“Is that why you have a car phone now?”
“You don’t miss a trick. I’ve got a cellular and a beeper. Don’t ask me why I need both. Well, to save on the batteries. Anyway, since I’ve lost so much time, I’d better get right to the point. I think I’m in love.”
He was moving so fast I wanted to laugh. I was tempted to ask if he was on amphetamines. That sarcastic thought provoked a real suspicion. “Are you taking Prozac?” I asked.
“What?” Gene shook his head as if waking himself. “What did you say?”
“Are you taking Prozac?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think I am. Isn’t Prozac some kind of psychiatric drug?” I nodded. “God, that is a strange thing for you to say. No, I’m in love, that’s what I’m on. Or don’t you believe in love?”
“I think it was you who said you don’t believe in love.”
“Did I? Well, that’s because I didn’t know what love is. Man, it’s great. It’s the best.”
“You’re having an affair with Halley?”
“No. I mean, not yet — Hey, you knew.” Gene pointed at me, like an athlete signaling to a teammate that he had scored a big basket. I can’t begin to express my surprise at this gesture: in the context of his hampered body language during our sessions over a thirteen-year span, the movement was a rude obscenity. “I’ve talked to you about her?” he asked.
“Not really. But when you called, you went out of your way to say she’s going to the convention and then you come in saying you’re in love. Even Dr. Watson could figure that out.”
“Jesus. Yeah, I’m worried it’s too obvious. Cathy is definitely suspicious.”
“Suspicious of what?”
“Of me and Halley.”
“I thought you said you weren’t having an affair.”
“I kissed her,” he said in a rush, an embarrassed confession; and yet with a sly, proud grin.
“You kissed her. And what did she do?” I gestured for him to elaborate.
“Well, she didn’t slap me.” He breathed in deeply and held it.
“Did you expect her to?”
He frowned at me. Finally he released the air. “No. I don’t know. I was scared to touch her. I’d been thinking about doing it for weeks. I was watching her lips while she talked about the convention … They’re big, you know, especially when she puts on a lot of lipstick. I wasn’t even sure if I thought they were beautiful. But I couldn’t keep my eyes off them. And I lost track of what she was saying. She stopped talking. She looked at me with a smile, as if she knew what I was thinking, and said, ‘Hello? Are you there?’ And I didn’t care about anything. Not Cathy, or little Pete. Or even me. I don’t even remember deciding to kiss her. Suddenly, I was just doing it. Right there in the new conference room. Right next to a wall of glass. Anyone in the parking lot could have seen us. I didn’t even think about that.”
He was entranced by the memory. I waited while he replayed the kiss, sighing softly, crossing his legs, briefly touching his lips as if hers were still lingering. “She kissed me back,” he said at last. “You know, she responded. Her mouth opened—” he caught himself and laughed. “I really opened wide. It was like being in high school — you know, French kissing.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“It was. It was great.” He looked at me, straight out, unafraid and defenseless, a curious child. “Am I terrible?”
“For enjoying a kiss?”
“Come on. You know where this is going. Isn’t adultery a mortal sin?”
“I’m sorry, Gene. I’m not a priest.”
“What happens if I fall in love?”
“You said you are in love.”
“I’m infatuated. What happens if we do it and she still wants me?”
“I don’t know. I’m not a soothsayer either. Anyway, isn’t that the wrong question? What happens if you do it and you still want her?”
“I don’t think I’ll stop at anything. I don’t think even Petey would stop me.”
“What has Pete got to do with it?”
“Huh? Come on, aren’t you carrying this shrink act too far? Pete’s got everything to do with why I’m married.”
“Not Cathy?”
“I’m not still married because of my great marriage, that’s for sure.”
“You’d leave if it weren’t for Pete?”
“You know that.”
But I didn’t. I knew nothing of the kind. “Gene, what are we doing?”
His legs were stilled. His newly confident eyes lowered. “What?”
“Are we resuming therapy? Are you planning to come here regularly?”
“Can’t I?” he asked with the old, familiar plaintiveness.
“Do you want to?”
“I’m in a crisis.”
“Does that mean you want to?”
“I should, shouldn’t I?”
“Do you want to?”
“Yes!” His irritation slipped out, and his eyes dropped to the floor.
“Your schedule allows it?”
“Well, Dragon’s done and …” He stopped and drifted off into deep thought.
I waited and had my own reverie. I didn’t want to resume our sessions. Gene didn’t need my service. Sure, he could use a good therapist — or even a mediocre one — to sort out his marriage conflicts; so could Cathy, for that matter. But this person sitting opposite was a well man in relative terms. To be blunt: I hadn’t become a psychiatrist to treat husbands who longed for sex with younger, more beautiful women than their wives, who stayed in marriages believing it was for the sake of their children. These might be unattractive, reprehensible feelings, but they don’t qualify as mental illness. And be honest, I argued to myself, you don’t want him as a patient. You didn’t miss these sessions.
“I’m scared,” Gene said softly. He lifted himself, straightening in the chair, and lifted his eyes as well, to look at me sadly.
“Of what?” I asked, also softly.
“I feel like I’m out of control.”
“You are.”
His mouth opened, ready to answer, and then shut.
“You’ve fought all your life to control yourself. To control your anger, to control your natural desire to be recognized for your work, to be satisfied romantically, to be loved and appreciated. You controlled yourself as a child because your parents wouldn’t let you be uncontrolled. You controlled yourself as a husband because you were frightened Cathy wouldn’t love you if you were sexual. You controlled yourself with Stick because you were afraid he wouldn’t accept you as ambitious. You’re letting go of all that control. You’ve been gradually letting go for a couple of years, and now you’re almost free.”
“So why am I scared?”
“It’s called neurosis. It’s an irrational fear, but of course it isn’t irrational to you. You were more frightened of what would happen if you announced your desires to people, than of not getting what you want. It doesn’t make common sense, since you have nothing to lose by asking for what you want if the alternative is not to ask at all. The worst that can happen by asking is that someone will say no. But it made sense to you because it isn’t the no that you’re afraid of.”
Gene smiled to himself. He asked in a low voice, “What am I afraid of?”
“You’re afraid of yourself. Of how you’ll feel when you ask and are told no. You’re afraid of your anger and your sadness at rejection. And you’re also afraid of how you’ll feel if you ask and are told yes. By not trying, you’re able never to fail. You asked Stick for more responsibility and he’s given it to you. What if you fail? By not asking you were avoiding testing yourself. It made you miserable, but it kept you safe. By not asking Cathy to love you, you were lonely, but at least you didn’t risk hearing she doesn’t. By not making yourself available to other women you protected yourself from falling in love. There’s a logic to neurosis and it’s been your friend since you were a child, since that day you threw up on the gallery owner’s book, and probably long before that, when you found your parents making love.”