Somers, the winter before Jenny’s rape, was not the last time and place I saw Glenn Shelby before he died. My parents raised me to be generous. They raised me to be charitable. And they raised me to help those in need.
I mention this now because I went to see Glenn that evening after my session with Sean. He had been on my mind since he left the prison, well over a year before. So much about him had found its way into my conscience, and it had become acute to the point of distraction. I located him quite easily through his parole officer. He was working from his studio apartment, doing data inputting for some sleazy Web marketing firm—the kind that captures your data and sends you crap you then have to delete. His aunt in Boston got him the job. She had also kept the apartment for him in Cranston for many years, paid the rent and utilities. The money came from the small estate of his dead parents. His aunt was an elderly woman, and she had little interest in him other than her duties as trustee, for which I imagine she received a token salary. I do not think she knew of his latest imprisonment, though she was aware of his other transgressions against the law. He had two priors for stalking.
Before this job, which kept him at home day and night, Glenn had been employed by a property maintenance company. As was the case in any situation that required social interaction, Glenn was let go within a few months. This had left him bitter. He liked the soil, the smell of the grass, and mostly the interaction with other people. Every new person was a chance for intimacy. Unfortunately, he had pushed too far with one of the clients, a buttoned-up suburban mother whose politeness had been misinterpreted as genuine interest in Glenn and his life philosophies.
Glenn Shelby was a pitiful creature. I have already told you two things. First, he was a master at teasing stories from his targets, personal stories that are usually revealed only to close friends and lovers. It has always bothered me that some of his stories came from our sessions, came from me. And second, that he is the one patient I could not save.
I went to his apartment that night. It was very troubling to be there with him, if I must admit it. The apartment was in a complex that is arranged like a motel, with the front door opening to the outside, the way a house does. But inside, it was just one room. The cars were all parked outside. They were mostly shitty cars, old and uncared for. There was a swimming pool in the center of a courtyard, which was plagued by the indifference of the residents and, in all honesty, reminded me of an open cesspool. It was a mere step up from a homeless shelter. Many of the residents were criminals or, like Glenn, surviving on the goodwill of relatives. They had told Glenn their stories, and Glenn had told me during our sessions at Somers. I remembered them well.
He came to the door in neat khakis and a button-down shirt, like he was about to leave for an office job. The smell from inside was quite strong, a concoction of cleaning products and curry. The company Glenn worked for employed a disproportionate number of Indians, actually in India—no surprise to anyone who has recently called a customer support line. They were frequently on training calls together, or coordinating their data entry, virtual coworkers. Their culture had rubbed off on Glenn, and he apparently had an obsession with Indian takeout.
Glenn was shaking, though he wore an indignant smile. Well, well, well. Look who’s here.
“Hello, Glenn. May I come in?”
He stepped aside and showed me to a small sofa in the corner of the room.
“How have you been?” I asked him as I sat down.
The apartment was meticulously tidy. Dishes were neatly stored in glass cabinets. Papers sat in small piles on the kitchen table, each one the same distance from the next. Each one lined up at the top and bottom. Small porcelain knickknacks adorned his dresser. Obsessive cleanliness is a stereotype of patients with this degree of psychosis. Ironically, so is filth.
Glenn shrugged. He sat down adjacent to me on a wood chair, crossing his legs before finally coming to look at me. I’m quite well, Alan.
“I hope it’s okay that I came to see you. It’s not normal for doctors to do this, but I have been worried about you for a long time.”
Glenn sat back. The indignation began to give way to his profound need to reconnect with me. It was remarkable how quickly this happened. I was wondering how long it would take for you to find me.