Sunday night was far from pleasant for me. I tried Edgar at his home shortly after nine-thirty. He told me to wait, he had to switch phones. When he first greeted me, I heard in the background what I assumed was his wife and two sons playing Monopoly. A boy shouted, “Yes! That’s four railroads!”
“God, you were right,” Edgar said when he came back on. “She was great.”
“And the business meetings?”
“Oh that. Hey, Rafe, man does not live by profits alone.” He laughed. “She’s terrific at the work too. For one hundred fifty thousand a year, she’s a real bargain.”
“I’m glad it’s working out,” I said.
“You really never had a taste?” Edgar asked.
I ignored him. “How does it feel to be home, Eddie?”
He chuckled at my dig. “Feels great to be home,” he said. “Now I can get some rest.”
I feel asleep after five A.M. I was up at seven and phoned her at seven-thirty. I got nothing: no machine, no Halley. I gave up after fifteen rings.
I was almost useless with the children in the morning sessions. For my lunch break, I lay down on the cheap sofa Diane had moved into my office. It was too short. My feet hung over the edge. But I slept. I dreamt I heard Halley ask, “Do you love me?” when cold fingers landed on a dangling ankle. I jerked up, heart racing, gasping for air.
“Sorry!” Diane said, backing away from the couch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Your two o’clock is here and Sally didn’t know if she should wake you.”
I shifted to sit, head in my hands, panting, waiting for my heart to slow and my breathing to relax. The back of my shirt was soaked through. While I calmed down I peered through my fingers at Diane, who once again looked different. “You’re wearing your glasses?” I asked, answering my own question, and uncovering my face.
Diane doesn’t blush, but she might as well have. She lowered her eyes and adjusted the frames with a hand. “Contacts are too much trouble,” she mumbled. She moved to the door. “Do you want me to cancel your session?”
I stood up. “No, I’ll get some coffee and I’ll be all right.” I walked to my desk for the cup I had left there. I expected Diane to be gone when I turned around. I was surprised to see her, back against the door, watching me.
“What?” I asked.
“Did you change your mind?”
“Change my mind?” I was groggy anyway, but I doubt that even if I were completely alert I would have known what she meant.
“About Samuel.”
“Samuel?” I shook my head to clear it. “What about Samuel?”
She sighed and spoke slowly to control her irritation. “Is that why you’re back? Did you change your mind about Samuel’s study?”
“Oh.” I understood and felt silly not to have. I laughed. I straightened and tried to look serious. “Yes,” I answered solemnly. “I’ve done some research and come to a conclusion about Phil Samuel.”
Diane, quite interested, nodded for me to go on.
“He’s an asshole,” I said.
Diane blinked at me. I glanced at my watch. “I think I’d better have another cup of coffee and get to my patient. If you want, I’d be glad to have dinner sometime and discuss it.”
She left slowly, without a word, apparently in a daze.
I left the clinic at five, reached the Village a little after six, and ate alone in a Chinese restaurant. I was unhappy. I longed to reach a conclusion that would allow me to give up Halley’s therapy, but my task seemed inescapable.
I arrived at Halley’s building at ten-thirty, the regular time for the Monday night bath. She knew the rules: if she weren’t available, I would never return. Her doorman, the same one who, ten months before, had dire predictions for the cherry bomb thrower’s fingers, waved me in without buzzing her. He hadn’t announced me for months.
I paused outside her door. Was I really up to it? There couldn’t be a break in my front and she was more dangerous than ever, now that she knew my end of our sessions was a performance. She knew that somewhere there was a real man for her to seduce.
And there was my own resolve to consider. Because, after all, I had to admit that I was lost in the countertransference. I knew then I did love her. And I knew the primitive Rafe, the wishing animal, believed in a miracle, believed our two false selves could embrace and manufacture real happiness.
I rang her doorbell and waited. There was no answer. I wasn’t sure if I should ring again — wasn’t that already displaying too much desire on my part? Luckily, I gave her the benefit of the doubt and rang again.
I heard nothing for at least a minute. I had turned to go when Halley called through the door, “Rafe?” She sounded weak and scared. She called a little louder, “Is that you?”
“It’s time for your bath,” I said.
“Oh …” she said faintly. The top lock turned. “I didn’t think you were coming …” The bottom lock tumbled and the door opened an inch or two. “I have to — I’m in the bathroom,” she whispered.
When I pushed the door and stepped in, she was gone. I heard water filling the tub in the distance. From my vantage point at the foyer I could see most of the living room. Piles of books were on the floor by the shelves. About half had been taken down. All of the self-help books, the New Age books, and her collection of my work were in one towering stack near the hall to her bedroom. (After the fall retreat, she had bought more of my books and read them, eager to tell me I was brilliant, but I didn’t respond to the flattery and she eventually dropped that approach to my ego.) The plays were also piled together, a small stack. The largest by far, crowding the front door, were the books on marketing. I didn’t linger by them because my eye was attracted to the couch.
All the cushions were off, piled on the steamer trunk coffee table. There seemed to be something on the bare bottom of the couch. To see what, I had to move to it. There were five of Halley’s suits in a row, jackets neatly folded over skirts. I was about to turn away when I noticed loose threads near the lapel of the navy blue jacket. I lifted it and gasped as it came apart.
The sleeves fell off; two cuts running from each lapel to the pockets billowed open. They were fine, apparently made by a razor. I saw the skirt had also been meticulously cut in two places. I lifted a pale pink jacket from the next pile. The arms fell off and the body opened like an origami paper animal.
“Halley!” I called, alarmed. No answer. The tub water was still running. “Halley!” I called again, dropped the clothes and moved quickly toward the hall to her bedroom. I glanced at the kitchen and stopped again. The sink was full of bottles.
I stepped in and saw they were makeup containers — it looked as if every cosmetic she owned was in there. Each one was smashed, half-submerged in a dull brown mess, the color they had formed when mixed together.
I hurried toward her bedroom. I was relieved to see the bed wasn’t destroyed. The stuffed animals were snuggled peacefully between the pink pillows. Entering, though, I found the room hadn’t entirely escaped. The mirrored doors of her bedroom closet were gone. Only the blank cardboard backing was left and written in black felt-tip pen across one door was the word: LITTLE. On the other, GIRL. Two cartons were on the floor, neatly filled by shards of glass.
I looked no farther. “Halley,” I called to the bathroom door.
“I’m ready, Daddy,” she called in a hoarse but cheerful voice.
I don’t know exactly what horror I expected, but opening the door was hard. I was scared, scared enough for part of me to argue that I should run away, that whatever had happened, the job was done, and it was too late to regret the doing.
But I opened it. The lights were out as they would be for our ritual. A lamp from her bedroom provided a shaft of illumination that showed me the bath was full of bubbles, puffy white clouds overflowing the rim. Halley was submerged with only her head exposed. In the shadow I cast, I couldn’t see her face.