“Why?”
“Helps me relax. It gets me back into the moment. Makes me forget, for a while, what happened before, what will happen next.”
“Talk about escapes,” she scolded.
“Nothing wrong with escaping, sometimes,” he answered as his eyes took on their telltale redness and he moistened his drying lips.
“What were we talking about?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she frowned, as she rose from the couch. “I’m tired. It’s been a long day. I think I’ll go lie down.”
“See you,” he waved as he sprawled in his chair, looking up at the ceiling, his expression unusually calm and serene.
Not much longer, she promised herself.
“And thanks for the talk. It helps, you know.”
Damn it. Why did he always have to come back to that. When would she stop feeling guilty?
19
Art had just finished vacuuming his rug and was in the process of hanging clothes that were scattered about his bedroom. It was a periodic cleaning, done whenever he expected company.
While he worked, he thought of his betrayal. Betrayal? An understatement. Double-crossed was similarly inadequate to describe what he felt. Lippman’s duplicity—his deceit by omission—had not only affected Arlene’s treatment but had caused Art considerable embarrassment and humiliation.
It had been a wearing day. Particularly his conference with Al Newfield. But at least he’d decided upon a course of action, one consistent with the basic integrity of his profession.
The radio was playing Brahms’ “Double Concerto in A Minor.” At ten, hourly news replaced music. Ursula’s flight should have landed an hour ago. By the time she passed through customs and took the limousine back to New York … she ought to arrive within the half-hour. He walked back to his living room and piled some books and papers in neat stacks upon his desk.
How could Jonas have failed Art’s trust? The more he thought about his own cover-up, born out of respect and trust, the more resentful he grew. Nor did it cease with Arlene’s revelation. He could recall his lecture to Al late this afternoon.
“Look,” he’d nearly growled, cornered as he was by Al’s badgering requests that he take some action against Lippman. “I know Jonas Lippman. He’s one of the finest and most respected analysts in town. What in hell are you proposing? Ruining a man’s reputation on the basis of your own suspicions? Or because a woman, who’s just had a psychotic episode, tells some story about sleeping with her therapist?”
“Come on, Doc,” Al had snapped, his lips flattening like a hound, ready to strike. “Let’s stop this ‘I’ll save your ass you save mine’ attitude that your medical colleagues are famous for. I had enough of a runaround with the doctors at St. Vincent’s. Surely you can do better than that.”
“I’m not saving anyone’s ass,” Art protested, feeling defensive and stung by the charge. “If I knew, for a fact, that what you claim really happened, of course I’d try to put a stop to it. But what Arlene told me was fragmentary, said in the immediate post-ECT period. Normally, that’s a time of disorientation. Who can say if it was real or fantasy?”
“And didn’t you ask her about it afterward? Later on?” Al seemed increasingly impatient and incredulous.
“Of course I did. But she just grew silent again. At least on that matter.”
“And doesn’t that signify anything to you?” His emphasis on “signify” went through Art like a mocking barb. Was he some hostile witness being cross-examined by Jimmy Stewart in Anatomy of a Murder?
“Look. If I had a nickel for every patient who fantasizes balling her doctor, I’d be able to retire tomorrow. I need more proof than that.”
With an audible groan of exasperation, Al had reached into his briefcase and started to remove a piece of paper.
“Would you,” he’d asked, pausing emphatically as he handed the sheet to him, “read this?”
The letter from Jonas to Arlene didn’t say, specifically, “I have fucked you.” But the implication was clear. Certainly there was, at the very least, a strong personal involvement, one that went far beyond the limits of acceptable psychiatric practice. Holding and rereading the note, picturing the horrors that that poor, tortured girl had undergone, realizing that all of this information had been kept from him by an ostensibly amiable and straightforward superior, he’d felt outraged. Liars and seducers, as far as he was concerned, had no right to practice psychiatry.
The turnabout surprised him. A hero turned knave and a grubby little man becoming a defender of decency. Was he so poor a judge of character to have had such misleading impressions? What did that say for his objectivity?
When he returned the letter, he realized that Al had been measuring him carefully, watching him intently, reading his response in his expression.
“Convinced?” Al asked.
Art nodded. He’d laid it on the line. What was it he’d said? “If I knew for a fact … I’d put a stop to it”? So it wasn’t absolutely incontestable, unassailable, court-of-law fact. But why quibble? It was as close to fact as anything he needed.
“All right,” he’d said. “I’ll ban Lippman from visiting. And then go to work on her.” Sheepishly, he’d taken Al’s extended hand and pumped a firm agreement. The deal was done.
A skillful and persuasive barrister, Art thought, as he scanned the room again, checking to see that all was in place. Tenacious, with good timing, strongly motivated. At least Mr. Newfield wouldn’t be breathing down his neck any more. Better to have a man like that with you than against you.
A long, insistent buzz sounded from the intercom, followed by three short ones. Ursula’s signature. Momentarily there was a gentle knocking at his door. He opened it, admitting a blonde in a trim, pale blue stewardess uniform. Clothes to take off.
“Miss me?”
“Miss you? It’s been so long that the semen has backed up to my brain causing intractable headaches.”
“Oh?” she said, as she moved her hand over the bulge in his trousers. “I think we can cure that.”
A kiss, a caress, and it was all Art could do to make it to the bedroom before ejaculating.
An ideal relationship, that’s what it was. Exciting when she was in town, but one that allowed him freedom to roam without explanation when Ursula made her transatlantic flights.
They quickly undressed and he was upon her; nuzzling the nape of her neck. Sucking the soft flesh of her nipple. Finally, unable to contain or categorize what he felt, impelled to utter something, he softly cried “I love you,” as the spasms of orgasm overwhelmed him.
When they disengaged, she reached for his arm, put it around her, and moved against him. Half an exotic, sophisticated Scandinavian, at other moments a country girl with a foreign accent; an airborne waitress, nothing more. But during the weeks he’d known her, always beautiful, sensual and loving.
Marriage? A question he considered when meeting anybody. He doubted that. There was the difference of their religions, the discrepancy in educational levels, and a lack of similarity in cultural pursuits. But hell, she would certainly do for a while.
“I liked hearing that,” she said.
“Hearing what?”
“That you loved me.”
A jarring self-consciousness intruded upon the soft afterglow.
“Tell me again.”
What could he say? Don’t take it seriously? It was meant only as an expression of passion? True, perhaps, but crude, cruel and unnecessary.
“Would I ever lie to you?” he asked.
Art could tell, from the smile on Ursula’s face, that he’d finessed the question nicely. It never occurred to him, for all his self-righteous outrage against Jonas Lippman, that he was also misleading someone who wanted him.
20
First her hopes came crashing down; dreams she was unaware of until they vanished.
Second was the act of hate and self-loathing; the mouthful of a mean and hapless male.
Next was the
void, where she remained inviolable, free of pain, anguish and involvement. How long she lived there was impossible to say. Three weeks of calendar time, according to Dr. Matthews. If he had said a decade, she would have believed that, too. It was a most peculiar experience, seeing and hearing what went on about her yet not feeling real enough to respond. Like a wax figure, placed amidst an insane crowd.
Sadness followed. Not her traditional down-in-the-dumps variety, but a form of depression she’d read about only in novels. Or in the abnormal psychology course she’d taken at college. Tears for no reason at all. Great racking sobs, at the slightest provocation. Hands tearing at her soul when Jonas’ name was mentioned. An unfillable emptiness as she longed for a second visit. He had seen her in the void. Where was he now that she wanted him?
Thank God the worst of that was over. Thank God for Al, who came to see her regularly, who fussed over her and told her everything would be all right. Old enough to be her father, he was like the warm, protective, nurturing parent she never had. And thank God, too, for Dr. Matthews, who put things in perspective.
“Depression,” he’d reminded her, “is anger turned inward. And you’re not going to eliminate it unless you can hook your resentments to more appropriate targets.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning Jonas Lippman.”
“But why? He tried his best. How can I hate a man I also love?”
“What’s love?”
“When two people care deeply about each other.”
“So how come he rejected you?”
The words stung, and she was tempted to defend him. It was funny, really. At times she harbored bitter feelings toward Jonas. His reconciliation with Phoebe, the letter, and his failure to return to Bellevue were each sore points and occasionally she fantasized retribution. Yet, whenever Jonas stood accused by Al or Dr. Matthews, Arlene immediately rose to his defense.
Why? Was it that their comments made her feel stupid? Ludicrous in her love choice? Or was it simply an externalization of internal dialogue: now I love him, now I don’t; now they hate him, now I don’t.
Eventually, though, she’d come to see it Dr. Matthews’ way. Not with any great conviction, but out of an abstract logic and a newly evident passivity. A malleability of personality that had never been in evidence before. That was one result of the wringer she’d been through. Passion and conviction seemed pressed, flattened and unavailable. An extension, perhaps, of the void. Except that it was socially more acceptable. “You’re the doctor. I’m the patient. You’re a protector. I’m a lost soul. Wherever you lead, I will try to follow.”
Initially, she learned that Jonas deserved her enmity. Once she accepted that premise, the following conclusion was easier: Jonas should be contained.
“What does that mean?” she’d asked Matthews.
His face took on a grave and somber aspect. “It means that you must bring charges against him.”
“Al keeps saying the same thing. ‘Sue him. Prevent him from taking advantage of anyone else. What he did was unethical. Malpractice, pure and simple.’ He says it should be worth a lot of money. That it would compensate me for my illness.”
“He’s right.”
“But the money means nothing to me.”
“I wasn’t referring to the money.”
“And suing him won’t change a thing for me.”
“Sure it will. It will help you act upon your anger. Taking concrete action renders one less impotent. It would be another step toward recovery.”
“What do you think that will do to him?”
“Isn’t it time you thought about yourself?”
“I don’t know.…” She wondered anew if she was defending Jonas, again, out of force of habit.
“How,” she’d asked, “could I sue someone for being intimate with me when I myself suggested it?”
“Because,” Matthews answered with certitude, “every doctor’s been trained to resist such overtures. It goes back to the Hippocratic oath.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. And if that’s not sufficient reason, think of the effects that involvement had upon you.
“Suppose he did it again? With someone new? Would you want to see another Arlene undergo the same treatment? The same turmoil?
“I hate to be crude—and maybe my analogy isn’t precisely correct—but I see it as akin to rape.”
“Rape?” This seemed farfetched.
“Yes. Rape. Because it represents taking advantage of a woman who is in no position to defend herself. With rape it’s a physical assault. In this case it’s psychological. But the consequences are equally destructive.”
“Maybe you’re right,” she’d answered. “But I’ll have to think about it.” Except that she didn’t, for the shock treatments impaired her ability to concentrate along with her capacity for insightful thought. Dr. Matthews said it would soon come back. Right now it didn’t trouble her.
Two days after that, Al brought in a paper for her to sign.
“What’s it about?”
“It authorizes me to institute a civil suit against Dr. Jonas Lippman in your behalf.”
“But I’ve not agreed to that yet.”
“That’s why I brought this paper.”
“I can’t do that, Al. Your argument might be correct. Dr. Matthews’ points are well-taken. But Jonas cares for me. I know he does. And I can’t do that to someone who cares.”
“How long have you been here now?” Al asked, patiently.
“About a month.”
“And when was the last time that this caring man visited you?”
The point was made. She’d run out of protests. It was senseless to keep opposing her friend and her doctor. They obviously cared, too. And they showed it through their actions.
Who was it who constantly came to see her? Al. Who managed to speak to her employers, explain things, and hold her job open? Al. Whose advice, then, should she follow? She’d obviously made a mess of things heeding her own inclinations. Why not try listening to Al?
He’d already taken out his pen and held it in front of her. With her newfound compliance, she reached for it and conscientiously signed her name.
“Good,” he said. His words made her feel that she’d done the proper thing. Another proof that she was getting better, for she was acting on her feelings.
It was important to show signs of improvement, for, as Dr. Matthews had said, “All I’m waiting for is one small sign before I discharge you.” That would be most welcome, for with the return of her sanity came a growing aversion for her surroundings. The guests on the fourth floor were an improvement upon those on the eighth. One could hold a reasonable conversation with any number of them. Still, the rooms were just as dingy, the food too starchy, bland, tepid and unappealing as it was ladled onto metal trays. And she missed her nightly baths. Who could feel clean and fresh with twice-a-week showers?
The more Arlene thought about it, the more convinced she grew that initiating legal action was the proper move. Every time she’d followed Dr. Matthews’ line of thought, he’d affirmed her improvement. This, too, should please him. Maybe she’d even be home by the end of the week.
21
All things pass in time, including worry. That didn’t mean he never thought of her; never feared any further complications. Still, when you’re lying in your bed at night, trying to fall asleep, and a shoe drops on the floor above you, and you wait, wait, and wait, ultimately you conclude that the room is occupied by a one-legged tenant.
Art Matthews knew. Jonas was convinced of that when Art failed to make another supervisory appointment. But he doubted that he’d spread the word at the Institute. It didn’t sit well for any student to badmouth faculty. Not if they wished to graduate.
Nor was it crucial if anyone on the Bellevue staff was aware of his involvement with Arlene. That, too, he believed was likely. How could it be otherwise, since he was barred from visitations. Still, he wasn’t associated with Bellevue. As long as he
avoided the place there was no possibility of embarrassment. Phoebe’s prediction was apparently correct. Whispering was all he might suffer.
Weekends in the country had always helped relax him. November was particularly lovely this year. Indian summer weather. He’d even gone swimming in Gardiners Bay. Soon it would be Thanksgiving. Time to close the place for the winter. That always made him feel a bit nostalgic, filled with a longing to resurrect the summer past. This year he was not likely to feel that pang, for the emotional shocks and surprises he had endured were better left behind. Instead, he’d anticipate the spring. Reopening for a new season. A chance for a fresh beginning.
Two months had passed since Arlene’s breakdown. He’d heard she left Bellevue over four weeks ago. Once, he phoned her office while she was out to lunch. It was quite deliberate. Why speak with her directly if she wanted or needed to keep him at a distance? But he’d left a message that he called. It disappointed him that she never returned it.
What pleased him, though, was that he was able to work again with a clear mind, undisturbed by pressing anxieties of his own. And he was gratified by the faith of any number of his patients. Their appreciation of his efforts was an important source of support for a badly shaken ego.
Today it was Wayne Barzin’s turn. Wayne was elaborating upon why, in a recent review of Dr. Evan Shapiro’s autobiography, he’d referred to the radical psychiatrist as “a narcissistic exhibitionist; one of the maggots of his profession.”
“Why so harsh on him?” Jonas asked.
“Harsh?” Wayne seemed surprised. “Do you know what that man represents?”
“What?” Jonas knew that Shapiro had repeatedly challenged some of the sacred rituals of their profession. He’d not, of course, read the soon-to-be-published book that Wayne had torn apart.
“A disregard of classical analytic structure and procedure. Descriptions of how he’s gotten personally involved in some of his patients’ lives. And a shocking disrespect for concepts like privacy and circumspection.”
“Is that so bad?”
“Bad? Impossible. That man even went on to describe the most intimate details of his social and sexual life. I ask you, what sort of therapist goes about doing that? Can’t you picture the floodgates of analytic turbulence that would pour forth if his style were emulated?”
The Seducers Page 10
