For a moment there was nothing but that weird absolute silence — not a hint of electronic contact. Then, very softly, Stick said, “I am paying you to be a consultant.”
“Every penny has gone back into Minotaur. I can show you the receipts. I bought furniture and plants so your labs wouldn’t resemble an unfinished basement.”
He stayed in a low key. “You’ve done a fine job. Centaur’s testing fifty percent faster than our competition. Jack’s looking more relaxed, too. Said to me this morning he was bringing the family along when he makes his West Coast swing.”
“How was your doubles game?”
“I canceled it. What about this Saturday? We could play at my country club.”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow. Edgar invited me to your lunch at the Carnegie Deli.”
Another silence. I waited. Finally Stick said in a normal volume, “Good. I’d like to know your opinion of Didier.”
“Okay. Also, I haven’t decided if I want to stay on long enough to lead your retreat sessions. I’ll let you know about that tomorrow.”
Stick remained in neutral. “I need to know one way or the other,” he said coolly. “To make plans.” I said nothing. He waited until the silence was uncomfortable and continued, “Would you consider a full-time position with a meaningful salary, say … one hundred K?”
“No,” I answered immediately. “Our financial arrangement is satisfactory. I’ll let you go, Stick. It’s time for your daily swim.”
“What? Oh.” He sounded enervated. “No, I’ve changed my exercise program. I’m doing machines now.”
For a moment, I had no words. Was he teasing me? Worried he was playing a game, I asked sheepishly, “You’ve dropped the two-mile swim?”
“Yeah …” His voice was weary and sad.
I didn’t draw a breath. I couldn’t believe it was happening. I was almost frightened to ask — what if his gym was having trouble with the pool filter? “Why?”
“Too boring. And it’s not challenging enough. I’d have to swim longer to get the same benefit I can in half the time on the machines. I thought we discussed this. I thought I told you I was giving it up.”
“Probably you did. Okay, Stick. See you tomorrow.” A chill actually ran down my back. I shook my shoulders to be rid of it. I considered whether he could be this clever. No. There was no way he could know what it meant to me.
In the tradition of listening to the patient for answers, Copley had provided the solution to the problem of his condition: our conversation about his father had had an effect. Three days before, I had gently suggested the association in his office. I commented after Stick’s story of being thrown in the pond that he must enjoy his daily swim. At the time I hardly thought the remark was subtle. Surely Stick didn’t need me to explicate that the reason he relished swimming briskly for two miles was its reminder of triumph over his sadistic father. His conscious mind had missed my point, but not his subconscious. What once was an enjoyable reenactment had become predictable, its emotional power sapped by awareness. The effect was similar to traditional therapy’s — only in reverse. Neurotic patterns can be broken by bringing the original motivation to the surface. Copley’s swim had lost its pleasure by awakening that frightened little boy: it no longer made him feel strong. An effective adaptation had been spoiled by self-knowledge.
I wasn’t sure, of course. Perhaps it was a coincidence. Perhaps it wouldn’t work with behavior driven by less painful memories. Another question: was the subtlety important? Confronting Stick’s and Halley’s psyches with open analysis seemed to have failed miserably, but had it softened him up for the penetration of my quieter observation? Also, why did Stick think he had already told me he was giving up his daily swim? Had he been talking to me in his head? That would be an indication of transference. I noted that my mean tone, my angry reaction to being questioned, seemed to cow him. Could I effect a transference of his sadistic relationship with his father to me and replay his childhood so that he emerged as a neurotic? If I interfered with his successful adaptation to the pain of childhood, could I create conflict where now there was none?
A few hours later, when I decided to drive to the city, I was excited. Why not? If talking therapy can make an ineffective neurotic into a functioning well-adjusted person, shouldn’t it also work in reverse?
I phoned Mary Catharine. After I reminded her of who I was, we had a long talk. Although she seemed to have no memory of our conversation in her bedroom, she was far enough along in her drinking day — this was just after lunch — to be easily drawn into reminiscences of Halley’s childhood.
I searched for the book she told me about at the mall next to the institute, bought a copy, and went to the supermarket — where I found only half of what I needed to complete the treatment. I was unable to find an important aid for Halley’s sense memory. To my surprise, I discovered from the assistant manager that the manufacturer doesn’t sell it during the summer. I decided to take a chance on the slow-moving inventories of New York’s delis.
I departed for the city. I arrived late, almost ten o’clock, thanks to a violent summer thunderstorm. The decaying West Side Highway became a black river and the street’s potholes were muddy ponds. I crawled for an hour and a half from the George Washington Bridge to Central Park West in the seventies, a distance of five or six miles. There were no parking spaces so I used the garage opposite my sublet. The driving rain had stopped. At last, I felt smart again — sure enough, I found one box of what I needed in an all-night Korean grocery store. I walked the block to her apartment building. I announced myself to the same doorman who had assured us the cherry bombers were going to lose fingers.
He told Halley my name, said, “Hold on,” and offered me the intercom, explaining, “She wants to talk to you.” Its receiver was no different than an old-fashioned phone’s.
“Rafe?” Halley’s voice crackled as they always do on intercoms — as if coming over a shortwave radio.
“Yes.”
“What’s …? You’re here to see me?”
“I’m here to tuck you in,” I said and winked at the doorman. He smiled slyly, then looked away, as if he shouldn’t be listening, even if I didn’t mind. “I have Malomars,” I said.
She came in loud. “What?”
“Ma-lo-mars,” I said slowly. “I have Malomars and hot chocolate.”
That got me a puzzled look from the doorman. The storm hadn’t cooled things off. The reverse, in fact. The city air was as thick as steam — the sidewalks seemed to be boiling the rain.
She was at her door when I came out of the elevator, hair wet, dressed in a large white men’s T-shirt that reached her knees. She watched my approach with her head tilted, black eyes wide and unafraid. I pulled the box of Malomars out from the grocery bag. “Good,” I said, handing them to her. “You’ve had your bath.”
She took the yellow box in both hands, staring at it as if it couldn’t be real. With her head down, she was no taller than my stomach. Cradling the bag in my left arm, I ran my right hand over the top of her damp hair, gathering it. I tugged gently. “Put this in a ponytail,” I said.
She raised her eyes. They narrowed. She stepped back, breaking my hold, the door opening wider, yet still blocking the way. She asked, “Is this game for you or for me?”
I reached into the bag and showed her a box of Nestle’s mix. “Hot chocolate, Malomars, and a bedtime story. You know how I like to read bedtime stories,” I said.
She stamped her foot. “Just tell me!” Annoyed at herself for that display, she shut her eyes, took a breath through her nostrils — their flare was quite pretty — and said softly, “I don’t care. I just want to know.”