“You were fired?”
“God,” he said, more to himself.
“When, Gene? When did this happen?”
“Yesterday.”
“By Stick?”
“Yeah. He fucking fired me. Can you believe it?” He breathed heavily into the phone. “I can’t leave New York now. Not to go to Arizona, anyway. I’ve got to get a job fast. I’m sure I can. I mean, even though the business is in the toilet. No matter what Stick says, my reputation is great. I’ve already got one lead and I’m sure I could get something over at Apple.”
“When did you and Halley break up?”
“It’s not connected. She didn’t dump me because he was going to fire me. She hates him. I mean, she’s obsessed with him, but she still hates him.”
“When did you break up?”
“Two weeks ago.” That would have been around the time of the call I had missed. “Jesus, I wish you hadn’t asked me that,” he said in a sad whisper. “Why?”
Gene sighed. “Why do you always have to think the worst of people?”
“That’s my job, I guess. Gene, I’m leaving tomorrow for a long time. Maybe a year. But there’s a terrific guy whom you should see—”
“Stop that!” Gene shouted. I looked at the phone I was so astonished. When I returned it to my ear he was saying, “If you don’t want to see me, fine. You want me to hang up, I’ll hang up.”
“I don’t want you to hang up. But I can’t—” I gave up. “Look, let me give you the number where I’ll be, okay?”
“Okay. Hold on. Okay, shoot.” I told him the number. He repeated it back to me and said, “I’m fucked. I can’t believe how fucked I am. I mean, what else can happen? Is a building gonna fall on me?”
“I think you should see Cathy.”
“What?”
“Go and talk to her. Don’t use lawyers for this. Explain to her how much it means to you to be able to see Pete. Explain that, at least until your job situation is settled, you need everything else to stay the same.”
“I can’t tell her I’ve lost my job. You have no idea how vindictive she is. I don’t know what she might do with that information. Maybe she could get full custody and keep me away forever. You don’t understand.”
“I’m sure she’s angry at you. But you’re still Pete’s father. It’s worth a conversation. If you don’t think you should tell her about the job, okay. But talk to her. At least tell her about you and Halley breaking up.”
“Huh. That’s a thought.” He breathed heavily for a moment. Then he coughed again. “Maybe. Maybe I could make it seem like I broke up with her and … I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll try. I’ll call her. You’re gonna be at this new number tomorrow?”
“Yes. Call me anytime, Gene. Okay? And I’ll call you in a few days if I don’t hear from you.”
He made sure I had his current number. He sounded a little calmer. At least, he said, “Thanks, I feel better.”
An hour later, when I left the office, Sally asked me to step into Group Room B to check whether I wanted some files she had put aside. She opened the door for me and I saw a computer-generated banner; COME BACK SOON! before I heard the chorus of, “Surprise!”
All the kids I had treated were present, along with our full staff of therapists and resident counselors, including Diane. I think the biggest surprise was Albert, huge now, soon to be a freshman at Notre Dame, holding a champagne bottle in the air, threatening to douse me with its contents.
“I haven’t won anything!” I complained, shielding myself.
The Prager Institute provided a secluded cabin for me to use as a study. The next day I was there, organizing Joseph’s papers. I certainly didn’t feel I had won anything at all. I started to work on Amy’s chapters right away, but it proceeded slowly and painfully.
Gene never phoned. I tried him three days later and got a machine, leaving a message. Two weeks passed before I got the call. A high-pitched voice with a Queens accent introduced himself as Detective O‘Boyle from the Westchester County Police. “Do you have a patient named Gene Kenny?” he asked me.
“What’s this about, Detective?”
“Well, I can’t tell you what this is about, unless you tell me you got a patient named Gene Kenny.”
“I’m not treating him right now, but yes, he’s a patient.”
“Twenty-nine years old? Black hair, brown eyes. Married to Cathy Shoen. Nine-year-old boy named Peter. Worked at Minotaur Computers?”
By now I was alarmed. I straightened in my chair, found a yellow pad, and wrote on it, “May 12, 1991. 11:37 A.M.” I thought to myself, No, it can’t be. I said to the detective, “Yes, that’s him. What’s wrong?”
“Mr. Kenny committed suicide last night. He left a note addressed to you.”
I shut my eyes. Some plant or weed growing around the cabin irritated them and kept my nose running. I had taken an antihistamine but my eyes were burning anyway. Again, I thought, No, it can’t be. Then I opened my eyes.
I don’t remember in which order O‘Boyle recounted the facts, but I remember the facts. Gene went to his wife’s house late the previous evening. Pete was asleep. They had a quarrel. At some point Gene hit Cathy. He didn’t stop hitting her until she was dead. He woke up Pete around one o’clock. Concealing from the boy what had occurred, Gene walked his son to a neighbor’s house. He told them Cathy was ill and he was taking her to the hospital. He asked if they would bring Pete to school in the morning. They were suspicious, but they were also sleepy and they agreed. Gene returned to Cathy’s house, wrote two notes, one to me, another for the police. He turned on Cathy’s car, closed the garage door, and waited in the front seat to die.
I asked O‘Boyle if he would read Gene’s note to me. He said he wanted to. He hoped I could explain it.
“‘I’m sorry, Rafe,’” O‘Boyle recited. “‘I tried to convince her, but she just wanted to hurt me. Anyway, she was right to want to hurt me. Would you do me a favor? I don’t know if you can keep Cathy’s mother’s hands off Pete. I’m sure my father will do nothing. But could you try to help Petey? Only you can help him. None of this is your fault. You did everything you could. You cured me. I’m not a neurotic anymore. It’s just that I can’t bear the normal misery of life.’”
O‘Boyle asked if I could explain the last two lines. I had trouble talking at first. I cleared my throat several times before I could manage to say, “I guess he must have read Freud at some point. It’s a paraphrase of something Freud wrote about the goal of therapy.”
“Oh yeah?” Considering the subject of our conversation, the detective seemed remarkably at ease with me. “What’s that? What did Freud write?”
“‘The goal of therapy is to replace the neurotic’s unrealistic misery with the normal misery of life.’”
“No kidding,” the detective commented. He read aloud the last few sentences of Gene’s note one more time. “‘You cured me,’” he quoted Gene in a mumble. “‘I’m not a neurotic anymore. It’s just that I can’t bear the normal misery of life.’” O‘Boyle raised his voice. “I still don’t get it. Can you explain it to me, Doc?”
I didn’t try.
Postscript
I WENT TO NEW YORK THE NEXT DAY. THE FIRST PERSON I SAW AFTER Gene’s death was Susan Bracken, but an account of that meeting, as well as her surprising judgment of my work with Gene, belongs to the next section. I found out there would be no public funeral, no public memorial, no event that would mark Gene’s passing. That was understandable. He had murdered his ex-wife and committed suicide. One could hardly expect a big family funeral. Gene seemed, from our therapy, to have no close friends; other than the Copleys, the intimacies he formed at work didn’t penetrate his personal life. Halley and Stick wouldn’t and didn’t feel obliged. That left Don Kenny.