Baker's Blues

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Let me put it this way. I’m going to eat breakfast. It’s no trouble to throw a couple more eggs in the pan.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “While I’m doing that you might want to clean yourself up a bit. I don’t much care to breakfast with someone who reeks of booze, mud and vomit. There’s a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt in the bathroom. Down the hall on the left. And Matthew? Stay out of the medicine cabinet.”

  He sits at Gabe’s elaborately carved kitchen table with sun filtering in through plantation shutters. They eat bacon and eggs and biscuits. And grits loaded with butter and salt and pepper. The salt, especially. He can’t get enough of it. Gabe makes orange juice with one of those fancy presses with the big handle and serves it over ice in crystal goblets along with more of that strong, dark coffee.

  He natters on as usual, gossiping about people Mac doesn’t know. But finally there’s a silence. The kind that follows a lot of food and not enough sleep.

  Cleveland gets up and starts clearing the dishes. At the sink, he turns. “What now?”

  Mac stifles a yawn. “Go find the car. Take a nap.”

  “I mean, what about your life?”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s a mess.”

  “Depends on your perspective.”

  “Matthew, don’t try shittin’ me. I’m just like you. Except with nicer furnishings, of course.” He smiles briefly. “I’ve been where you are and I know what it’s like. Big. Bad. Relentless. Ignore it at your peril. It doesn’t go away; it gets worse. And then you die. I pretty nearly did. ”

  He can get a bus back up to La Brea, walk around till he finds the car. Unless he parked it illegally, in which case he’ll have to start calling the police garages and find out where it is.

  “All you can do is start, Matthew. Take one step. Fix one thing. Go on to the next one and work on that. And you don’t have to do it alone. That was the hardest thing for me. Asking for help. Asking the right person.”

  “Strictly out of curiosity, who’s the right person?”

  “Willow Maidenhair.”

  He laughs. “Let me guess. Eagle feather and sweat lodge. Crystal and aura.”

  Cleveland folds his arms and returns the stare. “She’s not about any of that. But even if she was, have you got just a whole bunch of alternatives tucked away someplace?”

  Mac drinks the last of his coffee and sets the cup back in its saucer.

  “She’s down in Laguna,” Gabe says. “I know, I know. It’s a schlep. But she is so worth it, Matthew.”

  Even with the map she insisted on sending him, the house isn’t easy to find. After thirty minutes of winding around up in the hills above Laguna Beach he spots it, a nondescript bungalow surrounded by tall grass and eucalyptus trees. A brushfire waiting to happen.

  If she has clients willing to drive up here every week, she must be good. The thought reassures him, helps quell the uneasiness that kicks in at the mere thought of seeing a therapist named Willow Maidenhair. And a three-hour first session. What the hell do you do for three hours?

  He parks the rented Mustang in a dusty patch of gravel and climbs out into the dry heat of the canyon. Tiny grasshoppers startle away and dry weeds crunch under his feet as he walks up the path. The porch is shaded by a huge eucalyptus, gray leaves drooping like an old man’s beard.

  He shifts his weight on the creaking boards, imagining how this is going to change things…everything. That’s what he wants, it’s why he’s here. So where is the dread coming from? Why the faint dampness on his forehead and the taste of ash in his mouth? Why does he want more than anything to get back in the car and drive down to the beach, to sit on the deck at the Laguna Hotel bar, a cold beer in his hand, warm salty wind on his face?

  He raises the knocker on the faded green door and lets it fall.

  Willow Maidenhair is elfin, barely up to his shoulder, and her face, with its pointy chin and nose, reinforces the impression. Her long hair is light brown and woven into numerous little braids, some with brightly painted beads plaited in. She turns huge gray eyes up to his and holds out her hand.

  “Hello, Mac. I’m Willow. Please come in.”

  Great. My therapist is a 25-year-old hippie.

  He follows her to a pale green room with a bare pine floor. The polished black rectangle of her desk is clear except for one file folder. The room feels empty and he decides it’s the absence of a computer.

  She motions him to a chair.

  “There’s water if you’d like some.” She nods at a green anodized metal carafe on the corner of her desk.

  He turns over a glass and fills it, just for something to do.

  She settles into her own chair, which is big enough for two of her, opens the file, takes out several sheets of paper, uncaps a pen and says, “How old are you, Mac?”

  “Forty-four. How old are you?”

  She looks slightly surprised. “Thirty-eight. Why?”

  “Because you don’t look old enough—you don’t look like a therapist.”

  She smiles. “I have a Sigmund Freud mask. Would you feel better if I wore it?”

  He has the sense that she’s only half joking.

  “Are you married?”

  His left hand is tan enough now that even the telltale white ghost of his ring doesn’t show.

  “No. Yes…separated.”

  “Any children?”

  “No. Well…one.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a writer.” He notices that the top piece of paper on her desk is actually some kind of form with columns and boxes.

  “Before we get started talking, I have some questions for you,” she says. “Boring stuff. But information I need to form a clearer picture of your situation. Have you had a physical exam recently?”

  “January.”

  “Any blood pressure issues, high cholesterol or blood sugar levels, digestive problems, prostate, allergies…anything like that?”

  “No.” He looks at the painting hanging on the wall behind her, his mind already starting to wander. It’s one of those feel-good watercolors, all pastel flowers and sunlight on a glass bowl.

  “Any complaints you didn’t mention to the doctor?”

  “Can’t think of any.”

  “Try again,” she says.

  His eyes shift back to her face.

  “You’re paying for my time, Mac. Don’t waste it. I’m trying to eliminate any possible physical causes of your troubles.”

  He nods, takes a drink of water and a long breath. “It’s been about two years since I slept through the night. And I was having trouble getting an erection.”

  “Any particular reason why you didn’t mention the insomnia or the impotence to your doctor?”

  “I guess I thought it was…temporary. That it would all go away and I’d get back to normal.”

  She twists one of the silver chains looped around her neck. “Two years seems rather a long time for a temporary condition. Are you taking any drugs?”

  “Like prescriptions?”

  “Prescription. Over the counter. Street. Homeopathic. Vitamins. Anything.”

  “I had to finish a project and I couldn’t concentrate—”

  “So you took some…?”

  “Dexedrine.”

  “Are you still taking it?”

  “No.”

  “When did you stop?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “And how was that?”

  “Not pretty.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I’ve started smoking. Cigarettes. Some marijuana. Mostly when I was taking the dex. To help me come down.”

  “Alcohol?”

  “Some.”

  “How many drinks a day?”

  “Depends on the day. Sometimes I’ll have a beer in the afternoon. Sometimes I start drinking scotch before dinner and keep going till I pass out.”

  She w
ants to know about his eating habits, she makes him describe his last three meals. She asks if he’s getting any exercise. He watches her write down his answers.

  She says, “If we’re going to work together, there are a few things I need you to do. If you’re unwilling or unable to do them, I’ll try to help you find another therapist. First of all, no more self-prescribed drugs. And no alcohol of any kind. At least not right now. Alcohol is a depressant, and it’s also one of the things that keeps you from getting any significant sleep. Cigarettes are nasty, too, but if you feel you can’t give up all your bad habits at once, go ahead and smoke. Just no marijuana. Are we agreed?”

  He hesitates, then nods.

  She slips the form into the file folder and tucks her feet up under her skirt.

  “It’s always hard getting started with someone new. It’s hard to overcome the inertia that makes you want to just slide right back down into your hole and stay there.” Her voice is so quiet that he leans towards her slightly. “Have you been seeing a therapist?”

  “No.” He presses his fingertips together hard. It seems to relieve some tension in his chest.

  “Let’s talk about what you’re feeling. Why you came to me.”

  “I’m not really feeling anything. I just can’t seem to do anything. It’s like a fog. I can’t even describe what it’s like. It’s like I’m not all there.”

  ”What about physical pain?”

  “Sometimes. For no reason it just hurts.”

  “Where?”

  He looks at her. “I don’t know. I mean, it hurts everywhere, but I can’t tell where it starts. And I forget things.”

  “What kinds of things?” she asks. “People’s names? Where you left your sunglasses?”

  “Things like what I did yesterday. Starting a sentence and then forgetting what I meant to say.”

  “That must make writing difficult. When did that start?”

  “Last fall, I think. Maybe longer. I…can’t actually remember.”

  She lays the pen on the desk. “Have you ever wanted to die?”

  The question seems melodramatic, but her straightforward delivery makes it less fraught, more like Have you ever wanted to visit Morocco?

  He considers it briefly. “I think there have been times when I wished I wasn’t alive…but I don’t recall ever wanting to go through the process of dying.”

  “Good. So you probably aren’t going to kill yourself before we get things resolved. Tell me what else is going on in your life.”

  He looks at her blankly.

  “Your work. Your relationships.”

  “Do you think—” He feels heat rising up the back of his neck. “Can you help me?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “Why else would I drive down here from Beverly Hills?”

  “I know you want to feel better, Mac. That’s not what I’m asking. Tell me, have you ever heard the term codega?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “In Venice, during the Middle Ages there were men called codegas, whose job it was to walk in front of people at night with a lantern, showing them the way and protecting them from thieves, giving them the confidence to walk through the dark streets at night. That’s essentially my role in this. But you’re the one who has to take that walk through the dark.”

  “Great. Just one question. Wouldn’t the light also alert thieves to your whereabouts?”

  Her laugh is unexpectedly hearty. “I think we’re going to work well together.”

  She stands up and he checks his watch.

  “No, we’re not through. We’re just getting started. Come with me.”

  At the far end of the hall, she stops in front of a closed door. “Have you had massage therapy?”

  “Massage therapy?”

  “I guess that’s a ‘no.’” She taps gently on the door.”

  “Is this…standard operating procedure?”

  She smiles. “Of course not.”

  The door swings open.

  “Hi, Mac. I’m Mary.” Tall and slender with very short black hair and dark eyes.

  “I’ll see you in a while,” Willow says, and she pads down the hall. He notices for the first time that she’s barefoot.

  Mary shows him into the dimly lit room, where some weird, African sounding music is playing. The padded massage table takes up most of the space, leaving only a narrow corridor around it.

  “Everything off but your shorts, please, Mac. Then face down on the table.” She goes out, shutting the door behind her. He strips quickly, hangs his faded jeans and T-shirt on the back of the door, kicks off his loafers and crawls under the sheet. It smells like it was dried outside in the sun. He lies on his stomach, face cushioned on what looks like a small padded toilet seat.

  A discreet knock announces Mary’s return.

  He can’t see her with his face down, but he can sense her efficient, unhurried movements. She slips a pillow under his ankles, turns the music volume down. Now she’s standing at his head and a penetrating scent opens his nose, relaxes him.

  She folds down the top sheet, tucking it into the waistband of his boxers, and then her cool hands are sliding on his back, sticking on bone and cartilage. She presses harder, pushing around things that feel like marbles under the skin.

  When his eyes have adapted to the dark he can see her feet, directly under him at the table’s edge, long toes gripping the rug as she rocks back and forth, kneading his neck, his shoulders, his back.

  Shit. He tries to shift inconspicuously.

  “What’s wrong?” she says.

  “Nothing. I’m just…I’ve got…”

  “Don’t worry about it, Mac. It’s very common to get an erection during massage. Especially if you’re not accustomed. It’s the sensory stimulation and the increased activity of the parasympathetic nervous system. You must be right handed. You’ve got quite a knot here. How’s this pressure?”

  “Fine.” He winces.

  “Have you ever had massage before?”

  “Once. At a—ow—resort.”

  She sniffs disdainfully. “A Dr. Feelgood massage.” Her thumbs excavate his shoulder blades. “Don’t tense up. Let go. Let your mind drift. Breathe with me. Long inhale through the nose. Long exhale through the mouth.”

  As if cued to his breathing, the music settles into a hypnotic rhythm. The words are unintelligible so he focuses on the melody line, which seems to have a mind of its own, spooling out like a highway. Every time you expect the phrase to resolve in typical western music fashion, it begins a new pattern in a different direction.

  “What is that? The music.”

  “Ethiopian,” she says. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “I’m sort of a rock and roll guy.”

  “Too much stimulation,” she says. “We want to relax. No more talking now. Listen to the music. Fall into it. Float on it. Let it carry you like a river. Come on, now. Breathe. Long. Slow.”

  Her voice soothes him, overcomes his stubborn reluctance, lulls him into a dream zone where he’s borne up by the strange melody and lost in his own breath.

  “We’re going to do some energy work now.” The words seem to come to him from a distance. “I want you to try and make your mind totally blank. Think of a white wall. An empty canvas. A blank page.”

  Now instead of kneading, she places her fingertips in certain spots and applies pressure, first gentle, then firmer, then deep, with only a slight circular motion. Suddenly it’s as if she’s plugged into his central nervous system.

  Every place she touches calls up a different image. Memories of such cold clarity that they burn. His father standing in the hall with a suitcase. Creasing the brim of his hat. Leaving or coming home?

  Playing baseball in the street. Long, golden evenings in late June. Kids would get called to dinner, and they’d come back out and it would still be light. And then all of sudden it’s so dark you can’t see the ball. Walking home with Kevin, up the hill and Suzanne sitting on the front porc
h smoking a cigarette...

  Running. Dry pine needles crunching under his feet, releasing their summer smell. Kevin right behind him, their feet pounding on the dirt path in unison, then in counterpoint, the vibrations making his legs sting, a stitch in his side, Kevin’s feet right behind, trying to catch up, branches slapping and then he’s falling and rolling and the rhythm has changed and his stomach contracting with laughter, and then just breathing and then trying to yell, and not stopping, and that noise coming from the back of Suzanne’s throat, like a scream.

  The noise is coming from his own throat now and his face is wet. His whole body is open and cold and shaking. Mary is rubbing his neck, his shoulders, with her cool hands and crooning—there’s no other word for it, that universal mother noise.

  “Good job, Mac. Let it all out.”

  Minutes later he’s dressed and sitting in the chair in Willow’s office, wrapped in a light blanket because, in spite of the afternoon heat, he still feels chilled. He can hear their voices but not their words, talking about him out in the hallway. In a minute Willow comes in with a steaming mug, which she sets on the desk in front of him.

  “Chamomile.” She waits patiently for him to drink some of the tea and then she says, “What are you feeling?”

  “I don’t know.” His voice is tight and hoarse. “Like everything’s a mistake. Like I could have fixed it but I never did and now…I can’t. Like every wrong thing comes from the one before and makes the next thing wrong. Like dominoes. Like I don’t know how it started and I can’t make it stop.”

  He sets the cup down because his hands are shaking and he looks at her, waiting for the answer. Waiting for her to say, nothing’s really wrong. All you have to do is…But she doesn’t say that.

  “Okay, what is it? What’s wrong with me?”

  “That’s what I need you to tell me, Mac.”

  She sits back in the big chair and folds her arms and looks at him some more. “What happened?” she asks in her soft voice. “Mary said you brought up some very disturbing memories.”