by Walter Marks
I turned back to my computer.
I've created a pattern of going to see Victor every day. If I don't show up, he'll begin wondering why. He may not trust me, but he still needs me — I'm his only chance at parole. Maybe I can use that as leverage. I'll skip two days of visiting Victor; he’s bound to wonder why, and that'll put some pressure on him. It’s risky because I only have a week, but it still leaves me five days. It’s worth it.
While I'm away, I’ve got to come up with a new approach; some mechanism to break his code.
As I was leaving the ward, Kim Cavanagh looked up from her desk and waved at me.
"I want to ask you something, Doctor," she said, smiling her dimpled smile. "Last night I said I didn't know how to thank you for saving me, but today I figured the least I could do was buy you dinner. I mean, I know you're very busy, but...tomorrow is my day off, my night off really, so I thought...well, I'm inviting you."
I said yes before I gave myself a chance to think about it.
After I left I thought about it.
Yes, I’m on a no-sex regimen. But this isn't sex. It’s just a date, no — it’s just dinner. Dinner with a colleague who’s a very nice, gutsy woman.
Plus she has excellent breasts.
CHAPTER 15
I came home carrying a McDonald's bag. I was cutting down — opting for a Chicken McNuggets instead of a Double Quarterpounder with cheese , and medium fries instead of large. Okay, but at least I didn't get the Hot Apple Pie.
I looked at Ninja. She still seemed out of sorts. When I scratched on her shell, she looked annoyed. Uh-oh. I forgot to bring home a worm. So she’s pissed. I lifted her up and placed her on my forearm. Usually she likes prowling around the curly red hairs and sniffing my pores. But now she just sat there like a pet rock. I put her back down and turned off her Vita-lite. Maybe she was too hot.
I opened the screw top of New Zealand merlot and poured some into a clear plastic bathroom cup.
I bit into a Chicken McNugget. It was McNauseating, so I just ate the fries. For the first time since I'd come to Vanderkill, I felt a twinge of homesickness.
God, I’d kill for bagel with nova and scallion cream cheese from Zabar's.
Turning on the motel’s dinky clock radio, I couldn’t pick up an NYC station so I tuned to WPDH. They were playing early Stones. For a while I sat there, sipping the fruity red wine and having a sing-along. "...You can't always get what you want,/But if you try sometime/well, you just might find/you get what you need..."
I heard a sharp knocking on my door.
"Who is it?"
"Um, it's Daisy. Daisy Lesczcynski. Y'know, Victor's girlfriend?"
Strange.
"Just a minute."
I clicked off the music, got up and opened the door. Daisy was wearing tight black jeans and a pink tank top. The light outside the door made her hair appear blonder than it really was.
"I hope I haven't disturbed you, Doctor Rothberg," she said, "But I just had to see you. Is it all right if I come in?"
"I’m afraid not. It's been a long day..."
"Please, Doctor. It won't take long. It’s about Victor."
I let her in.
"How did you know I was staying here?" I asked.
"You told me."
"When was that?"
"When we were at the diner. Don't you remember? You said you were new in town and I asked you where you were staying and you said here."
"I don't recall that."
"Well, I guess you were more interested in hearing about me and Victor," she said in a light tone, "So you don't remember."
"What did you want to talk to me about?"
"Well, I was just wondering how things look for Victor. I've been so worried. I was hoping you could...just let me know if I should get my hopes up."
"I really couldn't say."
"You sound sort of negative," Daisy said fearfully.
"It’s a difficult situation."
"But there's hope, isn't there?"
"There's always hope."
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
I don’t trust her. She shows up here unannounced, and claims I told her where I lived, which is bullshit. On the other hand, maybe I can learn something from her.
I thought of Ed Sorenson's advice; follow all paths and open all doors.
"I have a question, Daisy," I said. "Has Victor ever talked to you about the book 'The Cat in the Hat?' Do you know if he ever read it?"
"You mean the Dr. Seuss?"
"Yes."
"No. He never said anything about it. But he probably did read it. Almost every kid reads 'The Cat in the Hat'. We have three copies in our children's section." She looked at me quizzically. "Why do you ask?"
I didn’t want to go further. "It's kind of a psychological test we use."
“Oh, I see.”
There was a silence.
"Um, Doctor,” she said, ”There's something...I think you should know."
"What's that?"
She hesitated.
"What is it?"
"Well," she said, "Victor is...he's become sort of jealous of you."
"What do you mean?"
"The thing is...I told him you and I met, and it made him...insecure."
Jesus. No wonder Victor’s shutting me out.
"I understand him feeling that way," she continued. "I mean, you really are cute. But now he says he wants nothing to do with you. And I know if he acts that way it'll hurt his chances for parole."
I did the shrink nod.
"Doctor," she said, "Can I suggest something... something that’d make Victor feel more secure?” She twirled an errant blonde curl around her finger. "The next visiting day, could you arrange for me and Victor to have contact visitation?"
"Which means what?"
"Well, in all the time I've been coming to see Victor, I've never physically touched him. Contact visitation just means we can have physical contact. They have a special room for it, where they watch you on TV. I mean, you can't make love or anything, but you can touch and hug and stuff."
"I assume you've been turned down on this?"
"Yes," Daisy said. "Because Victor's in Administrative Segregation. But maybe you could talk to them. Explain how we love each other, and maybe say that as a psychiatrist you think it would be good for Victor's mental health. Which it would."
"I'm sorry," I said. "I can't help you."
"But see, if I could just be physically close to him, he wouldn’t be jealous any more. If I could hold him in my arms, he’d know he’s my only love. I've told him that, but words don't seem to be enough."
"I have to say no, Daisy...”
"Please, Doctor," she implored. "I know it would make Victor open up to you." Her eyes got wet and she began to cry.
I tried to remain professionally detached. She sniffled, and looked at me with needful, tear-filled eyes. It took effort to resist her.
"I'm sorry," I said, "It's not possible."
I handed her the glass of wine. She smiled weakly, and took a sip. "Thank you."
Daisy fixed her eyes on me, then covered her face with her hands. "God, I'm so confused."
"About what?"
"About everything."
She dropped her hands. "Waiting for Victor's parole," she said. "It's like a nightmare. Hoping for the best, fearing the worst. Not having any control, any say about anything. You're the only hope I've got. And that confuses me even more."
"Why?"
"Because...because..."
"What is it, Daisy?"
"I...I can't talk about it."
"Why are you confused?"
Daisy sighed, and started twirling another curl. I noticed her fingernails were painted purple.
"Well, this is going to sound terrible," she said, "But you're a shrink so I guess you're used to people telling you bad things, without judging them. Right?"
"What is it?"
"Okay. What I want to say is...maybe Victor has a right
to be jealous."
She looked at me for a reaction. I gave her none. "I've been having these thoughts," she said, "Thoughts about you...since the day we met, when you quoted those lines from Edna St. Vincent Millay. And you told me how your mom used to read poetry to you..."
I never should’ve done that. I was talking about myself, instead of listening.
"The thing is, I've never met a man who could quote poetry," she said. "It was just...it just touched me. Then that night, when I went home, I kept thinking about you. And when I got into bed...I started to get kind of hot, which isn't unusual — I’m a very sexual person. But when I get that way, I normally start fantasizing about me and Victor. But this time, I started imagining what it would be like if you were making love to me. And I could really feel you. I mean, I could actually feel your lips, taste your tongue..."
"Daisy..."
“I tried to tell you I belong to Victor, but you said you didn't care... you just had to have me...once. One night, that's all you wanted. And then...then I felt your hands moving all over me, stroking my neck, my breasts, your fingers touching my..." She broke off. Her breath was coming in short gasps now. "I wanted to say no, but I couldn't...I couldn't..."
"Stop it, Daisy," I shouted. She’d pulled me so deeply into her story that I was getting an erection. I folded my hands in my lap.
"I...I'm sorry," Daisy said. "You must think I'm terrible."
"You'd better go."
"Doctor Rothberg," Daisy said, "I love Victor with all my heart. In all the time I've been here, I've never even looked at another man. But with you, I..."
"That's enough, Daisy. This is completely inappropriate."
"I...I apologize," Daisy said. She got up and walked over to me. "Doctor, I know you really care about Victor, that you're doing all you can to help. But please - promise you won't give up, that you'll keep trying with him."
"I'll do what I can."
"And you won't let what I just said affect anything, will you?"
I got up, went to the door, and opened it for her. "I told you, I'll do what I can."
"Thank you for listening," she said. "I'm sorry I...took up so much of your time."
Daisy came close to me. She hesitated, then leaned up and kissed me lightly on the cheek. She smiled and walked out.
I sunk down in a chair, shaking my head.
That woman made me do something I swore would never happen again — she got me to lose my objectivity, and worse, she made me forget who and what I am.
I reached for my wine and polished if off in a few gulps. I refilled the plastic tumbler and peered through the garnet colored liquid at the glaring bulb in my bedside lamp. The rays of light broke up into distorted fractals, floating in front of me in variegated shades of redness. The light splintered and began to whirl and flash. Headache.
I rushed into the bathroom, found the sumatriptan Statdose Pen and jabbed it into my thigh. I turned off all the lights, and lay down on the bed.
The pain pulsed upside my head, but if I stayed very still, I knew the drug would help. Clearly the red wine triggered this attack. But Dr. Ramone had said stress could underlie migraine headache. Well, if that was true, it was sure as hell underlying this one.
It was hard to think with the throbbing in my left temple, but I gave it a try.
Daisy did a number on me. But what’s her game? Does she think by turning me on I’ll be in her sexual thrall and do whatever she wants? Or was she really offering herself to me, for “just one night" as she said; one night in exchange for Victor's freedom?
Maybe it’s something more complex. Or maybe it's pretty simple; she's got the hots for me...after all, I am cute... why do they always say cute?...
I was losing it; the medication muddling my brain. I drifted off into drug-distorted sleep. My mind wandered, searching for the solution to the Daisy puzzle, traveling down a dimly lit path and opening a creaking door, only to find a dark void.
Then the dream again.
I’m in Victor’s cell, and he’s in a murderous frenzy — slashing, slicing me with his razor-sharp palette knife. I scream a scream so loud it has no sound at all. Blood geysers out of my body. I see the claw foot bathtub and watch my blood flow into it, turning the water bright scarlet. Suddenly, out of the water, a naked woman sits up, grimacing as the blood drips down over her matted hair, her shoulders, her hard-nippled breasts. It’s Melissa — glaring at me with fury in her eyes. She begs desperately. "Please... Please...Please... Please..."
CHAPTER 16
I checked my watch as I pulled up to the high school running track. It was 8:14 AM.
Perfect. Half-hour run, quick shower at the penitentiary, and I’ll still make my 9:30 with Ben.
The migraine and the episode with Daisy had me really shook up, but today was a new day.
I walked to the gate of the track, bouncing on my new Reeboks. I wore gym shorts and my favorite t-shirt, with the motto "Eschew Obfuscation."
A sign on the gate read: Rufus Alden "Speed" Culpepper Memorial Running Facility — Summer Hours: 9 AM to 9 PM. There was a padlock on the gate. A chain link fence surrounding the track made entry impossible.
Not enough time. Not my fault.
Back at the car I grabbed the Baggie and fork I’d left on the front seat. I went to a nearby stand of pine trees. Sometimes under the ground cover of fallen pine needles you can find worms. I used to dig them up in Riverside Park for Ninja when I lived at the Boat Basin.
This time I didn’t even find an ant. My sweet turtle was gonna be cranky.
I drove to the Silver Streak diner and wolfed down a comfort food breakfast of ham’n’eggs and home fries. Very nutritious. Potatoes are vegetables, right?
I was worried about Victor Janko. Aside from avoiding him for a couple days, I had no real plan. Was there a clue in "The Cat in the Hat"? I was clueless. And Victor’s jealousy of me made things worse. Especially after last night.
Driving up to the prison gate I wondered what fresh hell awaited me. I found out right away. I heard what sounded like women grunting, but as I drove closer the grunts became words.
"No Parole for Janko. No Parole for Janko. No Parole for Janko."
There was a crowd of demonstrators — mostly female, pushing baby carriages and strollers. Propped up inside them were Raggedy Anns, Cabbage Patch Kids, Plush Cookie Monsters and Abby Caddabys; doll eyes open, staring. The mothers marched back and forth, carrying signs and chanting; "CAGE THE BABY CARRIAGE KILLER", "MOTHERS FOR VICTIM'S RIGHTS", "END PAROLE FOR VIOLENT FELONS", "PAROLE = MURDER".
Then I saw the TV remote trucks — ABC Eyewitness News, New York One, UPN 9 — and the Steadicam guys shooting the action. A hoarse voice echoed over a loudspeaker, and I traced its source to a platform and podium. There was Hizzoner the Mayor. I couldn't make out all the words, but I got the gist — “balancing law and order with citizen’s rights ... no mollycoddling criminals...punishment vs. rehabilitation...” A liberal politician drifting further and further to the right.
Jesus. This could well be Dad’s handiwork. I can just picture the Schmuck bragging to the mayor — “My Son the Shrink’s working on a red-hot case.” The press would pick up on this demonstration, generating headlines like: The New York Post:"Mayor Fights To Keep Psycho Killer Off Streets. New York Magazine: “Is Criminal Justice an oxymoron?”
I drove slowly through the line of demonstrators. They parted to let me pass, but there were angry jeers and some pounding on the hood of my car. There was a "Staff" card on my windshield. Why do they assume I’m against them?
At the gate, the guard, whom I now knew as Ambrose, gave me a friendly wave. Then he looked back towards the crowd, rolled his eyes, and made the jerking-off sign with his fist.
It was the first laugh I had all morning.
At my meeting with Ben, I voiced my concern about the demonstrators. "You think they'll influence the parole board's decision?"
"With the board you never know," he said. He was still speaking
in the nervous rat-tat-tat fashion.
"They’re not immune to political pressure," Ben continued, "but they're...they're just kind of ornery. Can’t tell you how many times I was sure they’d go one way, and they went the other."
"But this isn't just political pressure," I said. "It's social pressure. I mean, these board members live in communities where people will see this TV coverage. If they were to let Victor Janko out, wouldn’t they worry what their family, their friends and neighbors might say?"
"No," Ben replied. "The decision to grant parole is by a three-fourths majority and secret ballot. A board member can always claim he opposed the parole but was out-voted."
"How much influence you think my input will have on their decision?"
"Well," Ben said. "In cases like this, where the prisoner has a record of good behavior and rehab, they tend to rely heavily on the prison shrink. On the other hand, sometimes they go the other way, simply because they don't like the prisoner's attitude, or his face, or...the color of his skin. It's an imperfect system. But that’s how it goes down."
"So,” I said, “In spite of what’s going on in the parking lot, what I say about Victor could still affect the parole board?"
Ben he added, "I wish they weren't down there demonstrating — I think parole decisions are better made without emotion. But they have a right to express their point of view. As far as your input, I can only say it might be the deciding factor. So...you better be damn sure it’s right."
Ben was shouting now, shaking his right fist. I noticed a small bandage on the inside of his forearm.
"Did you cut yourself?"
Ben looked at his arm. "Nicotine patch," he said. "I've quit smoking. I use the E-cig at work because of the no-smoking rules, but outside I’m a fucking chimney.”
"Oh, that's why you’ve been... Hey, that’s great"
"Dentist saw some white crap on the inside of my mouth."
"Hairy leukoplakia?" I asked, referring to pre-cancerous oral lesions.
Ben nodded. "For years my wife's been after me to quit. She’s banned smoking in the house, and she won’t kiss me because I have ashtray breath. Plus, here I am trying to cure drug-addicted patients, and I'm hooked on one of the most dangerous drugs on earth."
