By Blood A Novel

FOUR





110.


So did we come to the patient’s final session before the Thanksgiving hiatus. She would break no new ground, I thought, as was normal for analysands on the verge of being deserted by their analysts. I expected the hour to dispose of itself lightly: fifty minutes of chitchat amounting to a delicate farewell.

Right on schedule, the loudspeakers reappeared in the lobby (one week before Thanksgiving somehow signaling to unknown authorities the official start of the Christmas season). Lights twinkled along the high moldings; poinsettias bloomed unnaturally in green plastic pots planted upon the podium; “Jingle Bells” played to distraction. As I approached the elevator—the music treacling a quarter tone out of tune, the speakers buzzing, as they had a year ago—I realized this was a time when I should be succumbing to my familiar despair. The crows should be taunting me: laughing all the way.

Yet where were they? Perhaps they were hiding, as they often did, the wily ones, the cowards; hovering just below the sensory limit, or so they thought. They did not know that if I stilled myself I could hear them, sense them, taste their bitterness.

I ascended in the crowded cab. It was damp from wet coats; eyeglasses fogged in the sudden heat. All felt normal: people going to work, pleasant people who made way for one another as they reached their intended floors, some even wishing the departing passenger a good day. Perhaps all this civility was a clue, a phony niceness, a prisoner’s village designed to make one relax vigilance.

But something seemed changed in the very atmosphere. For the first time in many years—how many I did not wish to name, for the days wound back to my boyhood and the onset of my condition—I felt no sense of menace. Things seemed, oddly for me, just as they were. The fogged eyeglasses were just that. The damp coats were only wool and polyester and dye. They signified nothing. Nothing hid in the fog; lurked in the folds.

I dared to think: Perhaps I had indeed undergone a miraculous cure. Perhaps the therapist’s teachings about my circling thoughts (Let them go! Let them go!) had robbed the demons of their power. Perhaps the patient’s presence in my life, and mine in hers, had transformed me.

I thought back to the prior session, to what the patient had said about her mother’s life: Her story and mine do not intersect.

As the cab rose floor by floor, the fear that I had done her harm began to evaporate. By the time I stepped out on eight, I was convinced that my intervention had been salutary; that I had given her the gift she had come to want above all else: knowledge of her mother, and—much more—freedom from her.

I sat in my office. The hours floated away, and at last my dear patient arrived. She sat down. But where was the opening chat? There came only silence, then the patient’s words:

There has been a complication.

Oh? replied the therapist.

One could hear the patient take a breath, then stop to retrieve whatever further words she was about to speak.

And? the doctor prompted.

Then finally the patient said:

I saw Mother.

(Oh, no! I thought.)

Big-M Mother? asked Dr. Schussler.

Mother. Big M.

(Mother! I wanted to shout. Just when we were about to dispense with mothers for good, why did this other mother have to return to our narrative?)

But of course this was precisely what Dr. Schussler had been waiting for! I thought with some disgust. This return, this hope of rapprochement with the stiff couple the patient called Father and Mother. Hadn’t the therapist said as much to Dr. Gurevitch? One could hear the doctor’s happy expectation in the quick creak of her leather seat, in her sudden, small intake of air, as if she had taken a sip of a drink about to give her pleasure.

And? she asked.

The patient said nothing.

I think I’ve only come back to where I started, the patient finally said.





111.


Immediately following last Wednesday’s session, my dear patient had received a phone call.

Did someone die, Mother? she asked upon hearing the familiar smoke-huskied voice.

Why would someone have died?

You never call me unless someone has died or is sick enough to be on the verge of it, said the patient.

Nonsense, dear.

The mother went on to say that she and the patient’s father would be in Pebble Beach over the weekend.

That is near you, dear, isn’t it? her mother said.

Yes, Mother. A two-hour drive at most.

We’re going to be there this weekend. All expenses paid!

A large building-supply corporation was rewarding architects who specified their products, said her mother. Friday seminars for the men. Coffee circles for the ladies. On Saturday the men would play a round of golf at what the patient’s mother called “that fabulous, famous course,” while the wives attended “golfing clinics.” “Clinics,” thought the patient, as if the women were ill and in need of rehabilitation while their husbands braved the brisk air of the Monterey Peninsula.

They promised us a suite with a fireplace, her mother rattled on. A view of the ocean. On Saturday night, a formal gala. I shall finally get to wear that midnight-blue gown that has been hanging in my closet all this time, waiting for my life to catch up to its glamour, she said, laughing at her own little quip.

The patient’s heart began to thump irregularly. It was the pressure of all that she could not say, she told her therapist, the avoidance, the pretense.

Surely you didn’t call to invite me to a gala, the patient said to her mother.

Of course not, dear! What would you do at a gala? In any case, we don’t have an invitation for you. But I was thinking: You’ll come down here for lunch. It will be lovely. You will enjoy it.

The patient laughed to herself. You will enjoy it!

Then she thought: I probably should lie about prior plans. Or say I have to work.

I knew that if I went, she said to Dr. Schussler, I would have to tell her about finding Michal. And suddenly I wanted to tell her—bash her with it.

Bash her? asked the doctor.

Yes. Fling it in her face.

The drive down to the Peninsula took just a little over an hour and a half. By eleven a.m. Saturday, the patient was taking the turnoff from Route 101 for Pacific Grove.

But here things went awry. The low-hanging marine layer obscured the narrow, curving roads. The wind-stricken cypress trees, black in the fog, seemed coiled up, ready to spring upon any car whose driver was not paying exquisite attention. And the signs were demonic; they seemed designed to keep her circling forever in the shrouded lanes. She followed the turns for the Lodge at Pebble Beach, where her parents were staying, but somehow always found herself at the Inn at Spanish Bay. Three times she made the circuit, and three times the sign for “Spanish Bay” came looming out of the mist like some inescapable fate. She retraced her turns, and decided to go left at what had been a right, where the signs pointed to the “Scenic 17 Mile Drive.” The direction seemed wrong, vectoring away from the Lodge. And yet, inexplicably, not five minutes later, there was the correct driveway and the valets taking keys from the arriving guests.

She pulled into the long driveway in her 1966, much-dented Volvo, her squashed bug of a car lining up behind Cadillacs and Lincoln Continentals, bargelike Buicks and Pontiacs, a few BMWs and Mercedes-Benzes, and some modest rented Fords and Chevrolets. Finally she reached the entrance. The valet tried to put her car into reverse, and failed.

You have to double-clutch it for reverse, she told him.

His face was blank. She took the keys and parked it herself.

A concierge in the lobby directed her to the area reserved for the ladies’ golfing clinics, and she followed his directions to a foggy hillside where fifteen ladies were, variously, practicing chip shots, putting, and driving. At the far end, whacking a ball off a tee, was her mother.

She seemed to glow out of the fog. She was wearing beige slacks with a slightly golden hue and a cashmere sweater in a soft salmon color. She was only a little less bejeweled than she would be for a gala: two rings, a heavy gold necklace, teardrop-shaped pearls dancing on diamond-encrusted wires—earrings so familiar that the patient could recognize them at a distance. The only concessions her mother seemed to have made to the sporting nature of the occasion were the shoes, spiked golf shoes, and an old madras-print bandana around her head, to prevent her teased and sprayed hair from blowing about in the wind.

The patient tried to keep herself standing there, watching her mother, hoping to see that woman there in the salmon sweater as a separate person, someone she could examine and evaluate as if she were a stranger. Her mother was not a bad golfer, she saw. Her stance was good; she kept her head down and addressed the ball; her swing was balanced. Her drives sailed high into the fog then arched down far across the narrow little valley below; and the patient could see the pleasure that the woman—there, the person she was seeing for the first time—was taking in her expertise.

But immediately, her mother—her internalized big-M Mother—took hold, and the patient saw herself through the surveying eyes about to slide over her. She saw the inadequacy of her own outfit; of the gray shirt that had been chosen under fluorescent light which now, in daylight, was revealed to clash with the gray of her pants. Most of all, there was the disaster of her hair, which, with the wind and humidity, had become a mass of frizz.

(Run for your life! I wanted to shout to my dear patient, as if the story had not already happened; as if disaster could still be averted.)

Mother! she called out.

Her mother, who was addressing the ball as the shout came, looked up for a moment. Then she returned to the tee and took her hit.

A massive drive! her mother whooped. Darling! Did you see that?

Terrific, Mother, the patient said.

She walked up to the tee. Her mother stood and watched her come closer. And already the once-over was beginning: the scrutiny, the tightened eyes searching as if down a bombsight, enjoying the hunt for the exact spot to destroy.

Are you sure that top goes with those pants, dear?

You should mention my hair right now, replied the patient.

All right. Can’t you comb it or something?

Hello, Mother, the patient said, going up to her for the obligatory kiss on the cheek.

How nice of you to drive down, her mother said.

Her mother bent down and put another ball on her tee. As she arranged her stance, she said, I hope you don’t mind. I’ve invited one of the other ladies here to join us for lunch. Quite a lovely lady. You’ll like her.

Whack! went the drive, and her mother watched it sail over the hill and into the little valley.

I’d rather it was just the two of us, said the patient.

Her mother placed a new ball on the tee. Oh, why is that, dear? I hope you’re not going to bring up … Well.

She looked up into the haze, briefly distracted from her golfing. Then she returned to her tee.

The patient’s focus was so acute that her mother’s movements seemed to unfold in slow motion. The little wiggles of her mother’s behind as she adjusted her stance. The club head easing toward the ball for the near-kiss of the address. The arc of the club, gently, gently rising toward its apogee. And just at that point—just as her mother was about to uncoil her body and unleash the forces of physics, the patient said:

I found Maria G.

The club head wobbled at the top of the arc. The stroke was enervated. The club barely hit the ball, which wobbled off the tee.

Her mother looked around as if to see whether anyone had seen her bad shot; if anyone were listening; if anyone could possibly wonder over the cryptic “I found Maria G.”

Her mother threw down her club. It’s the hotel’s equipment, she said. Then she strode off, her back to the patient as she called out, Let’s go to the room.





112.


The patient chased her mother up and down corridors that seemed to her all alike but that signified something to her mother, she supposed. They spoke not a word, as if any conversation would poison the air of the hallways, seep under the doorways, into the suites where rewarded clients stared into their fireplaces or gazed upon the restless Pacific.

Her mother’s room was luxurious, the patient saw, as her mother gave her a perfunctory tour: a small kitchen, a central area where three small couches surrounded a fireplace, a sliding door onto a patio that overlooked the ocean, a vast bedroom, a marble bathroom as large as a normal person’s dining room. Laid out upon the bed was her mother’s gown, the midnight-blue one she had waited so long to wear, its sheer organdy sleeves flung upward, like a woman waiting to be ravished.

So, her mother said, sitting on the bed to change the golf shoes for her blue satin, wedge-heeled bedroom slippers. So … You have found her. Your—what did we agree to call her?—your birth mother.

Yes, said the patient. Birth mother.

Her mother rubbed her ankle. Then she untied the bandana.

How’s my hair? she asked, patting it all around. Not too blown out?

It’s fine, Mother.

With a sigh, her mother stood, checked her face in the mirror over the dresser, then left the bedroom for the area by the fireplace, where she opened the sliding door an inch or two. Immediately the crash of the Pacific filled the room, along with cold, damp air. Fog obscured the view.

Her mother dropped her weight onto the sofa that faced the sliding door. Her back was to the patient as she said:

Was it difficult? I mean finding her?

Not really.

And you saw her.

I did.

Her mother took a cigarette from a pack on the coffee table and lit it. Then she patted the sofa cushion next to her.

Come sit down, she said.

They sat side by side, saying nothing for several seconds, her mother dragging on her cigarette and blowing out smoke, and the ocean below thrashing beneath its clouds. Looking back at mother and daughter were their pale reflections in the door glass: two outlines against whiteout, and the dancing red spot of her mother’s cigarette.

Finally the patient said: I found her through the Catholic agency Father used—well, it was his father, I suppose—the one he used to adopt me.

Her mother turned, shocked.

What?

Through the agency that arranged my adoption.

But—she took a drag on her cigarette—but I don’t think there ever was an actual agency. I mean, not a real one, not in the sense of social workers and so forth.

But didn’t you tell me that? That I got adopted through a Catholic agency?

Her mother smoked. Well, maybe I did. I don’t remember that time too clearly. As I told you, I never wanted to remember it at all, until you—

The patient all but saw her mother’s censor leap onto the stage: a figure in a black robe, priestly, rushing in to clip out any deep, hard emotion that might have the audacity to express itself.

They have a bar here in the room, her mother said. Completely stocked. We could have martinis.

No martinis for me, Mother. I’m not drinking. But you go ahead.

Not at all?

No. Not at all these days.

It was a rebuff. Her mother stubbed out her cigarette, stood, took the four steps into the kitchenette, where she opened the freezer and retrieved a small bottle of vodka. She simply poured the liquor over ice, as if too annoyed to go through the cocktail ritual herself.

She remained standing, leaning on a counter, sipping her drink.

So, she said after several seconds, I suppose she is living in some horrid circumstances.

You mean my birth mother? Not at all, said the patient. She has a charming stone house in Israel. South of Tel Aviv. Her name is now Michal, by the way, not Maria. And the G stood for Gerstner when she was in Germany. But now her last name is Gershon. She changed it to make it more Israeli.

Of course, said her mother. Now it sounds even more … Jewish.

She had flung out the word, and left it hanging there. Then she returned to her drink and asked:

And is she pretty?

The patient laughed. Yes, she said.

Prettier than I am?

The patient sighed.

Mother. Please.

Well. Naturally, I’m curious about her looks. Last I knew of her, from the records, she was slim and blond with “Aryan” features. Is she still?

Yes.

Still slim and fit?

Still slim. But not as fit as you are. She walks with a limp, using a cane.

Poor woman.

She drank. Then she went to sit on the sofa next to the patient, her focus on the invisible ocean.

How was it? she asked. Did she … receive you well?

Not at first, said the patient. She laughed. At first she tried to throw me out—

Throw you out?

Yes. Look. I just walked into her life and scared her to death.

Well, said her mother. That I can understand. The sudden upset—

Before her mother could condemn her for creating “upset,” a terrible breach of Mother’s extensive social code, the patient rushed in to say:

But Michal eventually told me her whole story.

Her mother listened with a noncommittal face, smoking one cigarette after another, as the patient relayed Michal’s history in some detail, from her early days in Germany to her landing, finally, in Israel. The patient did not leave out the circumstances under which she was conceived, under which she was born and given away.

What a dreadful story!

Hard at times, yes, the patient said. But Michal’s experience wasn’t all dreadful. The camp organized itself into a sort of village. She made it to Israel. All those horrors she was able to survive and overcome.

For all of her … surrendering you, said her mother, it seems you still think her noble.

Yes, replied the patient. Now that you bring up that word, yes. I might say her surviving was noble.

The patient’s mother hummed and stirred her glass, setting the ice to clinking.

Well, then. You got what you wanted from the experience, I’m assuming.

Maybe, said the patient. I don’t know yet.

In any case, you’ve gone and done it. You found the mythical birth mother. Maria G., who is now—what is it?—Michal Gersh-something.

Gershon.

And you know all about her and where she lives.

She paused.

And what comes next? asked her mother.

She took a short sip of her drink.

Can we expect that we’ll be losing you? asked her mother with a toss of her head. Are we to think that you’ll be—ha! ha!—“running off” to her?

What was this? thought the patient. Could it be that her mother feared losing her? Had she really spent all those years afraid that someone would appear, some family person from the darkness of Europe, and snatch her away?

Right then, the patient told Dr. Schussler, I thought it might even be true that this mother loved me. In her way.

No, Mother, the patient said. I’m staying here. I’m not going off to live with her.

Ah, said her mother.

Meaning what? the patient thought.

But, darling, her mother continued, doesn’t it bother you that you come from … all that?

All that.

No, it wasn’t love, the patient decided. That “ah” was relief that she retained, for herself alone, the prerogatives of “mother.”

You’re the one who’s bothered by it, dearest Mother.

Don’t say that, darling.

You’re the one who doesn’t want anyone to know that your adopted daughter is really a lesbian daughter of a Jew.

Her mother clacked down her glass. Why must you always throw this in my face! Can’t you understand how much it upsets me? That you’re not going to have a husband, that—

That I’m not going to produce grandchildren for you. But in any case, Mother, they would be Jews too. All of them. Jewishness goes from mother to child. The father doesn’t matter. I could marry stuffy Prince Charles, and your little grandchildren would still be Jews. Jew after Jew after Jew.

Her mother bolted from the sofa, opened the sliding door so forcefully that it shook. She took one step onto the patio. But when she saw her drink was nearly gone, she raced back in to “refresh” it. Then she strode back outside.

The wind invaded the room. The long curtains bordering the door were flung to and fro. Something in the kitchen blew off a shelf; it was a plastic napkin holder, the patient saw, and white cocktail napkins were swirling up and around before settling to the floor.

The patient went out to the patio and stood next to her mother, who was leaning on a railing, drink in hand. They said nothing for a long while. The crash and hiss of the dangerous North Pacific rose up to fill the silence between adoptive mother and daughter. Occasionally, the mother sipped her drink, the tinkling of the ice adding a high, clear ring to the air. Alcoholic wind chime, thought the patient.

Maybe you should go live with her, said her mother finally.

What?

Maybe you should go live there. Maybe there you’ll be better … placed.

You mean it would be easier for you.

No. I’m thinking of you. It’s so obvious you’re not happy with me.

The patient grabbed the railing. It seemed cruel to come right out and say, It’s true. I was never happy with you.

But it doesn’t matter what you think, she finally said. Or what I think. Michal doesn’t want me.

She doesn’t want you there? asked her mother, her head whipping around. Doesn’t want you …

Either. That’s what you’re going to say, right? She doesn’t want me either.

Don’t say that! How can you say that!

The patient laughed. I know you, Mother. Don’t think I don’t know you. But it makes no difference anyway. Either, neither, both. Doesn’t matter. Michal thinks I’m better off here. You think I’m better off there. Well, at least my two dear mothers agree on something.

Oh! said her mother. Why do you keep talking about all this? Why do you want to go and upset everyone? Because that’s what you’ve done. That’s exactly what you’ve done.

She whirled her whole body around to face the patient, then stood tipping sideways when she came to the end of the turn, the vodka having gotten to her.

That poor woman in Israel, she went on with a hint of boozy anger. You went barging into her life. No warning. Here I am, here I am, your long-lost daughter. And you’ve upset yourself with all this questioning. And most of all, you’ve upset me—brought this all up out of the past, made me go back into all that … muck, that nasty business, when it all could have been packed away in a clean little box and put away for good.

She wheeled around to face the ocean, then the door again. You were always like this, she said. Can’t you ever leave well enough alone?

Then she wobbled off the patio in her blue satin slippers.

After several seconds, during which the patient swore to her therapist she felt nothing, she, too, left the patio. She found her mother in the bedroom.

So it’s all my fault, the patient said, walking into the room.

Her mother ignored her. She was arranging and rearranging the skirt of the midnight-blue, silk-and-organdy dress.

Now what in the world will I tell Father when he sees I’m so upset? What will I tell him? He’ll take one look at me and see I’m all upset. Oh! she sighed, stroking the sleeve of the gown. How can I possibly enjoy myself tonight?





113.


My dear patient drove home through the foggy lanes, again going around and around her lost circuit, this time returning perpetually to the Lodge at Pebble Beach rather than the Inn at Spanish Bay. The repeating sight of the stone driveway, valets leaping at the head of it, made her neck sweat. For each circuit gave her another opportunity to decide whether or not to see her father; and each time she had to remind herself that he would be in the bar by the last hole, whatever they called it here, the Nineteenth Hole or the Hole in One or the Caddy Shack or the Driver or the Mulligan or the Cheap Shot Inn—she had visited him in all of them. Her father’s hale-thee-well greeting. The back-slapping men. The introductions to Jims and Joes she would never see again. Once more she would tell herself, Why bother? And then she would try to leave the place, only to keep finding it again and again.

Dr. Schussler tried to soften the effect of the visit. She told the patient that she was right to wonder if her mother did indeed love her. Because her mother did love her, as best she could; which was to say not very deeply or very well.

Do you think your sister basks in the glow of adoring love? she asked the patient. Could your mother truly see a daughter, any daughter, without also seeing someone to serve her, adorn her life, reassure her that she was beautiful and lovely and loved?

You’re right, replied the patient. But it makes me feel monstrous.

Monstrous? But how?

Not being able to feel love. What sort of monster doesn’t love her mother?

You could never, ever fulfill her, replied the therapist. You know that.

There was a long pause.

You know that, repeated the doctor.

Yes, the patient said in a whisper. Yes. I do.

And at that the session closed.





114.


The therapist was taking an extended holiday. And so fourteen days of the Thanksgiving break stood before me, each a stake in a high fence (for so I envisioned it) over which I had to leap if I were to survive without my dear patient. Despite believing myself bettered by my association with her, I knew I could not rest. Long experience had taught me the wiliness of my demons, the strength of my crepuscular self, and how swiftly it might return to claim me.

For the holidays fell upon me as they had a long year ago: the smiling cardboard Indians and Pilgrims taped to store windows everywhere; the disgustingly cheerful music; the twinkling lights on streetlamps; the empty lobby wherein vacant elevators continued to ride up and down, up and down, ogled by the cherubs; the building’s long, silent corridors where dusk gathered at the far ends. And Thanksgiving Day itself dawned as unpleasantly as it had the year before: cold with intermittent rain. Once more the streets were filled with haunted men who smelled of terrible things.

I feared I might not sustain myself through the day. Yet I did not fall. I was not fine, but I did not fall. And during the immediately following days—the panic of post-Thanksgiving shopping, the frothed atmosphere as Christmas approached—I seemed to hover just at the margin. Some current, some sort of magnetic field, hummed below me, like a net stretched above the dark zones, into which I did not tumble.

Yet, come the Friday before the patient’s Wednesday return, my supports threatened to desert me. It might have been the rain, which fell with deluvian determination; or the ceaseless wind; or the ocean’s roar outside my cottage, which kept grating upon my ears like an amputating saw cutting through bone. Adding to it all, a report that braved the static of my radio: an atomic submarine that had released radioactive waste onto the beaches of Guam, fifty times the supposedly safe dosage, which spoke to me of a despaired world where we human beings were doomed to destroy ourselves, and everything else along with us.

Whatever the cause, single or joint, I suddenly looked around my cottage and was startled by the condition in which I found it. All about: the litter of tasks started and abandoned. Ironing board open, iron radiating heat, forgotten. Water boiled away on the stove for tea that had not gotten made. Hangers and shirts, obviously waiting to be joined and hung, lay strewn across the bed. A sandwich prepared—how long ago?—tomato leaking through the bread, its red stain spreading outward from the center. A scissors lying on the kitchen table, legs open, blades ashine: to cut what? And a slow fear grew in me. Was I regressing? If so, how far would I fall? For I had not engaged in such behavior since Dr. Schussler’s “lesson” on how to release obsessive thoughts.

In this state, I heard the mail fall through the door slot. The usual junk lay scattered upon the floor. Then came an odd sound—a scrape, another scrape, then another—and I saw, coming through the slot, section by section, a thick manila envelope. The postman continued to stuff it through, a few inches at a time, until the whole legal-sized mass of it fell to the floor with a thud.

I walked over to it; did not touch it; only looked down. And once more I was forced to consider the existence of Providence, some unknown intervening force come to distract me from one trail of obsession and set me upon another. For I saw the return address: the university’s Office of the Provost.

I had been expecting something, some action, some decision, since receiving the letter telling me that my “case,” as it had been put, was to come up before the committee in October. And it was only because of the patient, and my engagement in her mother’s story—how much I owed them!—that I had not spent the time worrying over the proceedings; had not perseverated (as I was so wont to do), playing scenes over and over in my mind, refining the torture, each scenario darker and more damning than the last, until I imposed upon myself a judgment impossibly more harsh than any verdict to come. Death. I should die.

So this, finally, was the end, I thought, taking the heavy envelope into my hands. Surely it was filled with legal papers I had to sign, where, in dense language, I offered up my resignation; wherein I attested to the fact that I was voluntarily unbinding the university from the contract of my tenure. They would crush me otherwise. My quiet going-away might at least secure for me the possibility of teaching somewhere, at a junior college, some night courses; might at least save me from destitution (or worse, I tried not to think: from jail).

I spent several minutes simply holding the envelope, as if procrastination could fool fate.

The very weight of it seemed damning.

Over my shoulder waited the abandoned tasks.

There was no recourse, nowhere else to go.

On the kitchen table: the ready, spread-legged scissors.





115.


Atop a deep stack of paper was a cover letter typed on university stationery. It contained a single paragraph:

Enclosed please find copies of transcripts of conversations conducted with the complainants and others who voluntarily provided information pertinent to the matter.

I noticed that the typewriter’s letter P was missing its descender. Otherwise there was nothing else to see on the page but the stamped signature of the university provost.

The heft of the transcripts loomed behind it, a stack thick enough to strain my hands, which began to shake. So much? I thought. Had they done all this because of me?

I flipped through and saw that within the stack were groups of pages stapled together, each stapled group comprising one transcript. In the top left-hand corner, in bold, handwritten letters, was the name of the “conversant.” So it was that I could flip through the stack and, like one of those children’s cartoon books that create a little movie if one flips through quickly, I could see a sort of documentary of my life. Everyone I had known, everyone with whom I had come in contact, student, faculty, and staff, popped up in alphabetical order as if standing before me: to remind me of who I might be to them, how they might have seen me, what I did or did not do; what I said or left unsaid; to him, to her, to him, to him, to him, to her, to her, to her.

Her! Her! Her!

Out flew the crows, as I feared they might. For in those pages was my darker self, laid bare to some, still invisible to others; and did I want to know which I was, and to whom?

I put the whole mass of pages in the dirty, unused oven, and shut the door, thinking that I would wait, wait and see until the patient’s return, when I might be stronger. Yet as the hours advanced, it was as if something were banging against the grime-smeared glass of the oven door, and I knew I could not hide from those hundreds of pages, from those thousands of words.

I read through the night, forcing myself to go on and on, no matter what, not allowing myself to mark any pages or scream back with any defenses; only reading, transcript after transcript, until light glowed at the corners of the window shades and the last page was turned. And yet I still could not decipher who I was, what I was. Some saw me as a decent man; a few as an ogre. Who was right? The committee would have to decide.





116.


The next day, for sustenance, I went to the office. I asked the help of the friends who had taken me thus far: the hardworking gargoyles, the lobby in its purity, the empty reception podium, where my providential protector once had stood guard over me, the cherubs floating above the elevators, the steadfast marble sentries who lined the hall.

I came to our dear eighth floor. I touched the golden letters that spelled out Dr. Schussler’s name on her door. I rubbed my hands over the doorposts of my own. For I felt—as I once had, a long year and three months ago—that it had not been guilt and despair that had sent me here. I had not fled the university pursued by the ever-vengeful Furies. I had been led here by Athena’s Eumenides—the kindly ones, the gracious ones—who had brought me to this building, this office with its lucky number 807; to the thin door that adjoined my room to the one next door, through which I had become adjoined to my dear patient.

Then the days advanced toward the patient’s return.

Yet the weight of the transcripts hung upon me. And I had to ask myself: Was I altogether innocent? Could I say with utter certainty there had been nothing of love in my feelings for the boy? Was it only a metaphysical love; only the charged feelings between mentor and apprentice? Was I not always on the brink of transgression, taunted by my foes, my darker nature, just as I had been with the patient?

If not for the boy’s running off … If not for his disappearance … If I had come to San Francisco earlier … Let us say I had found him that night in the Castro … If it had been his eyes that looked back at me in the bar’s flashing blue light … If we had encountered each other there and then … what?