by Lamb, Wally
Doc Patel cut to the chase. “You missed your appointment yesterday,” she said.
I reminded her I’d phoned and left a message with her answering service.
“Which I received,” she said. “Thank you. But that is not the point. My point is: why did you cancel, Dominick?”
“Why?” She hated when I did that: answered her by repeating her question.
“You’d had a difficult time of it the session before and then you didn’t show up yesterday. Naturally, I’m wondering if—”
“It was the weather,” I said.
“Yes? The weather? Explain, please.”
“They were . . . they were predicting rain on Wednesday and Thursday.”
She shrugged. “My office is indoors, Dominick.”
“It’s the end of the outdoor season. The painting season. I got this house I’ve got to finish—big job—and with everything else that’s happened, I haven’t. . . . We’ve had frost two nights in a row now.”
She shrugged again.
“Your work’s not seasonal,” I said. “Us lunatics keep you busy all twelve months of the year. But I can’t afford to—”
She held up her hand to stop me. “You’re being flip with me,” she said. “That’s a defense. I would prefer a more direct response.”
“Look,” I said. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your help. I do appreciate it. But I just don’t have the luxury right now—if it’s a decent weather day—to leave the job site and go over to your office so I can rag about my brother. Not with November almost here. Not with this client named Henry Rood who keeps calling my house every other minute.”
“It’s interesting,” she said.
“What is?”
“That you refer to our work together as a ‘luxury.’ For me, a luxury is a hot bath on a weekend afternoon, or a trip to a museum, or the time to read a good novel. Not something as emotionally demanding as what you’ve begun. You are doing enormously difficult work, Dominick. Don’t devalue it, or yourself, like that.”
I got up and walked the four or five steps over to Sheffer’s barred office window. Looked out at that sorry excuse for a recreation area they had out there. “I didn’t mean luxury,” I said. “Jesus. Do you always have to take every word I say and—”
“Dominick?” she said. “Would you look at me, please?”
I looked.
Her smile was sympathetic. “I know that you were in a great deal of pain during our last session,” she said. “Your recounting of Thomas’s first severe decompensation—his hallucinations, his lacerating the inside of his mouth—these are such sad, frightening memories for you to have to relive. And such vivid memories, my goodness. The detail with which you recall those disturbing events indicates to me that you have been carrying an enormous burden for a very, very long time. So in my opinion, Dominick, the work we’ve been doing—unearthing these memories, dealing with their toxicity, if you will—this is important for your emotional health, perhaps in ways that you cannot yet assess.”
“Their ‘toxicity,’ huh?”
She nodded. “Think of your past as a well in the ground,” she said.
Jesus, here we go again, I thought: Doc Patel, Queen of the Metaphors.
“Wells are good things, are they not?” she said. “They give life-sustaining water, they replenish. They support. But if the underground spring that feeds the well—and by that, I mean your past, Dominick—if the spring is poisoned, toxic for some reason—then the water cannot sustain. Do you see the comparison I’m making?”
“Yup.”
“And what is your opinion, please?”
I made her wait. “My opinion is that housepainting is how I put bread on the table,” I finally said.
She nodded. “And therapy will sustain you as well, my friend. My concern yesterday when you failed to keep your appointment was that our process may have frightened you. Overwhelmed you.”
“I was painting,” I said. “I had to paint.”
She reached out and patted my arm. “Very well, then. Would you like to reschedule your missed appointment or wait until next week?”
“Actually,” I said. “Now that you bring it up.”
I told her I’d been thinking about putting the whole process on hold for a while. Not quitting or anything, I said. Just postponing things until the dust settled a little.
“Yes? Then that’s something we’ll need to talk about the next time we meet. Shall we reschedule your missed appointment?”
“Let’s . . . let’s just hold off until Tuesday,” I said. “My regular appointment.”
“Which you will honor?” she said. “Rain or shine?”
I nodded. She shuffled the files in her hand. Headed for the door.
“Wait,” I said. “I wanted to ask you something, too. How are you . . . which way are you planning to vote?”
She turned back toward me. “Vote?”
“On my brother? That team unit thing’s coming up in three or four more days, right? The recommendation? Are you going to recommend he stays here, or gets transferred back to Settle, or what?”
She studied my face for a few seconds. “I’d rather not discuss it, please,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s premature. Our recommendation isn’t due for several days, and I’m still very much in the process of observing your brother—the daily effects that time and his medication are having. And please keep in mind that our unit recommendation is only that. A recommendation. The Review Board will make the final decision.”
“But which way are you leaning?”
“I’m not leaning,” she said. “As I’ve just said, I’m reserving judgment.” She held my gaze. “We’ll talk next Tuesday, then. We have a great deal to talk about.”
When she opened the office door, Ralph Drinkwater was standing there.
“Maintenance,” he said.
“Yes, yes. Come in, please.”
I caught the flicker of shock on Ralph’s face when he saw me, replaced almost immediately by that look of indifference he’d perfected all the way back in grammar school. That you-can’t-touch-me look. He entered the office, a stepladder hooked against his shoulder, a fluorescent light tube in his other hand.
I could tell Doc Patel hadn’t made the connection—didn’t realize that this was the same guy we had talked about two sessions ago: the guy who Leo Blood and I had fed to the state cops to get ourselves off the hook. It was one of those Twilight Zone moments: me, my shrink, and Ralph all standing there in Sheffer’s little office.
Dr. Patel closed the door behind her. Ralph and I were alone.
“Hey, Ralph,” I said. “How you doing?”
No answer.
“This . . . this office is like Grand Central Station today. Long time no see.”
He unfolded the stepladder without looking at me. He’d always been good at that: making me feel invisible.
“I . . . uh . . . I saw you a couple weeks ago,” I said. “That night they brought my brother in? I was gonna say something to you then, but I was pretty worked up about things. About Thomas getting admitted here. . . . Which was why I didn’t say anything. Recognized you right away, though. You look good. . . . So, uh, how’s it going?”
“It’s going,” he said. He climbed two or three steps up the ladder. Squinted at the bad fluorescent tube. Granted, it had been one of the scummier things I’d ever done in my life—me and Leo bagging Ralph to save our own asses—but twenty years had gone by.
“So I saw in the paper where the Wequonnocs won their case, huh? Got that recognition from the federal government after all? Congratulations.”
He disengaged the bad light. Didn’t answer me.
“You involved with that much? Tribal politics? All those plans for the big casino out there? That resort thing?”
No answer.
“I saw . . . saw the architect’s drawings in the Record last week. Pretty impressive. God, if that thing actually flies, it�
��s going to be huge.”
“It’ll fly,” he said.
I reached out to take the dead light tube from him, but he ignored my outstretched hand. Climbed down the ladder and leaned it against the wall instead.
“I heard you guys got foreign investors interested, right? Malaysians, is it?”
“Yes.” He climbed the ladder again, new bulb in hand. He’d always been a man of few words, but this was ridiculous. This qualified as ball-busting.
He installed the new tube, then came down from the ladder and flicked the switch. The room lit up, brighter than was necessary.
He folded the ladder. Jotted something down on a form. “Hey, Ralph?” I said. “You see my brother much?”
He looked over at me, expressionless, his eyes as gray and noncommittal as the moon. “Yeah, I see him.”
“Is he . . . are they treating him okay? In your opinion. I haven’t seen him since that first night. They won’t let me see him until I get some stupid security clearance.”
“Well, that won’t be a problem,” he said. “Will it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your record must be white-boy white.” The two of us stood there, neither of us saying anything. I was the first to look away.
“He’s okay,” Ralph finally said.
“Is he?” I swallowed hard. “They teasing him a lot? Picking on him?”
“Some,” he said.
“I wonder . . . I was wondering if you could do me a favor? Just until my security thing comes through?”
His eyes narrowed. One side of his mouth lifted into a smirk.
“Just . . . if I could just give you my number at home and . . . let’s say you see something you think I might want to know about. Anything. In terms of him being mistreated or . . . This, uh . . . his social worker he has is good. I’m not saying otherwise. She’s real good. But if, you know, you happen to see something that the medical staff wouldn’t necessarily catch—if someone’s bothering him or anything . . . God, this is hard.”
He just stood there, expressionless.
“I know . . . I know you don’t owe me any favors, Ralph. Okay? I know that. That was a shitty thing we did to you at the end of that summer. I know that, man. I’ve felt like crap about it ever since, for whatever it’s worth to you.”
“Nothin’, cuz,” he said. “It ain’t worth nothin’.”
“Okay,” I said. “Too little, too late. I know. . . . But if you could just . . . If I could just give you my phone number.”
I grabbed a blank sheet of paper from a pad on Sheffer’s desk and scrawled my number on it. The numerals came out shaky. He looked at my outstretched hand.
“They won’t let me see him, man. The guy’s my brother and they’re all telling me . . . If you could just keep an eye out for him. I know you’re busy, man, but if you see anything. If you could just take my number and . . .”
But he wouldn’t take it. I tossed the paper back onto Sheffer’s desk. “Yeah, well, thanks, anyway,” I said. “Thanks a heap, Ralph. Thanks for nothing.”
His chin pointed toward the window. “Out there,” he said.
“What?”
“You said you want to see him? He’s out there now. His unit just went on their rec break.”
It took a second to sink in. Slowly, hesitantly, I walked over to the barred window. There was Thomas.
He was seated by himself at the end of a picnic table bench. He looked pale, puffy. His hand—the stump—was tucked inside his jacket sleeve. He was smoking fast, inhaling every couple of seconds.
There were nine or ten of them out there, most of them just standing around and smoking, same as Thomas. Two young guys—one black, one Spanish—were kicking around a hackey sack. Neither of them looked crazy—not even dangerous. The psych aide on duty was that same guy in the cowboy hat I’d seen before. He and a few of the patients were laughing and talking, leaning against the side of the building.
No one was bothering Thomas. But no one was bothering with him, either. Even here at Hatch, he was the odd man out.
I turned away from the window. Caught Ralph watching me watch my brother. “God, he looks awful,” I said.
Ralph said nothing.
“You read about him in the paper? What he did?”
“Yep.”
When I looked back, Thomas was stubbing out his cigarette. He reached into his jacket pocket for another. Stood up and walked over to the cowboy to get it lit. But Tex was too busy holding court to acknowledge Thomas’s existence and Thomas was too mousy to speak up. He just stood there, waiting, his stump tucked into the opposite armpit. Another guy approached Tex, got his cigarette lit. I knew that son of a bitch saw Thomas standing there—he couldn’t miss. But he made him wait. Made him stand there, silently, and beg.
Goddamned bully, I thought. Don’t fuck with his head. Just light his fucking cigarette.
“What’s the deal on that aide out there?” I said. “The guy who thinks he’s John Wayne?” But when I turned around, I saw that Ralph had left the office.
It was a relief, though—finally seeing Thomas. Even in this state. Even with a barred window and a security clearance between us. You look out for a guy all his life, you can’t not look out for him.
He was paunchier around the middle, maybe seven or eight pounds heavier than he’d been. He’d always walked a lot before this, both when he was living at Settle and at Horizon House downtown. But here at Hatch, “recreation” meant smoking. Or standing there with your unlit cigarette, waiting to smoke. There were bags under his eyes. His head kept jerking slightly. The medication, probably. I’d noticed when he’d gotten up and walked over toward Tex that his medication shuffle was back. Thomas hated the way he felt when they overmedicated him. I made a mental note to call Dr. Chase. Be the squeaky wheel on his behalf again. I knew the spiel.
He was wearing gray prison-issue, white socks, and those sorry-ass brown wingtip shoes of his. Tongues out, no laces. All their shoes were like that. Sheffer had told me they take their shoelaces away so no one can use them as a weapon. A garrote. Nice place. Real peaceful environment.
The hackey sack went flying past Thomas’s face. He flinched. Dropped his cigarette. The Spanish kid scooped it up and handed it back to him. Said something. Thomas didn’t seem to answer him. Then the kid walks behind Thomas and chucks the hackey sack right at him. It ricocheted off his back. I flinched, same as Thomas. Tex glanced over there for half a second. Went back to his conversation with his pets.
It became a game: whip the hackey sack at Thomas. Get a reaction. The black kid snuck up behind him, hobbling around like Igor, yanking his hand up inside his sleeve. Someone else stood in front of Thomas, mimicking the way he was holding his cigarette. Tex kept ignoring the obvious. Then the hackey sack beaned him off the back of the head. “Goddamn it!” I said. “Hey!”
I heard a bell ring out there. Tex talked into a radio. They started lining up to come back in. A guard ran a portable metal detector up and down each guy before passing him through. Thomas was last in line. “I’m getting you out of here, Thomas,” I whispered to him through the bars, the wired glass. “Hang in there, man. I’m getting you out.”
I paced around Sheffer’s little cubicle. Sat down. Got back up again. I looked over at her desk. That’s when I realized it: the slip of paper with my phone number on it was gone. Drinkwater had taken it.
Sheffer burst back into the office, all apologies. “I walk down the hall around here and crises just pop out at me. I’m like a crisis magnet, Domenico. Hey, yippee! They fixed my light.”
I sat down. Should I tell her I’d seen him? Keep my mouth shut?
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s get back to business.” She started up again about how getting Thomas out was a long shot—how she didn’t want to understate that.
I tuned out. Saw him the way he’d looked a few minutes ago: standing there with his unlit cigarette. I realized Sheffer’s voice had stopped. “Uh . . . what?” I said.
His case had come up for discussion at their unit meeting that morning, Sheffer repeated. They were split right down the middle on what to recommend. “As of today, anyway,” she said. “But we still have six more days before our report’s due.”
“Aren’t there five of you?” I said. “How can you be split down the middle?”
“One team member hasn’t voiced an opinion yet.”
“Dr. Patel,” I said.
Sheffer said she couldn’t go into specifics. In a week, the vote might be altogether different, anyway, she said. “You see, Domenico. It’s not just a matter of getting him out of Hatch. It’s where he’s going to go if he does get out. Placement-wise, it’s tough. With all the downsizing going on in mental health, there just aren’t as many options as there were before.”
“There’s Settle,” I said. “That’s where he should have gone in the first place. Back to Settle.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it again.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing.”
“Just say it.”
She told me the rumor flying around was that the state might be closing Settle—as early as March was what she’d heard.
“Okay, put him there until March then. That gives him, what? Five months? In five months, he might be back on track.”
“Yeah, but if they’re phasing out the population there, why would they take new admissions? Even short-term ones? That’s not what they’re doing.”
“What about . . . what about a group home then? Couldn’t he live in a supervised group home? That’s worked for him in the past.”
“Has it?” She reminded me that he’d been living at Horizon when he stopped taking his meds and went to the library and lopped off his hand. And group homes were facing another round of cutbacks, too, she said. Staffs there were already like skeleton crews, compared to the way those homes had been supervised five or six years ago. That meant patient-residents had to be fairly self-sufficient—a category my brother didn’t exactly fall into in his present state. “That leaves a place like Settle, which is on shaky ground. Or a place like Hatch, which isn’t. Or . . .” She stopped.
“Or what?” I said.
