by Walter Marks
"Yeah, well, Freud couldn't quit smoking cigars," I said lightly, "Even when they had to replace his cancerous jaw-bone with a wooden one."
He smiled grimly. “I’ve tried to quit before but I always slide back. Compulsive drives are amazing. At the same time you’re consciously deciding not to do something you’re subconsciously planning to do it.”
You talkin’ ta me?
Ben turned the discussion to various patients, and then laid out the day's schedule. Right now things were calm on the ward, and our tasks were fairly routine. We separated to begin work.
In mid-afternoon, I was taking a history of Hugh Kennealy, the weight-lifter. In an emotionless voice, he told how a shower room gang-rape made him decide to bulk up. “Man’s gotta protect his manhood.”
“How long you doin’ ‘roids?”
“Never touch ‘em.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sure anabolics get you pumped and ripped and cut, but lemme tell you something, Hughie. You won’t be so macho when your balls shrivel up to the size of raisins.”
I was interrupted by an orderly. “Call for you from Kim Cavanagh.”
Shit, she's calling to cancel. I excused myself, and took the call in my office.
"Hi, Doctor Rothberg," Kim said. "I'm just phoning to find out how your mom is."
"My mom?"
"Yes. Your sister called last night asking for you. She said your mom was very sick."
"That's strange," I said. "My mother is dead and I don't have a sister."
"Oh, gosh. I'm sorry," she said in a confused voice.
"Did she ask where she could find me?"
"Well, yes," Kim replied. "She sounded real upset. So...I gave her your number at the Hospitality Inn. I screwed up, didn't I?"
"No, no," I said. "She...she was from a bill collecting agency. A charge card dispute between me and Bloomingdale's. I referred her to my accountant. No biggie.”
"You sure I didn't...?"
"No harm, no foul."
"Oh, that's a relief. Well, I know you're busy, so I'll get off. See ya tonight.”
"I’ll be down to getcha in a taxi, honey.”
“Why? Is your car in the shop?”
“Nope.”
“Then maybe I should...”
“When I pick you up you’ll see why. Make it seven-thirty.”
“Deal.”
I hung up the phone. Then I thought of Daisy.
That woman’s a piece of work. She sure went through some devious machinations to find out where I lived. After the number she did last night I pegged her as a mixed-up, manipulative young woman. Better re-think that. Daisy could be a looney-tune. And dangerous.
CHAPTER 17
Kim was waiting outside her townhouse complex, “Hudsonville Gardens”, wearing a blue pants suit, made from some shiny fabric — kind of dressy. I wished I’d gone home to change. I got out of the car, hitching up my khakis and buttoning my seersucker jacket. I had on my running shoes and greeted Kim with an apology.
"Don’t be silly,” she said. “You look very cute." She noticed my car. “Hey, you weren’t kidding about the taxi.”
“Nope.”
She smiled. “What kind of cab is this?”
“Checker,” I said. Then I told her its history.
“What are those things in the back?”
“Jump seats,” I said. “They pull down to seat two extra people. These cabs could take six passengers.”
“What a great idea. Wonder why they don’t make ‘em anymore.”
“Money. Now if there’s six people, they have to take two cabs.”
As I opened the car door, she commented on my shoes. “Oh, Reeboks. They're Z-Quicks, aren't they?"
"Yes."
"Running Magazine said they give you great lateral support...especially if you pronate."
"Definitely."
"How often do you run?"
“Well, actually...I’ve...just gotten into it.”
"I try to run every day," she said. "Especially in the summer. I love training in hot weather. There's a 10K in Albany next month, and I'm hoping to knock two minutes off my time. My ambition is to someday run the New York City marathon."
My ambition is just to set foot on the "Speed" Culpepper Memorial Running Track some time between now and the winter solstice.
It was a ten-minute drive to the restaurant — Lenny and Mike's "La Bistro". The sign outside worried me because if Lenny and Mike didn't know it was Le bistro, how French could the food be?
The maitre d' seated us at a corner table. It had a checkered tablecloth and a candle in a red jar with a plastic net around it. I looked at Kim in the candlelight, and found myself trying to decide if I found her attractive. I saw her dark brown hair for the first time without her nurse’s hat. It was short and cut in a bob. Nice. Her nose was small, her face a bit too broad, but when she smiled, her features came together beautifully. She still wasn’t wearing makeup, except some pale pink lipstick.
It’s like she has no vanity — which is great.
And yet, with a little eyeliner...
"I'd give anything to have red hair like yours," she said.
I felt like a jerk. What gave me the right to appraise her looks? At that point I vowed to act like a decent human being for the rest of the evening, and if possible, for the rest of my life.
Kim ordered a glass of white wine, and I opted for Perrier.
I asked her how she got into nursing.
She said she was no Florence Nightingale type. She was a local girl, who had to work part-time during high school, because her father was laid off when the tool-and-die factory closed. After graduation she enrolled in nursing school mostly because it was near her house, and she could go at night while she did full-time slave labor as a cashier at Walmart. She was first inspired to become a nurse when she learned about their pay scale.
But later Kim realized nursing was an exciting and gratifying profession. And after her first year, she’d discovered something; she was good at it.
"Y'know," I said. "I really admire your courage."
"Courage?"
"Yes. Working in a prison, with all those unstable guys; it can’t be comfortable for a woman."
"Well, I've been trained for it, and over the years I've learned how to handle myself," she said. "Except of course when Bobby Sanchez put a needle to my throat. Thank God you came along. You wanna talk about courage, I think you're the bravest man I've ever known."
"Truth is, Kim, I was also trained for it. We're taught over and over to think on our feet, to improvise. I acted reflexively. I never actually felt afraid. I think real courage is when you're facing your deepest fear, and you find the strength to overcome it."
"Like what?"
"Well, for me," I said. "It would be where I had to defend myself physically. Like if I got into a fist-fight. I've never hit anybody in my life, except for a kid in fifth grade who called me a dirty Jewboy."
"Well, that counts."
"I didn't exactly hit him. I swung and clipped him on the shoulder. Then he threw me down and beat the crap outta me. That was the end of my fist-fighting career. I've wondered ever since how I'd act if the situation came up again."
"I wouldn't know how to handle a fist-fight either," she said.
"You wouldn't be expected to."
Kim took a swallow of wine, and then spoke with quiet introspection. "I guess I'd feel the same way about rape. It's my greatest fear, being in a situation like that, where you’ve got no control at all. They give you all these self-defense techniques; the knee to the groin, the fingernails in the eyes, but I wonder if I could really do it, or if I’d just be paralyzed with fear."
"Have you decided?" The non sequitur came from the waiter hovering over us, a Caucasian teenager with flaxen dreadlocks.
Kim said she was kind of hungry and suggested we look at the menus and order right away. I asked the waiter what the soupe du jour was and he said it was the soup of the day. Then he announced the house sal
ad was “Free-zay with bacon uh...uh...uh...lardons.” We both went with the seafood crepe appetizer.
The food was a lot better than I'd expected. Kim had sole meuniére, which was spelled on the menu as sole menure. Oy vey. I had cous-cous, which was thankfully spelled correctly.
As we chatted, I felt really at ease with Kim. It was fun to talk shop with her. She knew all the patients, and everybody on the staff, and since she'd been around a long time, she had great perspective on Vanderkill. I asked what happened to the guy who had my job before me, and Kim said he'd quit because he'd found a better position. I said I found that hard to believe. We both laughed.
We were having a very good time. Later, when I thought back over the evening, I remembered two things Kim had said: one that made me laugh, and one that made me think.
I'd mentioned Rasheed Harris, the guy with drugs up his keister. Kim smiled and said Harris was always asking her for extra medication. He kept saying he was a nervous wreck, that he'd been diagnosed as suicidal, and couldn't he please have a few more tranks from her drug tray. Finally, one night he began screaming, telling her he was so freaked that if she didn't give him some Librium, he’d kill himself, and did she want that on her conscience?
"It was sort of 'Give me Librium or give me Death’," she said. That made me laugh.
What made me think was when I brought up Victor Janko. I said I didn’t understand what would make a woman fall in love with an incarcerated killer.
"What do you think the attraction is?" I said. "From a woman's point of view."
Kim spoke after a moment’s thought. "Maybe it's a matter of...attention."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, one of the things a woman needs most and gets least from a man is attention. I know what prison life is like for a guy. It’s no life at all. So he could devote one hundred percent of his attention to a woman. Every thought, every fantasy, all his words and actions could be focused on her. If a woman had a desperate craving for attention, a guy like that would fill the bill.”
"That makes sense," I said. "But why are some drawn to murderers, even to convicted serial killers?"
"Well," Kim replied, "Maybe it's because their crimes are so serious the guys have no chance of getting out. So the women can keep the relationship on a fantasy level; completely safe, and on a long-term basis, which is just how they want it."
Kim paused. "That's only a guess," she said. "It could be a lot of other things too."
I thought it was a damn good guess.
But then why would Daisy be working so hard to get Victor out? If he were released, she’d have to face the reality of the man, which would be quite different from the way she saw him now...
The waiter put the check down in front of me. Kim reached over and grabbed the bill.
“My treat, remember?”
As she leaned over, I caught a glimpse of the swoop of her full breasts, surging forward against the neckline of her blouse.
My treat.
I drove her back to the townhouse complex. When I parked in front of the entrance, she turned to me.
“Would you like to come in for a decaf cappuccino?”
This time I said no before I had a chance to think it over.
“You’re missing out on a good thing.”
“I better not. Early meeting with Dr. Caldwell.”
“Okay,” she said smiling. “Well, this was fun.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“Feel free to save my life anytime you want.”
I had no snappy comeback.
"Well, good night," she said, getting out of the car. "Maybe I'll see you tomorrow, if you work late."
"Yeah. Maybe."
She turned and walked away. I called after her. “Hey. Thanks for dinner.”
I don’t know if she heard me. She headed towards a building in the back, and disappeared into the darkness.
Driving home I asked myself why I’d turned her down, when I really wanted to be with her.
Since Melissa I’ve steered clear of sex. And women, picking up the vibe, haven’t seemed interested in me. Now suddenly ...last night Daisy, tonight...Kim. I don’t get it.
Earlier this evening I vowed to act like a decent human being. Maybe that’s what I’m doing.
Yeah, right.
Soon as I got home I jumped in the shower. When I soaped my crotch, my penis reared up angrily, as if to say C’mon man, I been up, I been down, up, down, up, down...make up your mind.
I started stroking it to make it feel better. In my mind I saw Kim, her womanly breasts cupped in my hands, her mouth exploring mine, her strong runner’s thighs opening to receive me. I exploded in a paroxysm of pure pleasure.
But the image that tripped my trigger wasn’t Kim. It was Daisy; intruding into my fantasy, touching herself and moaning my name, as her middle finger glided in and out between her slick folds...
I turned off the water and stood there panting in the steamy shower stall.
What the hell am I looking for? What do I want?
Maybe the answer is in the words of Mick Jagger — "You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometime...well, you just might find...you get what you need."
CHAPTER 18
Early next morning, I went into the woods behind the motel to forage for earthworms. After digging around beneath some evergreens, I turned over a rotting log. Bingo. Worm convention.
I picked one and went back to my room.
When I dropped the worm into Ninja’s vivarium, she came out of her hide box, went over and sniffed it. Then, with a quick flick of her head, she walked away.
“Yo, Ninja, whassup?”
I thought about chopping up the worm, but I had no eyes for surgery, at least till I had breakfast.
I squirted mist from a spray bottle onto her shell. She scurried away. Turtles have nerve endings on their shells, that’s why Ninja can feel me scratching her. But today she hated any contact. I hydrated her whole habitat with the spritzer and let her be.
Over my morning coffee, I remembered I hadn’t checked my voicemail. It’s funny, I thought. In the city I was attached to my cell. But up here, I hadn’t used it or even heard it ring. I picked up my cell. There was one message; a muffled man's voice, disguised by a guttural quality.
"Don't let Victor Janko out. Or you'll live to regret it."
I pressed the repeat key.
"Don't let Victor Janko out. Or you'll live to regret it."
I listened a few more times, but had no idea who it was. I saved it and hung up.
It could’ve been one of those anti-parole demonstrators. But how would they know my cell number — or that I’d be testifying before the parole board?
Maybe my father told them. The Schmuck could have blabbed that information to anybody.
It could’ve been someone in the penitentiary. My cell number was in my file. Ben Caldwell and Father Toussenel both seemed opposed to Victor's release, but I can’t imagine them harassing me like this.
No. No. The prime suspect is...Stevie Karp. He definitely wants Victor kept behind bars, and a threatening phone call is more his style. But whoever it is, what can I do about it? And how real is the threat anyway?
I’ve got no answers. But this only strengthens my resolve. Today I go back and face Victor Janko. I have no plan so I'll just have wing it and hope I push the right buttons. Threat or no threat, I have a responsibility — to give Victor my best shot.
At the hospital my chance to see Victor came earlier than expected. Hugh Kennealy’s session with me was cancelled because he’d gone violent again and had to be sedated. Combined with lunch break, that gave me two hours; enough time to go over and work with Victor.
As I approached the cell, I heard an odd, shuffling sound. When I got closer, I could hear the guard's voice.
"Come on, you pathetic wimp. Let's see a little elbow grease. Come on. Get into it."
It was a strange scene. Victor was on his knees, polishing the guard's shoes wi
th a shoe brush. The prisoner wore only a pair of striped pajama bottoms, and his pale, pudgy body wobbled with the effort. Stevie sat on the bed with his feet up on a carton. I could see the cruelty in his eyes, even through his sunglasses. "Make it shine," he yelled. "Get some snap into it, you pussy."
"Okay. Okay," Victor said quietly.
"Okay, what?"
"Boss," Victor replied. "Okay, Boss."
"Now spit," the guard ordered. "I want a real spit shine. You hear?"
Victor made a salivating sound, bent his head over and spit on both shoes.
"Atta boy. Now use the cloth. Come on. Spit 'n' polish. Spit 'n' polish."
Victor rubbed frantically. Stevie growled in disgust. "I said spit 'n' polish. You call that polish? Come on. Get into it, you piece of garbage."
Victor stopped and grabbed his elbow in pain. "It hurts," he pleaded.
"I said - do it, faggot."
The prisoner complied.
"Remember," Stevie said, "I wanna see my shinin' face in 'em."
"Right...boss."
Victor worked a few more minutes, till the pain and exhaustion forced him to stop. "Okay,” he said, looking up hopefully. “They’re done.”
"Good," the guard said, after inspecting the shoes. "Now gimme the finishing touch."
"Please, Boss. Don't make me,"
"Now, faggot," Stevie bellowed. "The finishing touch."
In total humiliation, Victor bent over and kissed each of Stevie's shoes with his lips.
"Soul kiss," the guard demanded.
Victor stuck out his tongue and licked the boots with the tip of it. He gagged, then sat up, hanging his head in shame.
"Yessir, Vicky, it's sure nice havin' you around. You're a good boy."
Victor nodded subserviently. "Are we done now?"
"Yeah. We're done. In fact, you did such a good job, you might even get dessert tonight. You'd like to have dessert, wouldn't you?"
Victor didn't respond.
"I'll be back later with a nice banana split? That's your favorite, ain’t it? A big banana split, with plenty o' whipped cream?"
