He said, "Get too pushy and I could revert to the treatment I gave my father when he chanced upon my meditation spot."
"Which is?"
"Total freeze-out-what you guys call elective mutism."
"At least it's 'elective.'"
He stared at me. "Meaning?"
"Meaning you're in control," I said.
"Am I? Is there really any such thing as volition?"
"Without volition, why the need for guilt, Eric?"
He frowned for less than a second. Wiped away consternation with a smile. "Aha!" Fingering a button of his wrinkled shirt. "A philosopher. Probably an Ivy League guy-let's take a look at those diplomas… Oh. Sorry, the U. Native son?"
" Midwesterner."
"Corn and cows and yet you're philosophical-this could start sounding like My Dinner with Andre."
"Favorite movie of yours?" I said.
"I liked it, considering the chattiness level. Lethal Weapon's more to my taste."
"Oh?"
"The comfort of simplicity."
"Because life's complicated."
He began to reply, checked himself, scanned my diplomas again, resumed studying the carpet. Neither of us spoke for a minute or so, then he looked up. "Waiting me out? Technique Number Thirty-six B?"
"It's your time," I said.
"Your job requires patience. I'd be lousy at it. I've been told I don't suffer fools well."
"Told by whom?"
"Everyone. Dad. He meant it as a compliment. He's rather proud of me and displays it with ostentatious shows of support-there's a case of constructive guilt for you."
"What's your father guilty about?" I said.
"Losing control. Raising his kiddies by himself when all three of us know what he'd really rather be doing is flying all over the country amassing real estate."
"It's not as if it was his decision."
"Well"-the curling lips twisted upward-"Dad's not always rational. But then, who is? To understand the root of his guilt, you'd need to know something about his background-do you?"
"Why don't you fill me in."
"He's your basic self-made man, the cream of immigrant stock. His father's Greek, his mother's Sicilian. They ran a grocery in Bayonne, New Jersey, can't you just smell the Kalamata olives? In that world, family means mama, papa, kiddies, grape leaves, farting after too much soup, the usual Mediterranean accoutrements. But poor Dad's stuck with no mama in his family-he didn't save his wife."
"Was that within his power?"
His face flushed and his hands rolled into fists. "How the fuck should I know? Why even ask that kind of question when it's structurally unanswerable'} Why should I have to answer any of your questions?"
He looked at the door, as if considering escape, muttered, "What's the use?" and slumped lower.
"The question bothered you," I said. "Have you been asked it by someone else?"
"No," he said. "And why would I give a fuck about anyone else? Why the fuck would I give a fuck about the fucking past, period? It's what's happening now that's… Forget it, there's clearly no point discussing this. Don't start feeling all triumphant because the first time I meet you I exhibit emotion. If you knew me, you'd know that's no big deal. I'm Mr. Emotion. I think it, I say it, in the brain, out the mouth. I'll emote to a fucking stranger if the mood strikes me, so this isn't progress."
More sotto voce swearing.
"The only reason I let Dad get me into this is…"
Silence.
"Is what, Eric?"
"He caught me in a weak moment. The moon was full and I was full of shit. Believe me, it won't happen again. First item of business: back to Palo Alto tonight. Second item: get a new roommate who won't rat me out if I decide to deviate from routine. This is bullshit, understand? I know it, Dr. Manitow knows it and if you earned all that paper on the wall, you should know it."
"Much ado about nothing," I said.
"It sure isn't A Midsummer Night's Dream-no comedy in my life, dottore, I'm a po', po' child of tragedy. My mother came to a horrible end, I'm entitled to be obnoxious, right? Her death bought me leeway." His hands pressed together prayerfully. "Thank you, Mom, for miles of leeway."
He slid down so that he was nearly lying in the chair. Smiled. "Okay then, let's talk about something a bit cheerier-how about them Dodgers?"
I said, "Seeing as you're going back to Stanford and I'll probably never talk to you again, I'm going to incur your wrath by suggesting you find someone there to talk to- Hear me out, Eric. I'm not saying you're dysfunctional. But you have been through something terrible and-"
"You are so full of shit," he broke in. Discomfortingly mild tone. "How can you sit there and judge my experience?"
"I'm not judging, I'm empathizing. I was older than you when my father died, but not much older. He brought on his own death, too. I was a good deal older when my mother died, but the loss was more profound because I was closer to her and now I was an orphan. There's something about that-the aloneness. My father's death was a big blow to my sense of trust. The fact that something so important can be taken away from you, just like that. The powerlessness. You view the world differently. I think that's worth talking about to someone who'll really listen."
The black eyes hadn't moved from mine. A vein in his neck pulsed. He smiled. Slouched. "Nice speech, bro. What's that called? Constructive self-disclosure? Technique Number Fifty-five C?"
I shrugged. "Enough said."
"Sorry," he said in a small, hurried voice. "You're a nice guy. Problem is, I'm not. So don't waste your time."
"You seem heavily invested in that," I said.
"In what?"
"Being the quirky, obnoxious genius. My guess is that somewhere along the line you were taught to associate smarts with having an edge. But I've met some really bad people and you don't qualify for that club."
His face went scarlet. "I apologized, man. No need to twist the fucking knife."
"No need for apologies, Eric. This is about you, not me. And yes, you're right, that was constructive self-disclosure. I chose to expose part of myself in the hope it might spur you to get some help."
He turned away from me. "This is bullshit. If Dad hadn't been a fucking old maid and freaked out, none of this would be happening."
"That wouldn't change the reality."
"Give me a break."
"Forget philosophy, Eric. Forget intro psych. Your reality is what you're experiencing. Most people your age don't have to endure what you've endured. Most aren't concerned with guilt and expiation."
His shoulders jerked as if I'd shaken him. "I. Was. Talking. Abstractly."
"Were you?"
He seemed poised to leap from the chair. Settled back down. Laughed. "So you've met a lot of bad guys, have you?"
"More than I'd care to."
"Killers?"
"Among others."
"Serial killers?"
"That, too."
Another laugh. "And you don't think I'd qualify?"
"Let's call it an educated guess, Eric. Though you're right: I don't really know you. I'm also guessing guilt's more than an abstraction for you. Your father and your sister both told me how much time you spent with your mother during her illness. Taking the semester off-"
"So, now I get punished for it? Have to listen to all this fucking shit?"
"Being here's not punishment."
"It is if it's against your will."
"Could your father really have forced you?" I said.
He didn't answer.
"It's your choice," I said. "Your volition. And since this is a one-shot deal, the best I can do is give you some advice and let you run with it."
"My advice is forget it-don't waste your midwestern time. I shouldn't be here in the first place. I shouldn't be horning in on Stacy's therapy."
"Stacy's okay with it-"
"That's what she says. That's the way she always starts out, path of least resistance, everything's fine. But, believe me, she'll get pissed about it, it's just a matter of time. Basically, she hates me. I'm a shadow in her life, the best thing that ever happened to her was my going away. Stanford's the last place she should go, but with Dad leaning on her, she'll comply once again-the path of least resistance. She'll come up there, want to hang out with me, start hating me again."