A Tax in Blood

by Benjamin M. Schutz

  We walked together across the campus. At my car I turned and said, “Oh, by the way, there’s one other reason why you can’t go there for Thanksgiving.”

  “Oh, what’s that?” she asked disinterestedly.

  “You’ll be celebrating it with me and Samantha. That is, if you want to.”

  “All right!” She strung out the syllables as far as they would go. “Thank you. That’s great. I was hoping I could but I was afraid to ask.”

  “You shouldn’t have to. I’m sorry I waited so long to let you know.” I unlocked my car, slid in and rolled down the window. Randi gave me a quick peck on the cheek, waved good-bye and took off across the lawn at a gallop. A couple of times she jumped into the air and shook her fist at the sky. Watching her disappear into the school I felt a warm glow in my chest and the beginnings of a smile on my face. It was still strange to be that important to another person.

  It was just shy of two when I pulled up at Arnie’s house. I sat in the car wondering how this was going to turn out. Arnie had sounded pretty listless on the phone, maybe depressed even. My feelings flickered unstably between anger and concern, and I wasn’t the least bit sure that either one was going to be of any use here. I climbed out of the car, slammed the door shut and trudged up to his house.

  The front door was open, so I walked right in. Arnie slouched, unshaven, in the same chair I’d seen him in a couple of days ago. The pile around him was noticeably higher. He ran his fingers through his hair so that it stood up wildly, and glowered at me without conviction.

  “What do you want?”

  “Just came by to see how you were doing.”

  “Well, you’ve seen. Is that it?” he sneered.

  “No, asshole, that’s not it. What’s the matter? A little caring too much for you to deal with? Doesn’t fit in with your godalmighty code? What are you afraid of? That you might start caring for other people, too? Let me tell you something, your bushido bullshit only works if you keep it simple. Care for no one but yourself, loyalty to no one but yourself and it works fine. Let somebody else get close to you, start having to take them into account and things don’t sort out so nice, do they? What is it that your teacher says? ‘The hand that is always clenched is full with its own emptiness.’” Nice work, Haggerty, when in doubt, get pissed off. Was I really treating Samantha any better than this?

  “You think I want to be out here all by myself?” Arnie’s tone and eyes had softened.

  “Sure looks that way to me.”

  “Do you have any idea how much I’ve wanted to come home? I left ’Nam behind; that’s not it. I just never could arrive in America.”

  “Was going to the wall part of this?”

  “Yeah, that’s part of it. Being recognized finally, being welcomed back finally. I really thought that I’d feel better after I went down there. But it’s just not okay. I just can’t do it. I can’t slide back in like the last fifteen years never happened. I’ve changed too much. It’s too little and it’s too late for me.”

  I sat down on the side table next to Arnie’s chair. “I hear you. I’m not saying that you have to forget what happened. But you don’t have to stay out in the cold. The door is open, Arnie, walk through it. Come on home.”

  “I can’t. I just can’t.” He held his head in his hands.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “Try. I’ll walk it with you.”

  Arnie just sat there shaking his head. Next to him, I was not at all sure where we went from here.

  Chapter 24

  I knocked on the door to Samantha’s apartment. She pulled it open, saw that it was me and turned away saying, “Come on in.”

  I cocked an eyebrow, said, “Now what” to myself and walked in. She walked over and plopped down on her sofa. She balanced a glass on her chest and had a frown stamped on her face.

  “Why so glum? What happened?”

  “Nothing.” She tried to take a sip from her glass but the angle was all wrong. Grumbling, she sat up.

  “Nothing, my ass. What is it?”

  She took a sip from the glass and handed me a magazine. It was folded back to a review of her latest book. I skimmed it until I came to the cause of death: “the vastly overpraised Ms. Clayton, whose previous volume was short-listed for a number of literary prizes, repeatedly offers us characterization by quirk, and not surprisingly, none of her ‘shtick figures’ rouses any genuine feelings.”

  “Whew.” I dropped the magazine like it was radioactive.

  “Witty son-of-a-bitch, isn’t he?”

  “You want I should take him out?” I said in my best nasal, thick-tongued Brooklynese.

  “No. I don’t want you to be funny either.”

  “Okay.” I dropped the accent as if it was the magazine. “Hurts, huh?”

  She took a big slug from the glass. “Damn right it does. Oh by the way, Mrs. Murphy, why didn’t you drown that child? It’s not very pretty, you know.”

  “Ah, fuck ’em. Them that can, do, them that can’t criticize.”

  “I’ll get over the hurt. Everybody gets trashed, right? It’s just one person’s opinion, right?”

  “Absolutely. Nothing a good review can’t fix.”

  “To hell with reviews. If you want to believe the good ones, then you have to believe the bad ones too. I just wish that I didn’t give a damn. That I could write just for myself.”

  “No, you don’t. Then you’d have to keep it all in a drawer.”

  “True. I’m just as angry with myself. I guess I have to accept that I’m not immune to criticism.”

  “Just as long as you don’t let it determine what you write.”

  “No way. You know what really burns me up though?”

  “No. What?”

  “Being the butt of his little jokes. ‘Shtick figures,’” she sneered. “If he wants to criticize my work, fine. There’s no reason to ridicule it though. That’s a cheap shot. If he’s so fucking funny, how come I haven’t read anything of his between covers?”

  “I’ll ask him that, right before I let him have it.” I watched to see if there was even the hint of a smile on her face. Finally it began to peek through.

  “On second thought, how much does it cost to do in a third-rate book reviewer?”

  “Depends on how you want it done. The cheapest way is to make him eat his words until he chokes on them.”

  “I like that. You’re hired.”

  “Fine. One problem though. I have a therapy appointment to get to first. Can you give me any pointers on how to be mentally ill?”

  “For you? Just one.”

  “Okay, shoot. What is it?”

  “Act naturally.” Her smile was in full bloom now.

  I mimed putting a gun in my mouth and pulling the trigger. “Seriously though, any tips before I go see this guy?”

  “I don’t know. You need to have a problem to talk about. That’s why you’re there.”

  “You mean other than why did you kill Malcolm Donnelly?”

  “You catch on quick. Whatever story you use ought to be something you’re familiar with. You’ll sound more believable that way. If you don’t want to talk much about yourself, act paranoid, try to interview him instead. Tell him that you’re therapist shopping. Remember that if he’s any good he’ll follow you for a while, listening to you tell your story and then he’ll try to take you and it someplace new. A good therapist does the unexpected, asks the questions you never ask yourself, challenges what you assume to be true. If he’s any good you’d better be on your toes.”

  “Point well taken. See you after class.” I looked at my watch. “I’d better be going. Isn’t it supposed to mean something if you’re late for your appointment?”

  “Shoo. I have work to do.”

  I took 395 North towards the Pentagon. The Washington Boulevard exit took me right past it. Fifteen years ago they had had machine guns in the halls to repel “invaders.” Meanwhile, a hundred thousand such “invaders” were marching downtown intent on putti
ng sugar in the war machine’s gas tank.

  The sidewalks near the Arlington National Cemetery were empty. No more afternoon runs for the military staff. One bomb on the bridge and half the colonels we have would be floating in the Potomac. The Iwo Jima Memorial was on my left as I entered Rosslyn to take Key Bridge into Georgetown.

  In Georgetown, I turned left away from the commercial strip along M Street and headed towards the residential areas around the university. I found Dr. Gutierrez’s address and parked half a block down from it. I locked the car and walked towards his house. It was narrow, deep and three stories high. The brick was painted an odd gray-blue color. On the first two floors all the windows had ornate metal grillwork over them as did the door. There was a fence around the property made of the same curved ironwork. A slate path went between the house and a row of thorny plants that ran up a trellis above the fence.

  As I walked towards the house I could see that the same grillwork covered the windows on the side of the house and that the basement window wells were also enclosed by a metal grill. When I got to the back of the house I reminded myself to think like a patient. I was here to get a reading on the man and I needed to be as believable and unremarkable as possible. I was having trouble, however, turning off my vigilance so that I could focus on creating a problem. The fence and trellis continued around the back of the house. There were no tables or chairs out. Nothing to enjoy the brick patio. Only two high-intensity floodlights mounted at the corners of the back wall of the house. I looked at the door to the doctor’s office. There was no brass nameplate there. Nothing at all to identify it as a doctor’s office.

  I rang the doorbell and shifted from foot to foot waiting for the door to open. A man pulled the door back slowly, smoothly. He was slight, much smaller than me. His hair was thick, jet black and combed straight back from his high forehead. A bushy mustache lay across his upper lip like a furry caterpillar.

  “Yes,” he said softly.

  “Uh, Dr. Gutierrez?”

  “Yes, I am Dr. Gutierrez.” He looked directly at me with dark brown eyes, made somewhat larger by the thick glasses he wore.

  “Uh, I’m Mr. Jerome. Francis Jerome. I spoke with you earlier.”

  “Yes, Mr. Jerome. Please come in.” With that he extended his hand and I shook it. But for a large signet ring, his grip was as sleek and soft as a seal’s flipper. He turned his back to me and said, “Please follow me.” Gutierrez wore a navy blue sweater, gray wool slacks, and high gloss black shoes. I followed him down a dark corridor towards a staircase. We descended the staircase. At the bottom Gutierrez reached for a doorknob on the right, pushed it open, and motioned for me to enter.

  “Please sit there, Mr. Jerome.”

  I sat in a chocolate leather recliner. “Thank you,” I said. There were two recliners in the room and they were angled towards each other. Between them stood a small table with Dr. Gutierrez’s pipes and other smoking paraphernalia. The carpet was cocoa colored and the walls almost taupe. A desk stood against the far wall. The only interesting thing on it was his typewriter. The lighting was recessed and indirect. Everything about the room seemed muted. Gutierrez closed the door and walked to his chair. I scanned the room and found there was nothing to distract one’s gaze. Nothing to look at but the doctor. I reminded myself I was just here to get a reading on the man. To see if I could trip him up. Get him to give himself away.

  “You look very tense, Mr. Jerome.” Gutierrez was in his seat, legs crossed, one hand propping up his head.

  “Yeah, well like I, uh, said, I’ve never done this before.” I needed to get a grip on this.

  “Oh? You didn’t say that on the phone,” he said with a smile.

  “I didn’t? Well I thought I did. I don’t remember much of what I said. I couldn’t talk freely.”

  “Yes, you did say that.” Gutierrez shifted from the left to the right side of his chair.

  “Is everything we say here confidential?”

  “Absolutely, Mr. Jerome. In fact, the walls and ceiling are soundproofed. No one can hear you in here.”

  I looked around for something to talk about. “Do you keep notes of what we say? I don’t see any records. Are you taping me?”

  “No, Mr. Jerome. I assure you I am not taping you. My records are kept in my desk under lock and key for my patients’ protection. You seem quite suspicious, Mr. Jerome. Very much on guard.”

  “No. No, I’m not. Uh, I’m just not used to doing this sort of thing.”

  “May I ask how you got my name, Mr. Jerome?”

  “Uh, a friend of mine told me about you. Malcolm Donnelly.” I met his gaze head-on. No reaction. Absolutely none. If I was right about this guy, he was very good. He’d probably ‘flatline’ a lie detector.

  “I see. It was a tragedy about Malcolm. To die by one’s own hand. To find life so unbearable. A great shame. I am sorry you have lost a friend. That is a tragedy in itself.”

  “Uh, yes. Thank you.”

  “Let me be frank with you, Mr. Jerome. If any of your distress is at all due to Mr. Donnelly’s death I’m not sure we should work together.”

  “Really? Why not?” This was like picking up mercury with mittens on.

  “I have had to ask myself many times whether I misdiagnosed Mr. Donnelly. It weighs heavily on me.” Gutierrez looked away for a moment. “He consulted me about a domestic matter and I felt I might be of some assistance to him. I fear I misjudged the depth of his despair, his sense of hopelessness.”

  Gutierrez looked back at me. “If your being here is at all due to Malcolm’s death, I don’t think I would be able to assist you in your own personal explorations of that without being partially concerned with protecting myself from feelings of guilt brought on by your quite legitimate anger and hurt. There is no room for such self-serving in the therapeutic relationship. Do you see what I am driving at?” He looked at me earnestly.

  “Uh, yes. No, that’s not why I’m here. Malcolm and I weren’t that close. I just got your name from him. That’s all.”

  “Well then, Mr. Jerome, what does bring you here?”

  Time to put up or shut up. “Uh, well, it’s really …” My mind was spinning while the room stood still. It was hard to remember why I had come.

  “I can’t, uh, seem to remember things. Like when I forgot what I said on the phone to you.”

  “You remember that?”

  “Yeah, yeah, it’s not things like that I forget. I mean, I did forget that, but that’s not what I’m concerned about.” I looked up at Gutierrez. He sat there, calmly, silently. Then he leaned back away from me.

  I had the oddest feeling that we were somehow breathing together, somehow tethered to each other. I felt the push and pull, yet for the life of me I could not see where we were joined.

  “It’s mostly before age five that I can’t remember.”

  “You say mostly. So you can remember some things that occurred before age five?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “You remember that by age five, you no longer forgot to remember things?”

  “I guess so.” The vortex deepened, got narrower, darker. I spun faster. This is getting out of hand. I didn’t come here to get therapy. This is just pretend. If I leave now he’ll think I’m a real flake. What do I care?

  “You’re concerned about recovering your childhood?”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s it.” Get a grip on this. Direct it somewhere. Make up something. Every time I reached down into my imagination for a diversion I flung up a piece of myself that fluttered and fell like a wounded bird. Imagination’s shadow is the flesh and there is no escaping that. I spun on madly, trying to flee anyway.

  “Close your eyes, Mr. Jerome. What did you lose when you were five?” The room grew darker. I thought I saw Dr. Gutierrez turn a dial on his chair.

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember.” A dorsal fin broke the smooth surface of my forgetting.

  “Maybe it’s better if you forgot.”

  �
�No. I don’t want to forget. That’s why I came here.” Get out of here, man. I saw an empty crib. A sour bile rose in my throat. Shame’s dessert.

  “Sometimes the mind works that way, Mr. Jerome. Everything is remembering and forgetting. Forgetting to remember. Remembering to forget. Always when you want to. Sometimes you must forget things …”

  “But I can’t forget …” My heart was pounding. I felt my palms. They were slick with fear and shame.

  “That is good, Mr. Jerome. Now you can remember what you forgot.”

  “Um, Dr. Gutierrez, I can’t seem to remember why I came here. I feel really foolish about this, but I think I’m going to have to leave early …” I stood up, barely able to keep from running.

  Dr. Gutierrez stood up, and pointed to the small clock behind my chair. “Actually, our time is up. You are a very interesting person, Mr. Jerome. Think about our session. If you would like to enter psychotherapy I believe I could be of tremendous help to you. Certain hypnotic techniques might help unlock those repressed memories. You seem quite responsive to trance induction.”

  He moved towards the door. “Let me show you out. I must prepare for a meeting this evening. Good day, Mr. Jerome.”

  I shook his hand and slid past him. I felt deeply ashamed and did not know why.

  On the street, I looked left and right and crossed quickly towards my car. My mind was overflowing. Questions spilled everywhere. What memory lurked just beyond reach? Why was I so ashamed? How had Gutierrez been able to control me so easily? Behind them I felt, once again, the panic I had known in that room. The fear that my mind was not my own.

  I climbed into my car and drove off, more uncertain than ever about Dr. Gutierrez and the death of Malcolm Donnelly. Halfway home I remembered that I’d forgotten to stay and take his picture to show to the hotel staff.

  Chapter 25

  I went home to an empty house. My appetite was nowhere to be found either. I decided on two pain pills for dinner. Those I washed down with some beer. I knew I shouldn’t mix them, but I didn’t really care. I even tried to summon up some curiosity about my indifference but failed.