourteen thousand nine hundred twenty-five dollars.” He glanced at me over his shoulder like someone taking in the smoking ruins of his uninsured house.
“Morrie,” I said, “you’re getting a bargain here. Even if you were paying my full fee, your money would be well spent. Our time together is recorded here.” He peeked back over the pillows as if he were in a foxhole. I put my fingers to my temples.” And here.” I put my right hand to my heart. “I know you.”
“But that doesn’t help Dr. Richard Kleinberg.”
Then, as if a clog in some emotional drain had cut free, I lost interest in protesting, in fighting the resistance, in the continual scraping of one sticky layer of defense off just to uncover another.
“You’re right,” I said. “He would have to get to know you for himself.”
“I can’t start all over again,” he said.
“It wouldn’t be starting over,” I said. “You have all the progress you’ve made here. Go see if you like him.”
“Are you going to charge me?”
“I wouldn’t think of it.”
Actually, I woul
d have thought of it, but I wouldn’t give Richard that kind of ammunition to use against me.
“Can I still see you next week on Monday and Wednesday and Thursday and Friday?”
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll want to hear all about your meeting with him.”
“You won’t be mad at me?”
“No, I won’t be mad at you,” I said. “But I’m glad you asked me about my feelings.”
“I still think the records would be good.”
“I know you do. Maybe you’ll want to write down how you feel seeing Dr. Kleinberg.”
“I could stop at HEB grocery store on Hildebrand and Fredericksburg Road on the way home and get a new spiral notebook. A red one. $3.59 plus tax.”
“Great idea.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Richard pulled into the circular front drive that afternoon just behind Mike and the kids straight from day camp, his Escalade up against Mike’s bumper. I’d been sitting on the front steps, waiting to receive Tamar in handoff from the guys on their way to the shooting range, as had come to be our routine. Both kids jumped out of Mike’s car and ran to me, competing for the welcome hug.
“Let’s go, kids,” Richard said, getting out of his car, twirling his keys around his finger twice before dropping them in his pocket.
“Mike’s taking me shooting,” Alex said.
“You’re spending tonight with me.”
“You just show up when you feel like it,” Alex said. “I’m not going.”
Richard stepped forward, closer to Alex. Mike slid back into his car, both hands on the steering wheel. I stood frozen.
“Let’s go,” Richard said, taking another step.
Alex broke from me and ran for the passenger door of Mike’s car. Richard met him there, grabbed him around the waist and lifted him off the ground. Alex kicked and windmilled his arms. I heard the crack of his cleats connecting with Richard’s shin. Richard yelped, lifting his leg. Alex struggled harder, throwing his father off balance. They fell, man hard on top of boy.
“You bastard,” Alex screamed. “Get off me!”
“This is turning out bad,” Tamar said, slipping from me to put herself in the back seat of Richard’s car, eyes averted from the fight.
Freed, I swooped around the car and grabbed onto Richard’s suit coat. “Leave him alone,” I screamed, pulling on the fabric until the seams tore.
Richard stood, brushed the knees of his pants. Alex crawled to his feet, wiped his tear-streaked face with his sleeve, then spat loudly into his father’s face.
“Okay,” Richard said tight-jawed. “That’s it.” His hands shook so that he missed his pocket twice reaching for his keys. He jerked open the door to his car. “Go with your mother,” he said to Tamar. “Just get out.”
Richard backed the car and peeled out of the drive, nearly hitting the white mail van lumbering its way back to the post office. Only then did Mike appear, reaching as if to put his arms around me.
I met his forearms with my hands, shoving them aside. “You just sat there. How could you just sit there?” I pulled the kids to me.
“What the hell did you want me to do? Get in the middle of that and end up in jail?”
“Just something. Just not nothing.” Nothing. The thing my mother always did. “You could have done something.”
“Can we still go to the range?” Alex said.
“Sure,” Mike said, eyes daring me to try to stop them. “Wash your face and get your gun.”
Mike and I had just sat down on the couch after finishing the dinner dishes. Alex had excused himself before dessert, heading straight to his room. Tamar had been sent upstairs to get her bath going.
“Would you be surprised,” Mike said, “to learn that Richard did a custody evaluation on Allison Forsyth—requested by none other than her two-fer lover and attorney Bobby Tom Macon?”
Yes, I was surprised, so surprised that it felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. There was Richard smack dab in one more space of mine, one more space I’d not given him permission to enter.
“No,” I said. My ears started to ring and I shook my head back and forth to rid myself of his buzzing words. “No.”
“Nora. Listen. Macon’s secretary copied the report for me. I owe her more than a fancy lunch for this.” He stuck a manila envelope in my face. “It’s all here. Dr. Kleinberg raised serious questions about Allison’s parental fitness. Suicidal tendencies. Guess we got to give him full points on that one. About her take-to-bed-for-days depression. And her drinking. Not to mention her need for daily psychotherapy.”
“Bastard. He knows how psychoanalysis works.”
“He basically told Macon off the record that any family law judge would be hard-pressed to let her keep the kids. Regardless of who her granddaddy was.”
“And Macon told her that.”
“Yep.”
So Allison heard the bad news and walked out of the office of the lover she never mentioned to me and climbed up those stairs and pushed open that door and stepped onto the ledge and into thin air. That is what she did. What she did not do is call me for support or wait for her session the next day to talk about her feelings or ask for my advice or counsel in any way. I’d spent hours and weeks and years listening to her, comforting her, enduring her, understanding her—or so I thought—doing my best to psychoanalyze her. And when it came down to that moment, all my effort counted for nothing. Nada. Fuck you, Dr. Goodman. Fuck you very very much.
“He’s a bad actor,” Mike said. “This husband of yours.”
“Mom. Mom.” Tamar’s call from the top of the stairs was insistent. “Come French braid my hair. Mom. Mom. Mom,” she chanted.
“Just a minute,” I shouted back, not wanting to give up what I hoped was possibility with Mike that evening.
“I have to go anyway,” Mike said, standing up and making for the door. “I can leave the report for you.”
“This won’t take long. I’d rather go over it with you.”
“What’s there is there,” he said. “And she’s dead.”
“And we haven’t had time together since Sunday.” I followed him to the foyer.
“I see you every day,” he said.
“That’s not what I meant,” I said, making my lips pout and grabbing his hand.
“Spend some time with your kids,” he said. “They’re upset.” He pulled away, gave a little wave and was gone.
I was upset too. Everything seemed to be falling apart—my practice, my marriage, my hopes for anything romantic with Mike. Freud said work and love are all that matter in life, and I seemed to be failing spectacularly in both arenas.
Tamar sat on the top step. The perfect vantage point to have seen her mother’s begging act. I heaved up the stairs and slid in beside her.
“I’m sorry your father behaved badly today. It was scary.” I tried to put my arm around her.
“I wasn’t scared,” she said, pulling away and looking straight ahead.
“Are you kidding? He was an out-of-control jerk.”
Tamar whipped her head around, putting her face in mine. “You make Dad be a jerk, Mom. Don’t you see that? He just wants to be with his kids.”
Rage flashed through me like a lightning bolt. I stood up and looked down on her. “If he wants to see you so much, why won’t he keep our schedule?”
“He has a job, Mom. God!” She jumped up and blew past me to her room, slamming her door. She opened it again immediately to shout, “Stop being mean to him!”
Alex ignored me when I went in to say good night. I walked around his room, picking up a crumpled piece of paper along with an armful of dirty socks, jerseys and shorts. The page, ripped from a spiral notebook, was missing the bottom left corner. I HATE DAD. I HATE DAD. I HATE DAD. The handwriting, executed in red marker, was not his best.
“I found this on the floor,” I said.
“That’s private,” he said, eyes welded to his PlayStation game.
“Only pri
vate if you start cleaning your own room. You’re mad at your father.”
“Duuuh. He beat me up. And don’t try to be my shrink.”
“Don’t say shrink.”
“Mike does. You don’t tell him not to.”
“Your father didn’t beat you up.”
“He’s an asshole. I like Mike more.”
“You’ve only known Mike for three weeks.”
“So? You’re in love with him. I’m not stupid. I see the way you look at him. Tamar sees it too.”
“I like Mike,” I said, “but we’re too different.”
“Yeah,” he said, his thumbs wagging furiously over the controller. “He’s too much fun for you.”
“That’s enough.”
“Or maybe he’s not rich enough.”
“This is not your business, young man.”
He threw down his handset and pitched a worn running shoe past my head. The sole hit the wall, leaving a black mark on the white paint.
“Cut it out!” I said. “You could have hurt me.”
“You’re trespassing. I can do whatever I want to you. It’s the law. Castle Doctrine. Dad explained it on one of his bullshit shows.”
“Watch your language,” I said.
“Why don’t you watch your language? You called Dad a whore.”
I remembered the exact moment, a repetition of one of those practiced arguments that couples evolve over time. This one started when I suggested we give Ofelia a raise from $8.50 to a whopping $9.00 an hour. Richard said that I didn’t understand the Latino culture, said that giving her more money would just be an invitation to laziness. I’d told him he was full of shit and that he had no idea what it was like to be poor, having grown up as a spoiled-only-child-fucking-Jewish-prince. This was his cue to tell me that I had no idea what it meant to work hard, sitting as I did on my fat butt every day with the same seven pathetic patients like I was on some kind of goddamn subsidy. Or did he say fat ass? Yes, I’m pretty sure he used the word ass. Which would have been why I went head-on for the analogy of prostitution to his testimony-for-hire.