Afterwards, I decide not to go see J. Went to club instead, played furious tennis for two hours, beating Jane and Tracy back to back. Later both looked at me funny in the locker room. Could tell they hated my guts. Life's a war, I'm a warrior, and winners are always envied and despised.
Met W for a drink at the Townsend. He's such a mean little shit! ‘Watch out love. Andy's going to play hardball going after your boys.’ ‘I can play hardball too, you know.’ ‘Oh, I know,’ he said, fluttering his eyes like he knew some dirty little secret about me, something unmentionable. Felt like slapping him right there in the bar.
On June 6, Mark's and my graduation day from Hayes Lower School, the three adults meet up again, a kind of replay of their Parents Day conference on April 18. Except now everyone's relations have changed, and other parties are also present — my mother; Barbara's mother, Doris Lyman; and Mark's father, Andrew Fulraine, along with his new wife Margaret.
Friday
Mark's 6th grade graduation. T all dandied up in his schoolmaster's best, too shy to make eye contact. R, with his attractive, Semitic-looking wife, giving me a casual little smile while he put an arm protectively around his son's shoulders — good-looking kid but I hate him for bashing mine in the nose. Then there was Mister Wonderful himself, with his ski-nosed pupsy-baby. Doris, as usual, was glacial and overdressed, feigning interest in her grandson's achievement. And W in bow tie, rentboy in tow, spewing witticisms — his nephew's in the same class.
Speeches, prizes, diplomas, then an awful celebration party on the school lawn. It was too hot. The kids looked silly stuffed into their crested blazers sweating in the sun. All they wanted to do was shed their clothes and jump in the nearest pool. And all I wanted to do was shed mine and jump into the sack with T. I'd have thought seeing him in his milieu, underpaid junior faculty member at phony-tony school, might have diminished my ardor. No such luck! Every time I snuck a glance at him, I thought of tying him down to the motel bed like last week and riding him to hell and eternity!
R, I noticed, snuck looks at everyone — Doris, T, even my boys. Did he think he was going to see something in these characters that I hadn't already told him about? Gain rich insights he could weave into his analysis?
It's probably a good thing he's so curious. Otherwise how could he stand to listen to me ranting on about my creepy dream? Still there's something all-knowing and self-confident about him that makes me want to tie him down to a bed. I bet that would break through his reserve!
Afterwards had to go out to dinner with A and pupsy-baby for the benefit of the boys. Robin cute as ever. Mark very manly now. A his usual stuffed shirt self. Pupsy-baby pleasant enough. Still, I'd love to get the bitch out on the tennis court. I'd tear her apart!
Half hour ago, I called T. He said at school he could barely dare to look at me I was so stunningly beautiful. Now there's a guy who knows how to talk to a woman! I told him starting a week from Monday the boys will be away at summer camp, which means we can meet three afternoons a week at the F. Silence, then he said: ‘How about four afternoons? Five?’ Oh, dear boy!
And so it goes — therapy sessions three mornings a week; two to three noontime or evening visits a week with Jack Cody at The Elms, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon lovemaking sessions at the Flamingo Court with Tom Jessup; and the rest of the time spent taking lonely rides on her horse, playing win-or-die tennis matches against her girlfriends, partaking of unpleasant phone conversations and occasional lunches with Waldo Channing, and the usual round of summer cocktail and dinner parties that inevitably leave her feeling empty.
On Tuesday, July 3, an entry catches my interest:
Tuesday
J distant this afternoon. After we made love, he stared up at the ceiling. ‘Whatsamatter?’ I asked. ‘I know you've been screwing your sons' tennis coach.’ ‘How do you know that?’ He didn't answer. ‘Obviously you get something from him you don't get from me.’ ‘It's called tenderness,’ I told him. ‘Oh, yeah, tenderness — that's never been my strong suit.’ ‘Do you mind, Jack?’ ‘Not terribly,’ he said. ‘That's what surprises me. I thought I'd mind a lot, and I don't.’
Didn't know whether to feel insulted or relieved. ‘Wow, that's a hell of a thing to say.’ ‘It cuts both ways,’ he said. ‘Fact you still come here to see me tells me I give you something he doesn't.’ ‘I think that's true.’ ‘So what is it, cutie?’ ‘You make me feel dirty, Jack.’ He smiled. ‘You like that, don't you?’ ‘Oh, I do, Jack. I do!’
He put on his heavy maroon brocade silk robe, poured us drinks, then sat down in his cracked leather easy chair. ‘Tell me about tenderness,’ he said. ‘Tell me what it's like.’ So I told him, described T and how he treats me, the sweet things he says to me, the ways he touches me, the total adoration he bestows. When I finished, J swirled his drink and stared into the amber liquid. ‘You know, I think there're uses for such a tender young man.’ When he told me what he had in mind, I nearly choked.
What is she talking about? From what she writes, it's impossible to tell, but I have a pretty good hunch. If, as Tom told Shoshana Bach, Barbara gave him the task of penetrating the local kiddie-porn scene, then, it seems, it was Jack Cody who first implanted the idea. And this dovetails nicely with Jürgen Hoff's notion that Jack knew Barbara had another lover, and that, as Jürgen put it to me, ‘there was something going on there I didn't get.’
With this in mind I read on:
Friday
R stubborn. Really hated him today. Told him so in no uncertain terms. ‘Even though I'm trained to take hostility,’ he responded, ‘I'm still a human being, so it hurts.’
After fucking, T told me again: ‘I'd do anything for you, you know?’ So I asked him: ‘Really? Anything?’ ‘Anything,’ he replied as if we were living in olden times when knights pled for ways to prove fidelity to their ladies. ‘There is something you can do,’ I told him, ‘but I'm not ready to ask you yet.’ ‘Tell me so I can do it.’ ‘There could be risk.’ ‘I want to endure risk. I'd gladly suffer pain for you. I want to show you how much I adore you.’ ‘Please, T, you go too far sometimes. A wicked lady like me isn't used to hearing such talk.’ ‘I want you to get used to hearing it,’ he said ever so tenderly.
Monday
R and I are definitely not getting along. ‘I'm wondering if I ought to bow out,’ I told him. ‘I don't think this treatment is helping me anymore.’ ‘You're too impatient,’ he said. ‘It's hard, painful work. I never promised you it would be easy.’ ‘No, and you also never promised me a cure, did you?’
I turned around, stared at him. Then I felt sorry, he looked so crushed. ‘Look,’ I told him, ‘I think you're a brilliant man, but maybe we're not well suited. No crime in that.’ Then he annoyed me by asking why I used the word ‘crime.’ Ugh!
Later with T: he begged me to set him a task, something difficult, he said. ‘Well, how about slaying a dragon for me?’ ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I'd do that in a minute!’
Poor boy, poor boy!
Friday
Another row with R. I told him when I leave his office I feel like I'm burning up inside, like there's a fire raging in my gut. He said that's a good sign, it tells us something important is going on. ‘We've been at one of those painful impasses that always occur in an analysis. The difference between the men and the boys is that the men work the impasses through.’ ‘But I'm not a man,’ I screamed at him. ‘Always these gender issues. You knew I was just using an everyday expression.’ Sure, I knew, but there's something wacky going on. ‘I already have two lovers,’ I told him, ‘God, I don't think I could manage a third!’ ‘Do you fantasize about my being your third lover?’ he asked. ‘Do you fantasize yourself as my third lover?’ I snapped back. ‘This is something we can use,’ he said, ‘your fantasy that I'm your lover. Have you any notion of how seductively you act toward me?’ I told him: ‘Don't flatter yourself, Doctor. I act this way with everyone. It's my nature!’
At the motel, I tied T to the bed, then w
orked him over with my mouth. ‘Today is my day to have fun,’ I told him. ‘My pleasure will be to pleasure you.’ He squirmed and rolled, panted and came. ‘And now I’m going to take my pleasure,’ I told him, mounting him and galloping home.
Afterwards he said I made him feel like a beast. ‘That's my intention,’ I told him. ‘Start thinking of yourself as my creature.’ He seemed to like that, so I told him I'd consulted his plea to set him a task, and that I had a quest in mind. Then I told him what it was. He listened carefully, then stared into my eyes to see if I really meant it. I stared straight back so he'd understand I did. Things got very quiet.
‘Well?’ I said to him as he was about to leave. ‘Think it over.’ ‘I'll meet you here Monday at the usual time,’ he said, ‘we'll discuss it then.’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘if you show up on Monday that'll tell me you've agreed. Otherwise don't bother.’
The poor boy nodded solemnly and slipped out the door. I waited a few minutes, then phoned J and told him what I'd done.
Monday
Good session with R, our best in last three weeks. Less tension, more progress, I felt good when I left, thanked him for his help. ‘I know I'm a real bitch sometimes. Please forgive me for that.’
He smiled, nodded sweetly. ‘See you Wednesday,’ he said.
Felt nervous driving out to the F. Stopped at the house, smoked a joint to calm myself down. When I got there and spotted T's car in the lot, I felt like I do when I beat some hotshot player out on the court: Sweet Victory Mine!
T subdued. ‘I'm prepared to do what you ask,’ he said. I brought out a second joint, shared it with him. ‘A man as brave as you,’ I told him, ‘deserves the best sex anyone's ever had. Guess who's going to give it to you?’ ‘You've already given it to me many, many times.’ ‘And today once again. So lie back and let me show you. There're a thousand ways, T, ten-thousand things I dream about every night, dream of doing just with you.’
God! I believe I came six or eight times and he three or four. Poor boy!
Tuesday
Someone has sent me the newspaper from the day Belle was taken. No note, no return address, just the whole paper stuffed into an envelope. And of course today is the fifth anniversary of that awful day. Today she is eight years and two months old!
My first thought: it's A who did this. I called him, shrieked at him. He denied it. ‘Barb, how could you I do such a thing? For all our differences, I could never do something so mean.’ ‘You want to take away my boys!’ ‘Not take them, you'd still see them.’ ‘Boys that age should live with their mother.’ ‘I don't think you provide a healthy environment, Barb. We shouldn't be discussing this. Let the judge decide.’
I called W, told him about the newspaper. ‘Horrible,’ he said. ‘Beastly! Contemptible!’ ‘Who hates me so much they'd do such a thing?’ ‘They don't hate you, love,’ W said. ‘They envy you. They want to see you crawl through broken glass.’ ‘God, I have crawled! Don't they know? Don't they realize what it means to lose a child?’ ‘Well, love, whoever sent that wants to make you crawl some more. The only way you can win with a person like that is to act like nothing's happened and carry on with your life.’
Monday
Terrible session with R. Told him I'm fed up with his Freudian claptrap. ‘It's like we're going around in circles here and the real key to it all is hidden in the center.’
He said: ‘I think if you'd be fair and look at what we've accomplished, you'd see that the circles we're going around in are getting tighter and whatever is in the center is starting to come into view.’
It was so hot I went straight home from session. I wanted to swim and cool off. Found another envelope in the same handwriting. Again no note, nothing inside but ten one-hundred-dollar-bills. A thousand dollars! What's that supposed to mean? Blood money? Ransom money? One thing is clear: whoever's doing this has serious money to throw away. That's scary!
While in the pool, I decided to go and see J. Called T, cancelled our tryst, then drove out to The Elms. When I told J what happened and showed him both envelopes, he turned grave. ‘This is serious business,’ he said. ‘My advice is don't bring it to the cops, not yet. Stay calm until we see how this plays out.’
We discussed T and how that's going and how far we ought to go with it. I told him I care for T and don't want him to do anything riskier than necessary. I said, ‘Risk is risk, there's no way to minimize it in a situation like this.’ I told him maybe we're making a mistake. He said he's positive we aren't and he'll do everything in his power to protect everyone involved.
When I left, I realized this was one of the few times I've visited him that we didn't end up in the sack. Back at the house, I phoned him and asked how he knew about me and T. ‘It's not like it's an atomic secret,’ he said. ‘You have a very visible car. I'm sure plenty of people have spotted you driving along, and maybe a few decided to follow and see where you were going — out of innocent curiosity, of course.’ ‘You're a real bastard, Jack,’ I told him. ‘I didn't say I followed you,’ he said. ‘Then who did?’ ‘I don't know,’ he said, ‘but whoever it was went straight to the person most likely to spread a story like that.’ ‘Who're we talking about?’ I asked. ‘Smart cutie-pie like you should be able to figure that out pretty quick.’
Fascinating! I check my watch. It's nearly 8:00 a.m.. An hour has slipped by without my noticing. I scan through Barbara's notebook. Plenty more entries ahead. Time, I decide, to take a breakfast break. But before I do, I take a few minutes to try to fix dates to the more crucial of Barbara's entries by matching them up with the entries in Dad's agenda.
The difficult sessions she speaks of with R are, of course, her analytic sessions with Dad — Dr. Thomas Rubin, who, unlike the other characters in her journal, doesn't rate use of the first letter of his first name most likely because it's a name he and Tom Jessup share.
Correlating her references to difficult sessions with Dad's notations of similar difficulties and/or headaches, I'm able to date Barbara's entries to Friday, July 11; Monday, July 14; Friday, July 18; and the last session, the one in which she tells Dad she's fed up with his ‘Freudian claptrap’ corresponds to Dad's notation on Monday, July 28: ‘Very difficult session with F. Worried.’
From this I'm able to deduce that Barbara has received the envelope containing the newspaper on Tuesday, July 22, and the envelope containing the thousand dollars on Monday, July 28, the same day she made the claptrap remark and but a month from August 27, the day she and Tom Jessup were slain.
* * * * *
After seeing Pam off to the courthouse, I return to my room, too wound up with Flamingo to go to work. Impossible for me now to put the diary down, so I settle back onto my unmade bed and resume reading where I left off:
Monday
This morning R astonished me. ‘Consider me seduced,’ he said. ‘What?’ ‘Now that you have me in your clutches, tell me what you're going to do with me.’
Was the man mad? Did he want to get off on my fantasies? Fine, I decided, I'll give it to him all right, I'll give it to him in spades!
‘I want to suck your dick, Dr. R. I want to tie you to the bed and ride your face. I want to sit on your dick (I'm sure it's big, Dr. R!) and ride your huge, horsehung dick like I ride a horse. How's that, Dr. R? Do it for you yet?’
He sat there still, impassive, the cool all-knowing shrink, while I gushed all this out like a crazed harpy.
‘How ‘bout this, Dr. R? I want you to crawl over here, stick your head under my skirt, pull down my panties and bury your face in my muff. Then lick –me, lick-me, lick-me till I scream-scream-scream. Suck-me, suck-me, suck-me till I come-come-come all over you, till my juices coat your cheeks.’
The most amazing thing was that even when I yelled all this at him (and I didn't care whether there was anyone listening in his waiting room or not), I felt myself getting hot. Then I realized I was diddling myself, which kind of told me I really did want to do all those delightful things with him.
‘You've turned me into Blackjack,’ he said when I finally quieted down.
‘What kind of bullshit is that? I'm a sexual woman. I have erotic fantasies. That doesn't mean I've got an Oedipus complex. You asked me to fantasize, I did, and now, God, you pull that old Freudian crap!’
He looked stricken, but all I could think was how stupid this whole thing was.
"I've already got two lovers,’ I told him. ‘I get all I need from them. I don't need you in the mix. Or is it that you want to mix in? If you do, please tell me so I can figure out how I can accommodate you.’
That made him furious. ‘You're a very difficult patient. I want to help you, but you constantly reject my help.’
‘Do you think asking me to make up sex fantasies about us is really going to help me?’
Silence. We both sulked. Finally I turned to him. ‘I think you got hard listening to me.’
‘That's an interesting fantasy. What makes you think so?’
‘It's not a fantasy, Doctor. I've had lots of experience with men. When they get hard I can tell. Hey! Are you blushing?’
Figuring he'd had enough, I changed the subject, told him about the clipping, then about the thousand dollars. That upset him, proof to me that he wasn't the one who sent them.
I told him so. ‘My fantasy was that it was you.’
‘Why? What made you think that?’
‘It's so devious I thought it was maybe part of the treatment.’
‘You think my treatment is devious?’
‘Sometimes it seems a two-edged sword.’
He ignored that. ‘Who do you really think sent those letters?’
‘At first I thought it was my ex, then maybe J. I even thought T could have done it since we've been having trouble lately. But of course it couldn't have been T, he barely has a dime. Then I figured it out. At least I think so.’
Dream of The Broken Horses, The Page 30
