“It’s no more of a theory, Phil, than your study’s conclusion.”
He sat up straight and stared at the top of my head. “Our conclusion is based on the data.”
“No, there’s a leap of faith, namely that children don’t know the difference between fantasy and reality, that it isn’t a willful lie. And you’re not consistent, Phil. A moment ago you said children know the difference between lies of convenience and make-believe. Your mouse study created an unrealistic situation: there was no penalty for telling a lie. Phil, how many adults do you think would tell the truth if there was no consequence to being caught? Why do we have perjury laws? When you first brought the kids in to be asked questions, were they impressed with the need to be honest? Were they sworn in? No, a friendly stranger was playing a game, the kind of conversational inquisition that children experience every day, that they frequently spice up with their fluid imagination. Then, they’re doubted. Suddenly the rules have changed. Accuracy and truth are paramount.”
“But that’s the point. That’s how we interrogate children about child abuse. We don’t bring them to a police station or make them swear on a Bible.”
“Sure, but we don’t say we’re merely asking some questions to while away an afternoon. Disturbed kids are brought in to see doctors to help make them better: it’s not a casual situation from the start. And we don’t ask questions casually, giving no more weight to whether an adult played with their genitals than to whether they’ve ever been to a baseball game. Children are not that insensitive to their surroundings. They know saying their father sodomized them is of a different order of importance than whether they accuse a make-believe mouse of biting them.”
“That’s exactly why we’re doing the pediatrician study. That’s exactly why I need to copy you technique. I need to test the real situation.”
Now he got me thinking. I looked into his eyes, earnestly searching mine, and felt convinced of his sincerity.
He pressed me. “Look, I haven’t come to any conclusions. It’s easy for a kid to make up a story about a mouse. They’ve got all the information they need for the invention. I don’t see how a kid who’s never been molested could know how to make it up. But we need to do a study to confirm that, or the mouse results will seem to prove kids aren’t reliable.”
“No one’s reliable, Phil. That’s the point. Anyone, at any age, can tell a willful lie.”
“Too unreliable. I think you’re splitting hairs, I really do. Anyway, if we follow your clinic’s technique you should have nothing to be afraid of.”
I stared at the empty chair beside me. On it, inside a manila envelope, was a duplicate of the tape he wanted. I hadn’t brought it prepared to be convinced. At least, I told myself that. I tasted the old fear and weakness in my belly, the suspicious lonely adolescent revisited: unsure of anyone’s version of the truth, frightened to pick a side, wanting to know and yet scared of the answer.
I made him repeat his promises. He would view the tape twice that evening, make thorough notes of Diane’s technique, and drop it off at my apartment on his way out of town the following morning. No one would know. It would be our secret.
But deceiving Diane was worrisome; and of course, as the cliché tells us, it is a tangled web. I was caught in it immediately, on my way into the clinic. Diane followed me into my office to ask how the breakfast had gone and I had to make up a different ending to the meeting. Even so, the partial truth I told — that I was convinced of Phil’s sincerity — provoked a reproof. “He’s bullshitting you,” she said. “He says he’s objective and when his study is done, he’ll point to his skewed results as the reason he’s changed his mind.”
“I don’t believe that,” I said and yet her conviction left me in doubt. Underneath, despite layers of education, training, and the scars of experience, was I too trusting: a simpleminded child in a world of devious adults?
Anyway, it was done. The video was returned as promised with thanks and a note that he was impressed by the technique.
In the months that followed things went well at the clinic; the severe cases we took into round-the-clock care made excellent progress. We were losing money, but not so much that I couldn’t make up for the deficit. I signed a contract to write a book about our in-residence therapy of disturbed children that would cover the losses for two years. Reports from and about Albert were encouraging. His grades were good — B’s — and he had made many friends at Dorrit House. Diane’s involvement in the Peterson case finished with a settlement that forbade visitation to the grandparents and included their paying for ongoing therapy for the girls. (Because they had moved, Diane was not going to be their therapist.) The grandfather refused treatment for himself, in spite of the fact that if he had agreed there was a promise that the visitation ban might be lifted.
In February of 1990, after a five-month silence, Gene called. He was ebullient. Black Dragon was finished. He and Halley — he had to remind me she was Stick’s daughter — were presenting it at the Annual Computer Convention in a few days. Could he come see me before he left?
I offered the end of that day, six o’clock. He arrived fifteen minutes late — an unprecedented event. I was about to leave, convinced his tardiness meant an emergency cancellation.
“Wow, you’ve sure made a lot of changes,” he commented. He could have been speaking about himself. He was dressed differently, in pleated rust corduroys with wide wales and cuffs, a black turtleneck, and an expensive-looking jacket, also black, yet decorated with subtle flecks of white. His shoes were fashionable too, black oxfords with orange stitching and thick soles. Though each item, taken separately, was eclectic, the whole came together and made Gene appear at once an academic and a retired millionaire. His hair style had also changed — the thick locks were trimmed and moussed straight back, showing off his high forehead, surprisingly small delicate ears and lending an impression of forcefulness that was helped by the direct look in his eyes. He hadn’t entirely overcome his tendency to avoid contact, but his glances were surveys, rather than shy downward demurrals. “Looks like you’re running a hotel.”
“We house some patients here now and we keep staff overnight as well — hence the dorm.”
“Oh …”he nodded and continued to look boldly at his surroundings, including me, although he didn’t linger. His legs were active, bouncing up and down; his fingers were restless also, intertwining, cracking, then drumming on his knees.
“You’re late, Gene.”
“I know, I’m sorry. But there was some last-minute stuff at the office and I rushed over, thinking I could just make it. When I realized I was going to be late, I thought about calling from the car, but I didn’t have your number and I couldn’t remember it. Isn’t that weird? That means something, right?”
“You’ve never been late before, Gene.”
“And that means something too, right?”
“Probably.”
“Yeah, it definitely means something, because in the past I would have been so worried about getting here on time, I would have left ridiculously early and they wouldn’t have found me with their so-called emergency.”
“It wasn’t an emergency?”
“Well, now that I’m a VP in charge of R&D …” Gene smiled and spread his arms, asking for applause.
“Congratulations.”
“They need me round the clock. You know how it is. You run a big organization.”