He wasn't talking loud but I found myself holding the phone away from my ear.
He said, "Good luck with the kid. I've got to run."
Click. His anger hung in the air, bitter as September smog.
Yesterday, after viewing Stacy's pain as we walked along the beach, I'd decided not to call Judy, wondering about entanglements between the Manitows and the Dosses, something that went beyond Mommy and Me, country-club tennis, Laura Ashley bedrooms. Now my curiosity took off in a whole new direction.
Her Eric, my Allison, then Stacy and Becky…
Becky having trouble in school-tutored by Joanne, then dropping back down to D's when Joanne could no longer see her… Was Bob's anger a reaction to perceived rejection?
Becky getting too skinny, entering therapy, trying to play therapist with Stacy, then cooling off.
Eric dumping Allison. Yet another rejection?
Bob Manitow smarting at his daughter's broken heart? No, it had to be more than that. And his resentment of the Dosses' problems wasn't shared by his wife. Judy had referred Stacy to me because she cared about the girl… Just another case of male impatience versus female empathy? Or had Bob's empathy been trashed by his inability to rouse Joanne from what he saw as "nothing more than depression"? Sometimes physicians get angry at psychosomatic illness… or maybe this physician was just having a really bad day.
I thought of something else: Stacy's tale of how Bob had stared with distaste as Richard and Joanne groped each other in the pool.
A prudish man, offended? Perhaps his resentment at having to confront the Dosses' tribulations was emotional prudishness. I'd seen that most often in those running from their own despair, what a professor of mine had called baloney fleeing the slicer.
No sense speculating, the Manitows weren't the issue; I'd allowed Bob Manitow's anger to take me too far afield. Still, his reaction had been so intense-so out of proportion-that I had trouble letting go of it, and as I waited for Eric my thoughts kept drifting back to Judy.
Pencil-thin Judy in her chambers. Impeccable office, impeccable occupant. Tanned, tight-skinned, strong-boned good looks. Hanging her robe on a walnut valet, revealing the body-hugging St. John Knits suit underneath.
The room perpetually ready for a photo shoot: polished furniture, fresh flowers in crystal vases, soft lights, gelid convexities. No hint that the fury and tedium of Superior Court waited just beyond the door.
Those family photos. Two lithe blond girls with that same strong-boned beauty. Thin, very thin. Dad in the background… Had any of them smiled for the camera? I couldn't remember, was pretty sure Bob hadn't.
Stick-mom and a pair of stick-daughters, Becky carrying it too far. Did Judy's attention to detail manifest as pressure upon her kids to look, sound, act, be faultless? Had the Dosses and their problems somehow become enmeshed with their neighbors?
Maybe I was indulging myself in speculation because the family was far less unpleasant than the file I'd taken from the deli. Geometry.
Finally, the red light flashed.
Richard and Stacy at the side door. Eric between them. Richard in his usual black shirt and slacks, the little silver phone in one hand. Looking a bit haggard. Stacy's hair was loose and she wore a sleeveless white dress and white flats. I thought of a little girl in church.
Eric gave a disgusted look. His father and his sister had spoken about him in a way that connoted a huge presence. But when it came to physical stature, Doss DNA hadn't faltered. He was no taller than Richard, and a good ten pounds lighter. A dejected slump bowed his back. Small hands, small feet.
A frail-looking boy with enormous black eyes, a delicate nose, and a soft, curling mouth. Rounder face than Stacy's, but that same leprechaun cast. Copper skin, black hair clipped so short the curls had diminished to fuzz. His chambray shirt was oversize, and it bagged over the sagging waistband of dirt-stained baggy khakis wrinkled to used-Kleenex consistency. The cuffs accor-dioned atop running shoes encrusted with gray dried mud. Skimpy beard stubble dotted his chin and cheeks.
He looked everywhere but at me, his fingers flexed against his thighs. Delicate hands. Blackened, cracked nails, as if he'd been clawing in the dirt. His father hadn't tried to clean him up. Or maybe he'd tried and Eric had resisted.
I said, "Eric? Dr. Delaware," and extended my hand. He ignored the gesture, stared at the ground. The fingers kept flexing.
Good-looking kid. On a certain kind of sweet, convincing, college night, girls attracted to the brooding, sensitive type would be drawn to him.
Just as I began to retract my hand, he gripped it. His skin was cold, moist. Turning to his father, he grimaced, as if bracing for pain.
I said, "Richard, you and Stacy can wait out here or walk around in the garden. Check back in an hour or so."
"You don't need to talk to me?" said Richard.
"Later."
His lips seemed on the verge of a retort-making a point-but he thought better of it. "Okay then, how about we get coffee or something, Stace? We can make it into Westwood and back in an hour."
"Sure, Daddy."
I caught Stacy's eye. She gave a tiny nod, letting me know seeing her brother was okay. I nodded back, the two of them left, and I closed the door behind Eric and myself and said, "This way."
He followed me into the office, stood in the center of the room.
"Make yourself comfortable," I said. "Or at least as comfortable as you can be."
He moved to the nearest chair and lowered himself slowly.
"I can understand your not wanting to be here, Eric. So if-"
"No, I want to be here." A big man's voice flowed out of the cupid's mouth. Richard's baritone, even more incongruous. He flexed his neck. "I deserve to be here. I'm rucked up." He fingered a shirt button. "That's absurd, isn't it?" he said. "The way I just phrased that. The way we use 'fuck' as a pejorative. Supposedly the most beautiful act in the world and we use it that way." Sickly smile. "Scroll back and edit: I'm dysfunctional. Now you're supposed to ask in what way."
"In what way?"
"Isn't your job finding out?"
"Yup," I said.
"Good deal, your job," he said, looking around the office. "No need for any equipment, just your psyche and the patient's encountering each other in the great affective void, hoping for a collision of insight." The briefest smile. "As you can see, I've had intro psych."
"Did you enjoy it?"
"Nice relief from the cold, cruel world of supply and demand. One thing did bother me, though. You people put so much emphasis upon function and dysfunction but pay no attention to guilt and expiation."
"Too value-free for you?" I said.
"Too incomplete. Guilt's a virtue-maybe the cardinal virtue. Think about it: what else is going to motivate us bipeds to behave with proper restraint? What else prevents society from sinking into mass, entropic fuckupedness?"
His left leg crossed over his right and his shoulders loosened. Using big words relaxed him. I imagined his first, precocious utterances, met with astonishment, then cheers. Achievements piling up, expectations exceeded.
I said, "Guilt as a virtue."
"What other virtue is there? What else keeps us civilized? Assuming we are civilized. Highly open to debate."
"There are degrees of civilization," I said.
He smiled. "You probably believe in altruism for its own sake. Good deeds carried out for the intrinsic satisfaction. I think life's essentially an avoidance paradigm: people do things to avoid being punished."
"Does that come from personal experience?"
He shifted back in the chair. "Well, well, well. Isn't that a bit directive, considering I've been here all of five minutes and it's not exactly a voluntary transaction?"
I said nothing.