“You’re not dying because you’re gay. And I won’t tell you why you’re gay. I know, but I’m not gonna tell you. Why not? Because you’re happy about it. You’ve always been happy about it. We’re not supposed to look at happiness, Joseph. It’s the face of God.”
He said something. So did Diane. I don’t remember what. I think I ended up crying more than Joseph, I’m not sure. I do remember that he teased me about it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Adjustment
PHIL SAMUEL CAME TO NEW YORK ON OTHER BUSINESS. HE SUGGESTED we meet for breakfast in Greenwich Village at Elephant & Castle, a restaurant whose clientele, wobbly wood tables, piped-in classical music, and menu of spinach omelets, croissants, and espresso provides the sort of atmosphere a tourist would expect from the neighborhood’s bohemian reputation. Actually, it’s a dowdy relic of the sixties, a haven for the now decidedly bourgeois population of aging gays, radicals and artists who live in the expensive town houses nearby. Phil beamed at our surroundings. He was dressed in a white Brooks Brothers button-down shirt, a single-breasted blue blazer that was an inch too short in the sleeves and beige corduroys smoothed at the knees.
After we ordered, he said, “I love New York. My wife and I came here for breakfast on our honeymoon.” He leaned forward to ask in a whisper about our waitress, “Is that a woman?” Her skinny body was covered in black, her head shaved to the nubs of a crew cut, and a diamond was embedded in her right nostril.
“Yes,” I said.
“Lesbian?” he asked, eyes restless, scanning the patrons.
“Maybe,” I said. “But not necessarily. Fifteen years from now she could be living in Scarsdale raising three kids.”
He laughed heartily.
“Although,” I added, “even raising kids in Scarsdale, she might still be a lesbian.”
“Right!” he said and laughed again. Our waitress reappeared. She plunked our coffees down with a sullen attitude, as if we were her boring male relatives and Mom had nagged her into helping out. “Thank you,” he said, trying to be friendly.
“Un huh,” she said and wandered off.
“Don’t the kids at Webster dress like that?” I asked.
“Not that far-out.”
“Far-out,” I said.
“Groovy,” he said and laughed again.
I asked after his family. Listening to him talk cheerfully about how he strained his back rollerblading with his seven-year-old daughter, or describe rising at dawn to take his nine-year-old son for hockey practice, I both envied him and felt I couldn’t understand him. This was a contented man, rounded so as not to bruise on the world’s sharp corners. What made him want to be a psychologist, albeit a researcher, specializing in child abuse? Was Diane right not to trust this kind of removed scientist, living in suburban academia? Was this man driven to find proof that children were unreliable witnesses to abuse because, for him, the thought of adults savagely tormenting children was unthinkable, as difficult to imagine as the gender of our waitress? And what did it say about me that a paradigm of normality seemed as odd — and as unlikely — as a little green man from Mars?
I asked whether he had helped the defense in the MacPherson case, as Diane’s friend Jonas claimed.
“They saw the mouse study and asked me to testify. Tell you the truth, the case is so bad, I almost did. But I couldn’t do it in good conscience. The mouse study doesn’t prove anything about testimony of sexual abuse. Who told you they contacted me?”
“You did. You told Jonas, and he told a colleague who told me.”
“No kidding. I was only teasing Jonas. I wanted to get under his skin. He attacked the mouse study at the San Francisco conference. Don’t tell me he took me seriously.”
“Apparently.” Gossip among professionals is always suspect and I decided not to press this point. Anyway, I hadn’t trusted Diane’s information.
“I was stunned by the results,” he said when I brought up my reaction to the mouse study and the question at hand — whether I would give him the videotape of Diane’s work with the Peterson girls. I told him no on the phone; I reassured Diane that my purpose in seeing Phil was to sound him out. She hadn’t convinced me that her work with the Peterson girls was her private property and should be withheld from science at her whim. I agreed to see Phil to give him a chance to convince me of his objectivity (relatively speaking, of course); then I could give him the video with a clear conscience, although I would be risking a bitter quarrel with Diane. That was the dare. Could I oppose her when I knew disobedience might destroy our relationship, a relationship I valued more and more every day? The old Rafe (or should I say the young Rafe?) had been roused from his long sleep and now he whispered that the way out was to be secretive, to slip the tape to Phil without telling Diane, and accomplish both objectives, the testing of our methods and the preservation of my love.
“You expected the kids not to make up stories?” I asked.
“No. Kids are always making up stuff. I expected them to be sloppy. You know, not consistent from one account to another. Fantasy becoming reality, or really memory — that I didn’t expect.”
“Maybe they’re just being stubborn.”
Phil frowned and shook his head. “With all us grown-ups telling them it’s okay to admit they made it up? No punishment, no questions asked? What’s to be stubborn about?”
“Perhaps they’re being stubborn about their pride in themselves, in the integrity of their identities. I think children care much more about their dignity than truthfulness. Truth doesn’t count for much in their world. In their world, the hypocrites are in charge.”
“What?” Phil had taken a bite of his croissant. Flakes lingered on his lips. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, swallowed and said, “You’re not going in for that.”
“Going in for what?”
“You know, that old sixties nonsense — the world’s corrupt so no one can make rules. Parents have to set limits. These kids come from good homes. Consistent parenting. Reasons always given. They aren’t being raised by hypocrites.”
“Really? Then they’re truly exceptional. Hypocrisy is the logic of parenthood.”
“Come on. What the hell does that mean? That’s an irresponsible statement.”
“Phil, it’s merely an observation. Adults tell what we call white lies or break trivial rules at least several times a day in front of their children. The phone rings. Don’t say I’m here, you shout to your spouse. You order them not to cross against a red light, but you do it when you’re in a hurry. They overhear you complain bitterly about your in-laws and you don’t let them show even a flicker of irritation at Thanksgiving. You complain your boss is an idiot, but they can’t say a word against their teachers—”
Phil cut me off. “That’s a ridiculous comparison. The lie about the mouse is elaborate and has no value. Children understand the difference between lies of convenience and make-believe.”
“I wasn’t making a comparison, Phil. I was merely saying that truthfulness is not highly valued by children. And there is a motive for the mouse lie. They’re preserving their right to be believed, a very important thing to establish once a child is going to school and has a life outside the home. Very few parents react to controversies over fact between their child and the outside world with complete faith in their child’s version. And yet children want their parents, of all people, to have blind faith in their veracity. Admit you lied about the mouse and you might not be believed ever again.”
Phil frowned, pushed his plate away — there was only a hard nub of croissant left — wiped his mouth, took a sip of coffee, and stared down at the table. He was thinking it over — a hopeful sign. “I don’t know … I’m not sure I buy it. Anyway, it’s not subject to proof. It’s in the realm of speculation and I don’t — I’ve never had much faith in pure theory.”