Carol rose and sat next to him, as close as possible without touching him, and immediately began: "Today is my birthday. Thirty-six. And did I tell you that I have the same birthday as my mother?"
"Happy birthday, Carolyn. I hope the next thirty-six birthdays are going to get better and better for you."
"Thank you, Ernest. You are really sweet." And with that she leaned over and gave Ernest a peck on the cheek. Yuck, she thought, lime soda pop aftershave. Disgusting.
The need to be physically close, the sitting on the sofa, and now the kiss on the cheek—all eerily reminded Ernest of Seymour Trotter's patient. But, of course, Carolyn was much better put together than the impulse-driven Belle. Ernest was aware of a warm tingle inside. He simply let it be, enjoyed it for a minute, and then herded his growing arousal into a far corner of his mind, got back to work, and assumed his professional voice: "Tell me your mother's dates again, Carolyn."
"She was born in 1937 and died ten years ago at the age of forty-eight. I've been thinking this week that I'm three-quarters her age when she died."
"What feelings does that bring up?"
"Sadness for her. What an unfulfilled life she had. Abandoned by a husband at age thirty. Her whole life spent in bringing up her two children. She had nothing—so little pleasure. I am so glad she lived till I graduated law school. And glad, too, that she died before Jeb's conviction and jailing. And before my life fell apart."
"This is where we left off last session, Carolyn. I'm struck, again, by your conviction that your mother was doomed at thirty, that she had no other choice but to be unhappy and to die laden with regrets. As though all women who lose their husbands are destined to the same fate. Is that true? Was there no other path possible for her? A more life-affirming path?"
Typical male shit, Carol thought. I'd like to see him make a self-affirming life while stuck with two kids, with no education because he put his spouse through school, and then get no help from the
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deadbeat spouse, and Do Not Enter signs blocking every decent job in the country.
"I don't know, Ernest. Maybe you're right. These are new thoughts for me." But then she couldn't help adding, "I worry, though, about men trivializing the trap most women are in."
"You mean this man? Here? Now?"
"No, I didn't mean that—reflex feminism. I know you're on my side, Ernest."
"I've got my blind spots, Carolyn, and I'm open to your pointing them out—more than that, I'm desirous of it. But I don't believe this is one of them. It seems to me you're not considering any of your mother's responsibility for her own life design."
Carol bit her tongue and said nothing.
"But let's talk more about your birthday, Carolyn. You know we usually celebrate birthdays as though they are occasions for joy, but I've always believed that the opposite is true—that birthdays are sad markers of our lives passing by and that the birthday celebration is an attempt to deny the sadness. Is any of that true for you? Can you talk about thoughts of being thirty-six? You say you're three-quarters your mother's age when she died. Are you, like her, trapped absolutely in the life you live now? Are you really sentenced forever to living in a joyless marriage?"
"I am trapped, Ernest. What do you think I should do?"
Ernest, in order to face Carolyn more easily, had rested his arm along the back of the sofa. Carolyn had surreptitiously undone the second button on her blouse, and now sidled up closer and leaned her head against his arm and shoulder. For a moment, just for a moment, Ernest allowed his hand to rest on her head and caress her hair.
Ah, the creep begins to creep, Carol thought. Let's see how far he'll creep today. I hope I've got the stomach for this. She pressed her head closer. Ernest felt the weight of her head on his shoulder. He inhaled her clean citrus scent. He stared down at her cleavage. And then, suddenly, he stood up.
"Carolyn, you know, I think it's better if we go back to our old seating arrangement." Ernest moved back to his chair.
Carol remained where she was. She seemed on the verge of tears as she asked, "Why won't you stay on the couch? Because I just put my head on your shoulder?"
"It's not the way I feel I can best be useful to you. I think I need to keep some space and distance to be able to work with you."
Carol reluctantly moved back to her chair, took off her shoes and folded her legs beneath her. "Perhaps I shouldn't say this—maybe it's unfair to you—but I wonder if you would feel differently if I were a really attractive woman."
"That's absolutely not the issue." Ernest tried to compose himself. "In fact, it's the other way around; the very reason I cannot stay in close physical contact with you is that I do find you attractive and arousing. And I can't be erotically attracted to you and be your therapist at the same time."
"You know, Ernest, I've been thinking. I told you, didn't I, that I went to one of your readings at Printer's Inc. bookstore about a month ago?"
"Yes, you said that was when you made the decision to come see me.
"Well, I was watching you there before the reading, and I couldn't help noticing that you were coming on to that attractive woman sitting next to you."
Ernest shuddered. Shit! She saw me with Nan Carlin. This is a goddamn quagmire. What have I gotten myself intof
Never again would Ernest take therapist transparency so lightly. There was no longer any point in his trying to think of how Marshal, or other mentors, might respond to Carolyn's statement. He was so far out on a limb, so far beyond what traditional technique decreed, so far beyond acceptable clinical practice, that he knew he was entirely on his own—lost in the wilderness of wildcat therapy. His only choice was to continue being honest and to follow his instincts.
"And . . . your feelings about that, Carolyn.^"
"How about your feelings, Ernest?"
"Embarrassment. To be honest with you, Carolyn, this is a therapist's worst nightmare. It's extremely uncomfortable to be talking to you, or any patient, about my personal life with women—but I'm committed to working in truth with you, and I'll try to stay with you on this, Carolyn. Now your feelings?"
"Oh, all kinds of feelings. Envy. Anger. Unfairness. Unlucky."
"Can you go into these? For example, anger or unfairness."
"It's just all so arbitrary. If only I had done what she did—moved and sat next to you. If only I had had the nerve, the courage, to speak to you."
"And . . . then?"
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"Then everything might have been different. Tell me the truth, Ernest, what would have happened if I had approached you, if I had tried to pick you up? Would you have been interested in me?"
"All these conditional questions—these 'ifs' and 'would haves'— what are you really asking, Carolyn? I've mentioned more than once I consider you an attractive woman. I can't help wondering—are you wanting to hear me say that again?"
"And I'm wondering if you're avoiding my question with your question, Ernest."
"Whether I might have responded to your advances? The answer is, it's very possible I might have. I mean, yes. I probably would have."
Silence. Ernest felt naked. This was such a wildly different type of discourse than he had ever had with a patient that he was seriously considering whether he could continue treating Carolyn. Certainly not only Freud, but the consensus of the psychoanalytic theorists he had been reading during the week, would have decreed that a patient with an eroticized transference like Carolyn was untreat-able—certainly by him.
"So, what do you feel now?" he asked.
"Well, this is exactly what I mean by arbitrary, Ernest. A slightly different toss of the dice and you and I might be lovers now, rather than therapist and patient. And I honestly believe you could do more for me as a lover now than as a therapist. I wouldn't ask much of you, Ernest, just meet once or twice a week—to hold me and get rid of this sexual frustration that's killing me."
"I hear you, Carolyn, but I am your therapist and not
your lover."
"But that is purely arbitrary. Nothing is necessary. Everything could be otherwise. Ernest, let's roll back the clock—go back to the bookstore and toss the dice again. Become my lover; I am dying with frustration."
As she spoke, Carol slipped off her chair, glided over to Ernest, sat on the floor next to his chair, and rested her hand on his knee.
Ernest once again placed his hand on Carolyn's head. God, I like to touch this woman. And her burning desire to make love to me — Christ knows I can empathize. How many times have I been overcome by lustf I feel sorry for her. And I understood what she means about the arbitrariness of our meeting. It's too bad for me, too. I'd rather be her lover than her therapist. I'd love to crawl off this chair and take off her clothes. I'd love to caress her body. And who
knows? Suppose I had met her in the bookstore? Suppose we had become lovers? Maybe she's right — maybe I would have offered her more that way than as a therapist! But we'll never know — that's an experiment that can't be run.
"Carolyn, what you're asking—roll back the clock, become your lover . . , I'll be honest with you . . . you're not the only one who is tempted—that sounds wonderful to me, too. I think we could enjoy each other very much. But I'm afraid this clock," Ernest said, pointing to the unobtrusive clock in his bookcase, "can't be turned backward."
As Ernest spoke he began to stroke Carolyn's hair again. She leaned more heavily against his leg. Suddenly he withdrew his hand and said: "Please, Carolyn, go back to your chair again, and let me say something important to you."
He waited while Carol planted a quick kiss on his knee and took her seat. Let him make his little speech of protest, go through with his game. He's got to pretend to himself that he's resisting.
"Let's take a few steps back," Ernest said, "and examine what's happening here. Let me review things as I see them. You were in distress. You sought out my assistance as a mental health professional. We met and I entered into a covenant with you—a covenant in which I committed myself to help you in your struggles. As a result of the intimate nature of our meetings, you've developed loving feelings toward me. And I fear that I'm not wholly innocent here: I believe my behavior—hugging you, touching your hair—is fanning the flames. And I'm worried about that. At any rate, I cannot now suddenly change my mind, take advantage of those loving feelings of yours, and decide to pursue my own pleasure with you."
"But, Ernest, you're missing the point. What I'm saying is that being my lover is to be the best possible therapist for me. For five years Ralph and I—"
"Ralph is Ralph and I am me. Carolyn, we're out of time and we'll have to continue this discussion next session." Ernest rose to signify the end of the hour. "But allow me one last observation. I hope that in our next session you will begin to explore more ways of taking what I do have to offer rather than continue to knock up against my limits."
As Carol was getting her good-bye hug from Ernest, she said: "And a last comment from me, Ernest. You have argued—eloquently—that I not go the route of my mother, that I not abdicate
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responsibility for the course of my life. And here, today, I am enacting your counsel—I am trying to make things better for myself. I see what—and who—I need in my life and I am trying to seize the day. You told me to live in such a way as to eliminate future regrets—and that is just what I am trying to do." Ernest could find no suitable reply.
EIGHTEEN
arshal sat on his deck during a free hour and enjoyed his maple grove bonsai: nine tiny beautiful maples, their scarlet leaves beginning to burst their bud jackets. Last w^eekend he had repotted them. With the gentle prods of a chopstick, he had cleaned the soil from the roots of each tree and then positioned them in the large blue ceramic basin in traditional fashion: two unequal clusters, of six and three trees, separated by a tiny gray-pink boulder, imported from Japan. Marshal noticed that one of the trees in the larger cluster was beginning to deviate, and in a few months would cross the plane of its neighbor. He cut off a six-inch piece of copper wire, carefully wrapped it around the trunk of the wayward maple, and gently bent it back into a more vertical position. Every few days he would bend the wire a little more and then, five or six months hence, remove the wire before it scarred the trunk of the impressionable maple. Ah, he thought, if only psychotherapy were so straightforward.
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Ordinarily he would have called upon his wife's green thumb to adjust the course of the errant maple, but he and Shirley had had a blow-up over the weekend and had not spoken for three days. This latest episode was only symptomatic of an estrangement that had been growing for years.
It had all started, Marshal believed, several years ago when Shirley had enrolled in her first ikebana course. She developed a passion for the art and displayed unusual skill. Not that Marshal could judge her ability himself—he knew nothing about ikebana and made it a point to continue knowing nothing—but there was no denying the roomful of prizes and ribbons that she had won in competitions.
Shirley soon centered her entire life around ikebana. Her circle of friends consisted exclusively of fellow ikebana devotees, while she and Marshal shared less and less. To make matters worse, her eighty-year-old ikebana master, to whom she was slavishly devoted, encouraged her to begin the practice of Buddhist Vipassnia meditation, which soon placed even more demands on her time.
Three years ago Marshal had grown so concerned about the impact of ikebana and Vipassnia (about which Marshal also chose to remain uninformed) on their marriage that he pleaded with Shirley to enter graduate school in clinical psychology. He hoped that sharing the same field would bring them closer together. He hoped also that, once Shirley entered his field, she would be able to appreciate his professional artistry. Then, too, it would not be long before he could refer patients to her, and the idea of a second income was sweet.
But things had not gone as he had wished. Shirley did enter graduate school, but she didn't give up her other interests. Now her graduate studies plus the time spent in the collection and preparation of flowers or in meditation at the Zen center left virtually no time for Marshal. And then, three days ago, she had devastated him by informing him that her doctoral dissertation, in its final stages of preparation, was a study of the effectiveness of ikebana practice in the management of panic disorder.
"Perfect," he had told her. "The perfect spousal support for my candidacy for presidency of the Psychoanalytic Institute—a flake wife doing flake flower-arranging therapy!"
They spoke little. Shirley returned home only to sleep—and they slept in different rooms. Their sex life had been nonexistent for months. And now Shirley had gone on strike in the kitchen; each
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night all that greeted Marshal on the kitchen table was a new flower arrangement.
Tending to his small maple grove provided Marshal some sorely needed tranquillity. There was something deeply serene about the act of wrapping the maple with copper. Pleasant. . . yes, the bonsais were a pleasant diversion.
But not a way of life. Shirley had to magnify everything, to make flowers her raison d'etre. No sense of proportion. She had even proposed that he introduce bonsai care into his long-term therapy practice. Idiotic! Marshal clipped some new downward-heading slips of the juniper and watered all the trees. It was not a good time for him. Not only was he aggravated with Shirley; he was also disappointed with Ernest, who had precipitately terminated supervision. And then there were other inconveniences.
First, Adriana had not shown for her appointment. Nor phoned. Very strange. Very unlike her. Marshal had waited a couple of days, then phoned her, left her an appointment time on her voice mail for the same hour the following week, and requested that she notify him if the time were not convenient.
And the fee for Adriana's missed hour? Ordinarily Marshal would, without a second thought, charge her for the missed hour. But these were not ordinary circumstances,
and Marshal ruminated about the fee for days. Peter had given him one thousand dollars— the fee for five sessions with Adriana. Why not simply deduct two hundred for the missed session? Would Peter even know about it? If he did, would he be affronted? Would he feel that Marshal was being disloyal or petty? Or ungrateful for Peter's largess—the bicycle helmet company investment, the memorial lecture series, the Rolex?
On the other hand, it might be better to handle the fee just as he would with any other patient. Peter would respect his professional consistency and adherence to his own standards. In fact, had not Peter chided him more than once for not placing a proper value on his services?
In the end Marshal decided to bill Adriana for the missed session. It was the right thing to do—he was certain of it. But, then, why was he so fretful? Why could he not shake the dark, lingering feeling that he would live to regret this decision?
This annoying attack of ruminitis was a minor dusky cloud compared to the storm that was breaking around Marshal's role in the
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institute's expulsion of Seth Pande. Art Bookert, an eminent humor columnist, had picked up the recall story in the San Francisco Chronicle (Move Over, Ford, Toyota, Chevrolet; Now Psychiatrists Recall Product) and had written a satirical piece predicting that therapists would soon be opening offices in auto repair shops where, in marathon sessions, they would treat clients waiting for automobile service. In their new partnership, the column said, therapists and auto repair shop operators would offer a joint, five-year warranty guaranteeing brakes and impulse control, ignition systems and assertiveness, automatic lubrication and self-soothing mechanisms, steering and mood control, muffler/exhaust systems and gastrointestinal tranquillity, and main shaft integrity and priapic potency.
Bookert's column (Henry Ford and Sigmund Freud Agree on Merger) appeared prominently in both The New York Times and The International Herald Tribune. The besieged institute president, John Weldon, immediately washed his hands of the business by referring all inquiries to Marshal, the executor of the recall plan. Psychoanalyst colleagues throughout the country, who were not amused, phoned Marshal all week. In a single day the presidents of four psychoanalytic institutes—New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, and Boston—had phoned to express their alarm.
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