“Great. Seven at Wall Street. One other thing. I’m sending down the hotel brochure for the fall retreat.”
“Fall retreat?”
“Yeah. Did I mention it to you? This is something we tried last year and we’re gonna do it again. Just the top people, the weekend after Labor Day. This is the new hot thing in the corporate culture. Your friend Edgar is a big believer. He got me into it. And he recommended this place in Vermont. Green Mountain? You know it?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know it. Or anything about something called a retreat.”
“Retreat makes it sound grim. Really we just go to a resort, no families, have bull sessions in the A.M., let people sound off, play a little golf and tennis in the afternoon and kick back in the evenings. I don’t normally include the techies, but I’m considering inviting Andy. Maybe Timmy also. Or is he too weird? Take a look at the brochure. This place has so-called session leaders to get us to open up. But I have an idea and I sounded out Edgar about it. He agrees with me that it would be better if you led our morning meetings. What Green Mountain offers sounds like low-rent group therapy and I can’t believe they’ve got anybody as qualified as you. Also, take a look at the tentative list of invitees. Let me know what you think. Whoops,” he said, “gotta call coming in from my man in Paris—” That would be Didier Lahost, the head of his recently acquired French division.
“One other thing,” I called desperately into the pay phone. I didn’t continue immediately. I was distracted by the thought that I might be in the same phone booth Gene had used to call me toward the end of his therapy, during those months that he was too busy to see me because of the Black Dragon deadline. Gene claimed calling from his office was dangerous, that he needed to keep his therapy a secret. I remembered what I used to think of his caution: a neurotic’s shame disguised as a paranoia; a self-absorbed man suffering from grandiosity, elevating his banal problems into a state secret. No, this wasn’t the same phone booth, I concluded, remembering that Gene had told me he called from the International House of Pancakes a mile from the labs so he could pretend he was there for a quick lunch if someone spotted him. I remembered because I wondered who would eat pancakes for lunch.
“Well?” Stick roused me from my long pause. “What is it? I’ve gotta catch Didier before he goes to sleep. It’s almost eleven in Paris.”
“Your wife. What we discussed briefly at the barbecue? I want to see her and gently recommend she do something about her drinking. I could escort her to an AA meeting. Or perhaps — is she religious at all? Her priest might suggest it.”
The phone was dead. He’d hung up.
“Stick?” I cried out. He couldn’t be this cold. He couldn’t want my services for the sole purpose of manipulating employees.
“Yes?” He was there after all.
“I mean, even if only for Mary Catharine’s physical health, something should be done. At her age, if she continues at this rate, she won’t live much longer.”
No sound. No background noise. No breathing. No faint whoosh. Where was he? Had he hit the mute button? Was he typing messages to Laura?
“Stick?” I called again.
“That’s not your area,” he said. “I know it’s a little confusing, because of Halley and all that. But your relationship with Halley is personal.”
“I don’t have a relationship—”
He talked over me, “That’s your business. As I told you, I don’t believe psychiatry can help everybody—”
I interrupted, “I’m not proposing psychiatry. AA isn’t—”
“It’s not your area, Rafe. You do respect my privacy, don’t you?”
“Yes. Of course. I’m trying—”
“I don’t think it’s fair to use your position to intrude on family matters. Not quite ethical, is it?”
“I’m speaking as a friend.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Rafe. We’re not friends,” he said, his tone stern and grim. Then he chuckled. “We may be great tennis partners, but we’re not friends. See you on the court Thursday.”
It was hot in the phone booth. Outside, the temperature was nearing a hundred and the humid air not only seemed visible, it felt chewable. Sweat streamed from my forehead. In Tampa, Francisco used to say to me, “That’s our peasant Gallego blood. Our brains boil and makes our heads soft.”
There were no papers or notes I had left at Minotaur that I would need. I walked to my car, reflecting I could return to Baltimore, ask the institute to say I was away if anyone phoned, and essentially disappear from Stick and Halley.
Want to run away? I asked myself.
Time to see Susan and talk it over, I answered. By the time I reached Greenwich Village she should be finished with her last session of the day. Driving to the city, I exited at Riverdale without making a conscious decision. I’ll just drive by, I explained it to myself. But I braked to a full stop at the entrance to my former clinic. Two vans were parked, one from the Bronx shelter, the other from Yonkers. The Yonkers driver, Walter, was looking under the hood of his vehicle. The hedges around the dormitory addition needed to be trimmed. I drove into the lot.
At the sound of my car door shutting, Walter looked up. I entered too quickly for him to react. Inside the clinic, on the left, Group B’s door was open. I heard the trill of a boy giggling. Downstairs in the basement, the kitchen should be preparing dinner for the resident patients. I sniffed. Nothing. I was disappointed. I would have liked nothing better than to eat with everybody. It was a hot day. Maybe they were planning a barbecue in the backyard. Sometimes, after having ice cream or watermelon for dessert, they would play volleyball until the late summer sun went down. The kids always insisted Diane and I stay for the game.
I walked into the reception area, Sally’s station, guarding the private offices. I greeted Sally with a question, “Is Diane free for a …”
I didn’t finish the sentence. Sally scooted out from behind her desk and hugged me. Someone else patted me on the back — that turned out to be Gregory, one of the live-in counselors.
I tried to say I was just dropping in, but by then, an eleven-year-old girl whom I had treated peeked in and said, “Dr. Rafe’s back!” She called into the hallway and soon three more children I used to treat appeared, smiling, saying things I couldn’t really hear …
I sat down on a metal chair by the wall, leaned forward, hands covering my face, and cried. Sally seemed more astonished about that than by my sudden appearance. “Shh,” she said to the others, shooing them away. “Give him time,” she whispered. Her hand landed on my shoulder. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Diane. I want to see—” I said and choked on my tears. I rubbed my eyes, feeling foolish. I breathed deeply, trying to calm down. My right hand was trembling. A cold inner voice told me: you’re hysterical.
When Diane came in, from somewhere else, not her office, I was still sniffling, looking silly I’m sure. I was amazed by her appearance. She had straightened and dyed her hair a dull red color. She was also very thin, her face pinched. And something else was different, something I couldn’t identify.
“What’s the matter?” she said, meaning, I think, to sound concerned. Her general anger at me, however, lent it a scolding tone.
“Will you do me a favor?” I asked. My voice broke, my eyes watered. I stopped talking in order to gain control.
Sally, hanging in the background, whispered, “Should I leave?”
“Come to my office,” Diane said, still sounding irritated, although she tugged at my arm gently.
Ashamed, I kept a hand shielding my eyes while I allowed her to tow me. She parked me in front of a new couch and shut the door. I stood, staring at the fabric. Was the couch new or had she merely re-covered it? I looked around and noticed that the room had been rearranged, the desk reoriented from between the windows to float in the center.