by Lamb, Wally
“Or releasing him to the custody of his family.”
I skipped a beat or two. Took in what she’d just said. “If . . . if that’s what we have to do, then we’ll do it. Because one way or the other, he’s getting out of here.”
She shook her head and smiled. “Just like that, eh, paisano? You’re going to monitor his meds, supervise his hygiene, chauffeur him back and forth to therapy a couple times a day. Oh, and don’t forget to safety-proof your whole place. Lock up all the knives, etcetera, etcetera.”
“That’s not funny,” I said.
“No,” she said. “It’s not. How are you going to paint houses? Park him at the curb? Put a pair of overalls on him and make him your foreman?”
I told her to do me a favor and skip the sarcasm.
“But come on, Dominick,” she said. “Let’s do a reality check. You’ve got a life. How’s your wife going to—”
“I don’t have a wife,” I said. “I have a girlfriend.”
She shrugged. “Wife, girlfriend. You guys live together?”
I nodded.
“Well, then, how’s that going to affect her? And you two as a couple?”
“We’ll work it out,” I said.
“Yeah? You sure? Is she a saint or something?”
But I suddenly saw it: Thomas moving in, Joy moving out—exiting the same as Dessa. And then what? An empty mattress to roll around on all night. My crazy brother across the table at breakfast. Even if we weren’t a perfect fit—Joy and me—she was a warm body to lie next to at night. A life preserver to hold on to out in the deep. What would I have if she left? Thomas, that’s what. My anchor. My shadow. Thomas and Dominick: the Birdsey twins, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end, amen.
“That’s why Rubina—Dr. Patel—is riding the fence, I think,” Sheffer said. “She’s reluctant to put the burden of your brother back onto your shoulders. She mentioned something about that at the meeting—about how the family’s best interests have to be factored in. How did she put it? That the good of the patient and his family are intertwined.”
I was furious. Patel had no right to take what I’d said in that private office and use it against my brother. It had been a mistake seeing her—going over to that office of hers and spilling my guts out about the past. I could take care of myself. He was supposed to be her patient, not me. It was his best interest that mattered. She was going to hear from me on this one. She was going to hear loud and clear.
“I’ll talk to her,” I said. “I’ll get her over to our side.”
Sheffer’s eyes widened. “Don’t you dare tell her I’ve been sharing all this information with you!” she said. “No shit, Domenico. You could get me in big trouble. Those unit meetings are confidential. And, anyway, she’s a strong woman. She’s going to make up her own mind; you’re not going to ‘talk her into’ anything. But whatever she decides on the recommendation—even if we come out on opposite conclusions—I trust her judgment. I respect her. She’s fair, Dominick.”
“Yeah, well, don’t respect her too much,” I said.
She cocked her head. Her face was a question.
“Did you know that I’m seeing her?”
“Professionally?”
I nodded. Looked away for a second. Looked back. I hadn’t even told Joy I was seeing a shrink. Why was I playing true confessions with Sheffer?
“Dr. Patel would never share information like that,” she said. “But I’m glad, Domenico. I think it’s a good thing that you’re seeing her. I think it’s great.”
“Not if it’s a conflict of interest, it isn’t. Not if it keeps my brother locked up here because she’s advocating for me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what I’ve been doing, basically, is going to her office over on Division Street and pissing and moaning about all the ways my brother has screwed up my life. Digging up ancient history—all this shit from our childhood and from the year he first cracked up. Dredging up all this stuff that should have just stayed buried.”
“Well,” she said. “That’s what therapy is. Right?”
“But if she’s recommending he be admitted here long term because it’s better for me—because I happen to have been through the wringer—”
“She wouldn’t do that, Dominick. Whatever her decision—I mean, sure, she’s going to look at the big picture, yes—but she’s not going to deliberately choose something that’s detrimental to Thomas. He’s her patient. She’s not going to choose one of you over the other.”
No? Why not? Everyone else had—our whole lives. Nobody’s ever chosen Thomas. Not Ray, not the kids in school. Nobody except Ma.
“Dominick, you need to calm down a little. Chill out about all this. Because I’ll tell you one thing. If you lose it this way at the Review Board hearing, you’re not going to help anyone. Okay?”
She waited. I looked back at her. Nodded.
“And one other thing. Are you listening? Because I really need you to listen to this. This place isn’t quite the hellhole you keep saying it is. We had a tag sale a while back, you know? Sold off the torture chamber and the leg irons and hot pincers. All right? Every time you say something like how this is such a ‘hellhole’ and a ‘snake pit,’ it dismisses what we try to do here all day long, day in, day out. What I try to do. Okay? . . . I’m in a healing profession by choice, okay? . . . And I wouldn’t stay here if I didn’t believe in the work this facility is doing. I’d like to think I’m not that much of a masochist. So don’t write this place off when you haven’t even walked through the wards yet. All right, Domenico?”
I nodded. “I could take him in if I had to, though,” I said. “I know it wouldn’t be easy, but I could do it. I’ve taken care of him his whole life, one way or another.”
She just kept looking at me. Studying me. “How was your visit?” she finally said.
I looked over at the window. Looked back at Sheffer’s face. I tried to read what she meant. “You . . . did you set that up? My seeing him out there?”
“It was the closest I could get to letting you visit him. And I figured you might want to be alone. How’d he look to you?”
I told her he looked terrible. Told her about the harassment I’d seen—about how that cowboy psych aide had made my brother invisible.
“That’s Duane,” she said. “Not one of my favorites, either. I’ll look into it. But he’s safe here, Dominick. I promise you. He’s okay.”
26
Beep!
“This is Dr. Batteson’s office calling for Joy Hanks. Please call our office at your earliest convenience. Thanks.”
Beep!
“Dominick? It’s Leo. Hey, guess what? You know that part I auditioned for? The slasher flick? I got it! They start filming middle of next month down in Jersey. That’s film, Birdseed. I’m going to be in a goddamned movie!”
As he babbled, I made a list in my head: go to the dump; get paint thinner; get Halloween candy; 11:00 A.M. meeting with Sheffer. Joy had been promising for days to get trick-or-treat stuff. She’d pulled the same thing last Halloween. Then, when the doorbell started ringing, I’d had to make a mad dash—pay double at the convenience store.
Over on the kitchen counter, Leo’s voice was asking about racquetball. “Thursday or Friday, if either of them’s good. You got that hearing thing for your brother tomorrow, right? Give me a ring.”
Beep!
“Hello? Hello? . . . Yes, this is Ruth Rood calling for . . . Hello? Mr. Birdsey? . . . Oh. I thought I heard you pick up.” She was talking in slo-mo, slurring her words. God, I’d hate to see what her liver looked like. “Henry and I were wondering why you weren’t at the house today. You said you’d be here, so we were expecting you.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Henry’s very discouraged. He says the scaffolding in his office window is starting to make him feel like a prisoner in his own house. He can’t even work, he’s so despondent. Please call. Please.”
I picked up
the phone, flipped through the Rolodex. Too bad, Morticia. I’ve had one or two other things on my mind—like trying to get my brother out of goddamned actual prison, not scaffolding prison. Henry ought to check in down at Hatch if he really wanted to feel “despondent.”
She picked up on the first ring, her voice as sober as 7:00 A.M. “Oh,” she said. “Yes. I was expecting a call back from Henry’s doctor.”
I skipped the apology for the no-show the day before and told her I’d try to make it over to their place that afternoon. “They’re saying rain later today. What I’ll do is, I’ll pull the shutters off and bring ’em back after they’re scraped and painted. That way I can work no matter what the weather’s doing. Make up a little lost time. Tell Henry I should be ready to prime by the end of the week, Monday at the latest. He feeling okay?”
Pause. “Why do you ask?”
“You, uh, you just said you were waiting for the doctor to call back.” She gave me that line again about Henry being despondent. Too much booze and too much time on his hands, that was his problem. “I’ll try and give you half a day tomorrow,” I said. “Best I can do. There’s this thing I have to get to tomorrow afternoon. I’ll probably work all day Saturday at your place, though. I’ll let you go now in case his doctor’s trying to call.”
Shit. If I ever finished that job—ever kissed this painting season goodbye—then maybe there was a god after all.
What was the call for Joy? I’d forgotten already. I hit the “save” button. Hit “messages.” Jotted, “JOY: Call Dr. Batteson.” Who was Dr. Batteson? Not another one of those holistic guys, I hoped. The last one of those quacks she and her buddy Thad had gone to had soaked her for three hundred bucks’ worth of “herbal” medicines. . . . Thad. The Duchess. There was another one with too much time on his hands. Why couldn’t she have girlfriends like every other woman?
I dialed Leo’s number. Whether I had time to play racquetball or not, the idea of smashing something against four walls was starting to appeal to me. I drummed my fingers on the countertop and waited out the kids’ cutesy singing message. God, I hate that: the way some people’s machines hold you hostage.
“Leo: racquetball: yes,” I told the machine. “The hearing’s at four o’clock tomorrow. How about early Friday morning? I can have Joy reserve us a court.” I started to hang up, then stopped. “Hey, good news about your movie. I knew you when, Hollywood. Later.”
I grabbed my keys. The dump, paint thinner, Halloween candy . . . what else? what else? Oh, yeah. Pick up my suit at the dry cleaner’s. Had to look my best for those dipsticks on the Security Review Board the next day—had to look as sane and conservative as possible. God, I’d be glad when that thing was over. Which reminded me: I needed to bring my notes to that meeting with Sheffer. She wanted us to review our arguments one more time. Jesus Christ, man. This was starting to feel like L.A. Law. But I was going to make those honchos on the Review Board listen to me. I was getting him the hell out of there. . . .
Yeah, and then what? If they sprung him from Hatch and wouldn’t readmit him to Settle, what were we going to do then?
I locked the door behind me. Frost again last night, damn it. These cold nights were no good for outside painting.
The truck started on the third try. Better let it run a few minutes, I figured. Painting Plus had wrapped up their outside season two weeks ago. Of course, Danny Labanara didn’t have a crazy brother complicating his life every two seconds. Labanara’s brother pinch-hit for him during July and August.
My eyes scanned the courtyard. The frost had browned the lawn, killed off those scraggly plants that passed for landscaping here at Condo Heaven. It was a joke the way we had to shell out to the association for groundskeeping. If I had more time or energy, I’d be all over them about that. Of course, if Dessa and I were still together, I’d still be over at our old place, doing my own goddamned yard work. Doing it right.
Joy had overstuffed the garbage cans again, I noticed. Why didn’t she just issue invitations to the goddamned raccoons? Come and get it, guys! That was the thing about Joy: you’d tell her to do something, and she’d say okay, yeah, she’d do it, and then she wouldn’t. She had zilch for follow-through. . . . I hadn’t said anything yet to Joy about what Sheffer and I had talked about: the possibility that Thomas might land back here with us. Cross that bridge when I came to it, I figured. . . . Ah, screw it. I had to go to the dump, anyway. Might as well just throw the damn garbage bags in back and take ’em with me. Better than waking up at 2:00 A.M. and listening to those goddamned scavenging raccoons.
I swung bags one and two into the truck bed. Bag three busted open at the seam, midflight. Motherfucking cheap bags! I needed this? Scooping up the junk mail and dead salad, my eye caught something else: a blue pamphlet.
Directions for a home pregnancy test? In our garbage?
I sifted around a little more in the wreckage. Found a plastic tray, cardboard pieces from the ripped-up box. Pregnancy test?
I got in the truck. Drove toward the hardware store. Did I have those notes for the meeting with Sheffer? Had I remembered my dry-cleaning receipt? . . . How could she think she was pregnant? False alarm, maybe—missed period or something? Miraculous vasectomy reversal? I’d had myself “fixed” back when I was still with Dessa—had been shooting blanks the whole time I’d been with Joy. Not that she knew. I’d never told her. It was partly a not-wanting-to-get-into-it thing: the baby’s death, the divorce. Partly a male ego thing, too, I guess. When we started going out, she was twenty-three and I was thirty-eight. What was I supposed to say to her? I’m fifteen years older than you, and, oh yeah, I’m sterile, too. . . .
By the time I came out of my stupor—looked around to see where I was—I’d overshot the hardware store by half a mile. I was way the hell over past the cinemas and Bedding Barn. Hey, wake up, man. Earth to Birdsey.
I sat in Sheffer’s office, twiddling my thumbs and waiting as usual.
Lisa Sheffer: psychiatric social worker and queen of the unexpected emergency. I liked Sheffer—I was grateful and everything—but this whole routine was getting pretty old. Check in at the gate, get your parking pass, check in with security, go through the metal detector, get escorted down to her office by some stone-faced guard, and then just sit there and wait for her. I was going to say something this time—soon as she started up with some excuse.
I heard voices outside in the rec area. Went over to the window. It was those camouflage guys this morning—the Vietnam burn- outs. Unit Six. Jesus God, I was starting to recognize the different units. . . . Fucking Nam, man. Some of those guys looked like old men. Didn’t recognize the aide. Where’d they get this one from—Big Time Wrestling?
Stay calm, I told myself. Her period was just late or something. Used to happen to Dessa some months, back when we were trying to get pregnant: we’d get our hopes up and then, bam, she’d wake up with it. She’d have just been a little late. . . . Jesus, I had to get focused. Had to think about the hearing. Over at the dump, I’d thrown my empty paint cans in the wrong recycling bin. “You need something in the nature of supplies this morning, Dominick?” Johnny over at Willard’s had said. “Or’d you just come into the store to lean on my counter and meditate?”
Was she cheating on me—was that it? I was no picnic, either, I reminded myself, especially lately. I’d never cheated on her, though. Never cheated on Dessa, either. Never. It was just a false alarm, I assured myself. What’s the matter, Birdsey? You don’t have enough to worry about?
I reached over and grabbed the phone book on Sheffer’s desk. Batteson, Batteson.
Russell A. Batteson, Ob-Gyn. . . .
Outside, the camouflage guys started lining up to come back in. All day long at this sorry place: herd ’em out, herd ’em back in. Some of these Vietnam casualties would have made out better if they’d just stepped on a land mine or something. . . . If that pregnancy test had come out negative, why was an ob-gyn’s office calling her? What was she trying to hide f
rom me?
Yeah, well, you haven’t exactly been Mr. Open Communication, either, I reminded myself. You’ve committed a sin of omission or two. She was already on the pill when we started making love—had told me that first night—and so I’d just shut my mouth about the vasectomy. Kept the status quo instead of getting into any of that past history stuff. Joy didn’t even know I’d been a teacher until almost a year after she’d moved in with me. Someone at work told her—Amy someone. She’d been in my homeroom.
What had Dr. Patel said that time? That my rushing into another relationship after Dessa was like applying a fresh coat over peeling paint. A housepainting metaphor—custom-made for the guy in the hot seat. . . . Hey, Joy never asked about my marriage, either. She could have asked. We’d discussed the possibility of kids a total of one time. We’d both agreed neither of us was interested. Period. End of subject. “No kids” was one of her assets. One of the big reasons why I’d asked her to move in with me.
Sheffer’s entrance into the office made me jump. She was hyper—all nervous energy. Which did I want first, she said—the good news or the bad? The good, I told her.
“Your security clearance came through. You can see him.”
“I can? When?”
“Today. As soon as we finish our meeting. I’ll call security, and we’ll meet him in the visiting room. All right?”
I nodded. Told her thanks. Gave her a jerky little smile. “What’s the bad news?”
“The unit team took our vote this morning. It’s not really ‘bad’ news. It’s not good or bad. It’s neutral.”
I tilted my head. Waited.
Things had gone pretty much along the lines she thought they would, Sheffer said. Dr. Chase and Dr. Diederich had voted to recommend Thomas’s retention at Hatch. She and Janet Coffey—the head nurse—had voted for his release to a nonforensic facility. “But here’s the part I didn’t see coming,” she said. “Dr. Patel abstained.”
“Abstained? Why?”
“I don’t know why. I don’t really get it myself. She said she was professionally obliged not to go into it.”
