Empathy

by Sarah Schulman

  “Hello? Hello? Mrs. Noren? This is Anna O., Mrs. Noren. No, I am not selling you The Watchtower. I’m your daughter’s former lover. Oh … Oh … thank you, Mrs Noren. Thank you. Thank you.”

  Doc followed his client into the elevator.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Come in, come in,” Mrs. Noren said. She had one of those huge apartments where no one lives and half the rooms are covered with drop cloths. “I’m so glad you came. How about that stinker, huh? How about that daughter of mine? What a creep.”

  “You know it,” said Anna O.

  “All the time she was telling me she did everything alone. She went on this trip alone. She went to that movie alone. She went out with this friend, that one. Finally I says to myself, Helen, your daughter is a real stinker. Your daughter must be having sex with a woman. She’s finally come out of the closet. There was no other explanation. Let me tell you something, Anna, and …”

  “Doc.”

  “Oh, a doctor, how nice. Let me tell you that that daughter of mine is a smart girl. Too smart. She knows a lot of things that I don’t know. But she only tells me things that I already know. Every word out of her mouth is one big cliché.

  “Did you ever try asking her questions?” Doc suggested.

  “Once,” Helen answered, plopping down on a drop-clothcovered armchair, her dress and shoes caked in plaster dust. “Once I asked her a question only because I really wanted to know the answer. It was ‘Why blame communism on the Jews just because they invented it?’”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said, ‘Ma, it’s not like that anymore. Now we’re as bad as anyone else, which is even more obvious.’”

  “And what did you say?” Doc asked again.

  “I said, ‘What do you mean, “anymore”? I live here too you know, and for me it is still a current question.’”

  That’s when Doc took a seat because he felt so very comfortable.

  “Let me tell you something Anna O.,” Helen said with no sign of waning interest or energy. “Believe me, I understand you. I know why you came here. When I was young I felt the same way that you do now. The only famous person who ever looked like me was Anne Frank. Later, Ethel Rosenberg. Only martyrs for role models. You know that there’s no such thing as the secret of the atom bomb? It takes thousands of volumes of information all fed into a computer. It’s not like you can just add water. The Rosenbergs were executed for a crime that cannot be committed. But when will they be avenged? So, that no good kid of mine. What did she do?”

  “Well …” Anna said, sitting slowly on a dust-covered ottoman. “She used to make love to me and then roll over and say ‘You’re narrow because you’re gay but I’m universal because I’m not.’”

  “Repulsive,” Helen Noren said, pulling out a box of butter cookies from under a sheet. “Oh, you brought me flowers, beautiful. Must have cost you seventeen dollars at least.”

  Doc ate a cookie.

  “And for you, Doc, I have this book. Don’t open it now. Save it for later. Here, I’ll wrap it up in a paper bag and Scotch-tape the edges. Open it when you need a present.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Did you know,” she said, breaking the tape with her teeth, “that a paper bag is a thing of the past? Did you notice it?”

  “There are still a few stores that have them,” Doc said. “Mostly stationery stores.”

  “Oh, really?” Helen said, handing him the package. “I never get any.”

  Anna O. ate a cookie.

  “Honey,” Helen Noren said, wrapping her arms around Anna O. and holding her close to her breast. “There is justice in this life. Don’t you worry. There can be plenty of justice.”

  Doc listened very closely.

  Later, Doc opened the package. It was a book called Romantic Sentences. It was blank.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The wind smelled clean, like clean magazines. It smelled like invisible ink. The phone rang.

  “I have a collect call from Elijah Timothy Stevens. Will you accept?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hello, uh … is this the doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am Elijah Timothy Stevens.”

  “Yes?”

  “I got one of your business cards the other day and I was wondering if you do phone counseling.”

  “If you think it would help.”

  “Well, Doc, it can’t hurt now, can it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Uhm … do you take Medicaid?”

  “No. It’s only ten bucks an hour.”

  “Well, we’ll have to work out something doctor because my problem is that I am broke and … up here in, well … I’m in the Bastille, Doc, if you know what I mean.”

  “You’re in jail.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Well, in that case my services are free for you, Mr. Stevens.”

  “Thank you, doctor. Merely accepting my collect call is halfway to a cure.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Well, that’s all I need for now, Doc. But you take care of yourself and I’ll get back in touch again real soon. Don’t worry. I’ll be thinking about you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Stevens.”

  “Thank you, doctor.”

  When he hung up the phone, he realized that the breeze through the open window was too cold, so he knew that it was one of those seasons. But he was not ready to close it. From then on there was a certain brace at the beginning of each day and a feeling in the middle of the night that he did not have enough protection.

  Even turning on the radio was a flirtation with danger because certain songs could come on at any moment that would evoke memories, that would evoke specific associations that no longer needed to be considered. So, he turned it off and went back to a magazine instead. There, surprisingly, was the face that he had once known. The very face that had just been hologrammed into his mind. At first he was attracted to the grayness of the reproduction, but when he found himself unable to skim over it, he knew that there was something on that page for him. This person had won an award. She had accepted it in a white leather skirt, white patent-leather heels, and a white-seethrough chiffon blouse. She was in the newspaper in that clothing. When handed her award, she said, “Thank you to all the dancers I have ever performed with for giving me the physical gratification that has kept me coming back for more.”

  Sometimes, thought Doc, it is bad for people to get too much attention because their egos overinflate and they feel a certain immunity from thinking. But when a person is dismissed, it can be a blessing in disguise because then they have to be quiet and count their friends. Only then can you speak to them directly with any realistic hope of investment.

  The phone rang.

  “Will you accept a collect call from Elijah Timothy Stevens?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hi, Doc.”

  “Hello, Mr. Stevens. Has something happened in the last hour that you need to talk with me?”

  “Yes, Doc.”

  “That’s fine, Mr. Stevens. I just want to remind you that every patient is limited to three sessions. So this will be your second session. Understand?”

  “Understood in practice, but not in theory, doctor. Why only three?”

  “Mister, I’m not a martyr. I get what I need out of it by the third session and you can too. What happened?”

  “Well, I used to work in a public school, a New York City public school. Do you know what that means, Doc? Can you imagine the guilt involved? It means students coming to school already disoriented instead of getting that way there the way we used to do. It means students who have never been out of their neighborhoods and don’t know what tractor means.”

  “Why not?”

  “Think, Doc. Think back to when we were kids. All those TV shows about farmers’ daughters and talking horses. Now it’s all domestic dramas. You have to watch every week in order to understand what’s going on. Anyway, it means th
e kind of school where the principal gets busted for doing crack in the boy’s john. And even worse …”

  “What could be worse than that?”

  “I was that principal.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Stevens.”

  “They flew me up here to Ogdensburg Correctional Facility just south of the Canadian border. They flew us up on this little propeller plane called Air Rikers. They manacled our wrists together and our ankles, doctor. Then they put us on the plane. Do you think I can sell that to The Village Voice? I know this black girl from Yale who works up there. I want to call her and tell her about this big story but I need to charge the call somewhere. Can I charge it to you without using up my third session?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right then, it’s been good talking to you, Doc. I want you to know that I’m thinking about you and I miss you and I’ll stay in touch and let you know what’s going on. Okay, you be good now. Bye, Doc, love ya.”

  “Bye.”

  The phone rang.

  “Will you accept a collect call from Elijah Timothy Stevens?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is my last session, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay, then I want to make sure it’s a good one. I want to talk over my future.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “Now, they’ve got two kinds of vocational rehabilitation training programs here. I was wondering which one you think I should take.”

  “What is your educational background, Mr. Stevens?”

  “I have a master’s in alcoholism counseling. Anyway, which program should I choose?”

  “What are the possibilities?”

  “Brick laying or office cleaning.”

  “Which one feels better to you?”

  “Well, in terms of feelings, Doc, I must admit I don’t feel good imagining myself behind an industrial vacuum cleaner. But I don’t think that I have what it takes to commit to becoming a bricklayer. I don’t think I would want to work outside with that freezing cement. So, I guess that going for practicals and not feelings, I should pick office cleaning.”

  “Are you comfortable with that decision?”

  “No.”

  “What is your other option?”

  “I guess I have to go back to AA, NA, get back in therapy and confront my fears.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. No, I’m not sure. Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Well, that’s our final session, Mr. Stevens. I wish you the best of luck in your life. You seem to be an open person who is really trying.”

  “Thank you, Doc. And, Doc, I want you to know that although we can’t be together right now, I will never forget you. I think about you all the time and I don’t want you to ever feel alone. I want you to know that I am thinking of you and I am someone who cares about you, Doc. I care about you. Always know that.”

  “I will, Mr. Stevens. Goodbye for now.”

  “Goodbye.”

  They’d both started laughing before they’d finished hanging up.

  The phone rang.

  “Will you accept a collect call form Elijah Timothy Stevens?”

  “No,” Doc said. “I just can’t. It wouldn’t work out.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  All over Eastern Europe, first-time voters were electing republicans. At the same moment, here in the USA, Americans from coast to coast were jumping into taxis to go buy drugs. Communism hadn’t worked out anywhere and Doc was sorry. Maybe this was the perfect time to become a Communist, when it would all be theoretical again. When it would just be about dreams.

  “Hello?”

  “Would you accept a collect call from Leon Stevens?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hello, is this the doctor?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Leon Stevens, Elijah Timothy’s father. He told me that he was in therapy with you and I wanted to call and spill my guts too. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, Doc, I got two problems. One is my son and the other is a woman. Which one first?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  “Here’s the thing, Doc. My son only calls me when he wants money. He never calls for anything else. I’m old now. I worked all my life and my wife is married to another man. I’ve got one son, Elijah Timothy Stevens. And when he calls me, it’s only for money. It makes me feel bad, Doc. It makes me want to cry.”

  “Mr. Stevens, I have to tell you something. You son is a drug addict. That’s why he calls you for money. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. He probably does love you. But your son is a drug addict and he needs drugs. He had to get some money so he could get drugs. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you.”

  “Doctor, what is it with these drugs? I walk down the street surrounded by nodding people. Half the city is nodding.”

  “I noticed,” Doc said.

  “Can’t he get in a program and get off that stuff?”

  “I don’t know,” Doc said. “Then what would he do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t have the answer,” Doc said.

  “No wonder you’re cheap. Tell me, Doc, do you actually help people?”

  “Not really, I’m just a good listener.”

  “And who do you tell your thoughts to?”

  “Right now, Mr. Stevens, I just don’t have anything very important to say.”

  “Strange world, ain’t it, Doc.”

  “Yes sir, very strange. Now, about that woman.”

  “Yes, that woman.”

  Doc leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the table. On the radio there was nothing but racial killings, all by Italians.

  “Her name was Lupita,” Mr. Stevens said. “All the ways she didn’t die but aaah, almost did. She ate that fruit. The fan crashed down onto the bed. Lupe rolled over but the minister was mangled. Then there was that crazy kid with the stick.”

  “Go on.”

  “One day, eating her corn chips with painted nails, Lupita says, ‘You are the fifteenth person in my life to whom I’ve said “You’re fucking me so good. How can anyone fuck me so good?”’ Doc, it changes you to realize things like that.”

  “Brings it all down to scale,” Doc said.

  “Her greatest moment, her shining youth. They all applauded at the Mexican Opera. They cheered when she sang ‘My Way.’ They were all there - Jorge, Hector, Hank (the secretary of tourism), the three Trotskyites in a pickup truck. She wore a red dress, of course.”

  “Is she involved with someone else?”

  “Her boyfriend’s name is Raoul. She lives upstairs on Avenue B. She only takes medication. She went to the bodega in her bathrobe. She buys vitamins over the phone. She had one great night. At the opera. The opera.”

  It flashed, in Doc’s mind, that this could be the same woman Anna O. had mentioned in her list of past lovers. He almost asked, “Is she insatiably multiorgasmic?” But he decided it would be tacky. Therapists are supposed to have blank slates, not coincidences.

  “Mr. Stevens,” said Doc, barely overcome, “that was so poetic. You must have loved her very much.”

  “Well, Doc, sometimes I’m obsessed with my love for her. And then again, sometimes I tell myself that there is no need to take desire and dress it up as beauty.”

  “Why not?” Doc asked.

  “You mean it’s okay?”

  “Sure. Desire and beauty? What’s the difference anyway?”

  “Don’t know. Anyway, later I looked back and discovered that my moments with Lupe Colón were really the best. I remembered how good they felt and how much I enjoyed them.”

  “That’s wonderful, Mr. Stevens. I envy you there.”

  “But Doctor, I didn’t think you were allowed to make statements like that. I’m the patient. I thought you were supposed to be a blank slate.”

  That blank slate again.

  “Well, Mr. Stevens, my theory of therapy is based on the beli
ef that we may as well tell everything we know. So, what happened, Mr. S? What happened to you and Lupe Colón?”

  “This is the sad part, Doc. The part that haunts me. One night, I was lying in her bed while she was walking around the apartment naked, looking at her own body in the mirror. I reached under some pillows to prop up my head and pulled out a long, thin rod. I held it round in my hand for a minute trying to imagine what it could possibly be doing there. Then I realized that this woman was jacking off with an iron rod. She was two-timing me with a pipe. A pipe! I knew that girl was tough but I didn’t like the idea of her sitting on machinery when I was home with my wife. So I started looking around the apartment - snooping, you know. And there was metal everywhere. Everywhere. I’d been so blind. All the evidence was sitting right under my nose but I never put two and two together. She had metal radiators, silverware, window gates, a file cabinet, and she was using them all for sex. For sex! Doctor, this was fifteen years ago and it still haunts me at night. I can’t help but imagining, over and over again, Lupita in bed with a muffin tray, tweezers, an iron. It makes me sick. I suffer every night. Doctor, I can’t sleep.”

  “Mr. Stevens,” Doc said, “did it ever occur to you that the iron rod might have been a weapon? It might be a weapon?”

  “A weapon?”

  “Many women sleep with weapons. Did you know that, Mr. Stevens?”

  “No, Doc, I did not.”

  “Well, it’s true.”

  “You mean she wasn’t cheating on me with a tube?”

  “Possibly not.”

  “She was so beautiful that night, Doc.”

  “Which night?”

  “At the opera, the opera.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Doc’s mind was opening irreversibly like a banana or a can of Tab. He was realizing, quite specifically, that all over the world people are looking for and comparing themselves to others who don’t exist. It’s the international invisible.

  We are each other’s worst fears, humanized, he thought.

  This placed him solidly in relation to everyone else and, therefore, the universe. Badly, but superbly, he imagined comets, planets, satellites, asteroids, space stations, and telecommunications technology still unknowable from the street.