He Said, She Said

by John Decure

  I’ve trapped myself.

  “Well, I’d have to consider that carefully…”

  “You’ve never become embroiled in something romantic, or sexual, with a female patient.”

  “No.”

  “And how many times have you testified as an expert witness?”

  “Fifty, maybe sixty times.”

  The sleepy brown eyes hone in further.

  “How many times on behalf of a psychiatrist who allegedly slept with his patient?”

  “I… don’t recall.”

  “Ms. Aames, my colleague, had an investigator for the board look into that. Her notes say this is the first time you’ve testified in a sexual misconduct case. Is that correct, or should I call the investigator to testify on rebuttal?”

  “That’s correct,” I say.

  “That’s because this kind of thing is way out of bounds for a practicing psychiatrist, Doctor, isn’t it?”

  “It does present a rare, and unusual, challenge for all involved.”

  “Just a few more questions, Doctor. You’ve found a single instance of negligence in Doctor Fallon’s behavior with his former patient Rue Loberg, a single simple departure from the standard of care a psychiatrist must adhere to, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  The prosecutor has straightened his spine, and the sleepy eyes seem poised for mischief.

  “I’m curious. Are you here to ‘frown upon’ the rest of what he did to her?”

  Heidegger lets fly another objection, which the judge swiftly discards. I nod before another directive to answer issues from the bench. I’ve held this battered beachhead long enough. The truth is, Donald Fallon has done a despicable deed to a troubled woman. Too bad the state can’t prove it.

  “Yes,” I say with a decisive air. “I do frown upon the rest. But that doesn’t change my findings.”

  The prosecutor allows himself a silent chuckle.

  “No, Doctor, I suppose that wouldn’t be possible. Not at your prices.”

  I look at Heidegger, who opens his mouth to object, but he coolly regards his high-priced expert with ambivalence, then disdain, and says nothing.

  25

  RAUL MENDIBLES

  I never should have let Myrna come to the hospital with me tonight, but the events of the evening sort of conspired against me. First, her little sister, Lenore, was in town on leave from ROTC, crashing at our place, as usual, so she offered to babysit—just to burn my ass, too, that damn Lenore. Second, Myrna was keeping tabs. She’s got this radar, it tells her how far I’m on or off the marital grid. And since I took over the Fallon case for Bradlee, I’ve been mostly off.

  Excuse me for whining, but these days, I don’t even feel alive when I’m home. Paying bills, doing dishes, taking out the trash, trying to find the reset button on the garage-door opener without getting electrocuted, lying in bed mute, listening but not hearing the numbing details of her day. Why the fat in peanut butter is beneficial; infant inoculations that may cause autism; thirty delicious new recipes for gluten-free Mexican dishes. My life at home is all about waiting; waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the next silly argument to kick up, for Myrn’s post-partum depression—at half a decade, one of the longest-term cases in modern medical history, I suspect—to fade away. When it’s lights out, I’m thanking God for the void of sleep, diving straight down to the bottom of sweet nothingness. Unless it’s time for weekly maintenance sex, with the lights way low and the fantasy meter way high, and Myrna so rag-doll tired she doesn’t even try to fake it anymore.

  But before seeing Bradlee, I’ve got to survive dinner at home. Myrn, I can handle with my usual husbandly deflection shield, yet I’m raw and dry-throated from court and full-up with shaky doubt, so I’m less prepared to deal with Lenore. She’s a younger, cuter version of my wife, a thick-boned girl the boys in her neighborhood used to call Fat Betty because she was plump, but in a good way. When I see Lenore, I see a part of Myrna that’s less visible to me every day—the sexual, animalistic element—and that recognition smarts. My wife, she knows me so well that she can sense the disquiet stirring in me.

  So I’ve got Bradlee on my mind tonight, especially since I’ll be seeing her later; and Fat Betty’s over there on the living room couch, unwittingly prodding my libido every time she kicks up a bare leg on the couch, or slinks to the fridge for a snack, her Botticelli backside half hanging out of her cut-off army fatigues as she bends over and peeks in. Feeling whipped already, I can hardly believe my ears when the doorbell starts ringing: Lucita Valdez. Verna De La Cruz. Rhynna Ortiz and her half sister, Felice. Beatriz Peña.

  No, not tonight. Myrna’s goddamn Barrio Babes book club.

  I always have seconds on Myrna’s enchiladas espinacas, but tonight, eating off a paper plate, surrounded by hefty thighs and even heftier opinions, the scent of aerosol hairspray fouling the air, I could barely taste them.

  Ten minutes at the sink, scrubbing pots and loading the dishwasher, and I’d be free. That is, if they’d ever leave me alone. The last time Myrna hosted, the group’s monthly selection was The Scarlet Letter, and not a lot was said about the text beyond the obvious—

  “Ay, mierda, that Hester had it rough, first with that gutless preacher, knocks her up, but he’s too ashamed—”

  “Didn’t have the juevos, m’ija.”

  “—to be seen with her?”

  “Puritano pendejos, estan loco!”

  “That’s thoroughly fu—messed up, dude.”

  “Es un mojon!”

  “And then, that kid of hers turns out to be crazy.”

  “Like, evil, a bad seed.”

  “You seen that movie? Coño, it’s scary as hell.”

  “Betty Davis and Joan Crawford, first when they were kids, then later—”

  “No, mira, muchacha, that’s not the one, you’re thinking of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane.”

  “Ay, que estupido…”

  “In The Bad Seed, the little bruja goes around murdering everybody, but you don’t see it, they just talk about it later.”

  “Don’t see the murder, that’s the best part.”

  “What kind of movie leaves out all the good stuff? You ask me, that’s what’s stupid.”

  “Ask me, that Baby Jane was way scarier than the kid.”

  “That bitch was crazy, and she didn’t even know it!”

  “That’s how crazy people are, m’ija, I mean, if that’s your world, you wouldn’t know otherwise…”

  The rest of that evening was spent this way, on pretty much any topic other than Nathaniel Hawthorne. But tonight, the ladies were intently discussing a sensational new piece of chick-lit tripe with a plotline bordering on soft-core porn, and because I was the only male in the house, my opinions were highly valued.

  “Raul, m’ijo, close your eyes and imagine, if you was a single guy and some rich bitch was makin’ a play for you, and she said she wanted to tie you up and spank your butt to get her jollies, would you do it?”

  “Hey, his eyes ain’t closed!”

  “They should be burning from that Liz Taylor perfume o’ yours, Lucita—what’d you do, take a bath in it?” I said.

  “Carajo!”

  “Just to be clear, the dominatrix, she’s loaded?” I asked, straining to be funny.

  “Stinky rich.”

  “How good-looking?”

  “Carajo!”

  “Don’t forget, boy, you’re a married man.”

  “No, he ain’t, not fo’ this; this is just like, high poetical—”

  “Girl, you mean hypo-thetical.”

  “What I said.”

  “Never mind that, this rich girl’s fine, Raul. Killer body, dressed to the nines all the time.”

  “Hot sauce. C’mon, señor abogado, do you or don’t you?”

  I throw the dish towel over my shoulder for effect, giving the group my best innocent shrug.

  “Ladies, please, you can call me a stick in the mud, but en mi puta vida…�
�

  “Liar, liar!”

  “His stick’s in the mud, all right!”

  “Coño!”

  Several pairs of false eyelashes fan the circle in unison. More wine cooler flows.

  And so I’d thought my participation in the club’s Q and As would have scored me enough brownie points with Myrn to make an easy exit, but I’d rattled the car keys when I pulled them off the wooden hook near the door, and—dammit!—as soon as she heard me, she buzzed over, grabbed her purse, apologized for cutting out as she thanked the ladies for coming, and asked Lenore to cover at home for a couple of hours.

  Inside, I executed a silent scream.

  Coño!

  Lenore regarded me sideways, as if I was only marginally present, a ghost in my own home. “On it, girl,” she told Myrna.

  “I’m ready,” Myrna told me, pulling on her stand-by black wool coat.

  I said no, not necessary.

  She aimed her best serious stare at my forehead. “Well, I say it is.”

  “Myrn, don’t be silly. Bradlee’s my coworker, I’m handling her case, I’m obligated to—”

  “Stop it, Raul.”

  I leaned in closer, so Lenore and the others couldn’t eavesdrop.

  “Myrn, you’re being ridiculous.”

  “Then why are you blushing?”

  “You are, dude!” Lenore chipped in helpfully.

  If Myrna took exception to her sister’s nosiness, she wasn’t letting on. Instead, she calmly dropped a set of handwritten baby-care notes on the dining table, came back to the front door, and took the keys right out of my hand.

  “Have fun, you two,” Lenore called out.

  I said good night to the book club ladies, who were now debating whether loneliness naturally makes a woman hornier.

  “What you think, Raul?” Rhynna called to me as Lenore passed around hunks of marble Bundt cake.

  “Nah, leave the boy alone.”

  “Yeah, boy got his stick stuck in the mud, remember?” Lenore said acidly, drawing one of the biggest laughs of the evening.

  “Girl, that is cold!”

  “She’s mocking me,” I said as Myrn snapped the front door shut. “Your own sister.”

  Myrna didn’t look at me.

  “I know who you’re talking about. But, Raul? Leo’s right.”

  “My foot! She should keep her damn—”

  “You asked for it.”

  I dropped the argument, stood back as the house key slid into the lock. Myrna paused before turning the dead bolt. She regarded the lightly swaying porch swing, its white paint crinkled like shattered glass.

  “This house needs tending, Raul. It’s been neglected.”

  “Myrn, I—we should talk about this.”

  “Can we just go?”

  I didn’t know what I was saying anyway, but it would have made me sound guilty, so I played it smart for once and shut my mouth.

  We climbed into a station wagon smelling of potting soil, snack crackers, and years-old baby vomit. I drove, the corroded tail end on the muffler purring loudly whenever I accelerated with the least bit of urgency. My thoughts returned to grade school, the stern, wrinkled nuns who yanked on fresh young earlobes with bony iron-clawed fingers, tattle-tale nuns with thin blue lips that could shush entire pews of squirming, evil boys with a literal promise that there’d be hell to pay. With clear-eyed aplomb they’d laid down the concept of the guilty mind, the sin that is desire alone, even free-standing desire without action.

  Repeat after me, boys: I must not think bad thoughts.

  Jimmie Guerra, my best friend in second grade, stood next to me and smiled.

  All nuns have stinky twats.

  I’d giggle, then recite it the correct way.

  I know it’s mumbo jumbo, Catholic mind control. But the lesson stuck.

  Not for Jimmie Guerra; he left the church as soon as he could legally drive. He’s a sculptor in New Mexico now, lives on a five-acre ranch with his beautiful Puerto Rican wife, Celia, a playwright barely half his age. Jimmie rode sacrilege as far as he could, I guess. Got himself free and never looked back.

  Not me. Like a chump, I married a younger version of my mother and live daily with the guilt of having had my way with Bradlee Aames too many times to count—adding up, of course, to an actual sum total of zero.

  The night traffic on the 101 freeway dusted our eyes with white glitter, the river of headlights merging seamlessly into a four-level interchange engineered by men with a confidence that had me near tears. They’d mastered the functions and forms of concrete and steel, their designs built to last. What was I but an also-ran who could not even begin to contribute, let alone compete? My moments of truth were filed away in folders that lay dormant for all time, stacked into cardboard boxes with the forgotten names of past offenders scrawled in black marker.

  Myrna sat a mile away, as cold and broken as an outdated timepiece in the bottom of a sock drawer. I drove on, muttering street names on passing signs like a child greeting strangers.

  I must not think bad thoughts. I must not think bad thoughts. I must not think bad thoughts.

  * * *

  The doctor, a tall, wrinkle-thin man named Levi—just like the jeans, he said blandly—had these papery shoulders that hunched forward and made him resemble an insect awaiting a meal. He’d just finished his round with Bradlee when we got to her room, and I caught him at the door, announcing myself too formally, as if I knew I didn’t belong here. Dr. Levi pushed his glasses up his nose a little farther to get a better look at me.

  “Another lawyer who works for the medical board,” he quipped. “Better watch my step.”

  I thought of Major Coughlin and instantly felt unclean.

  “I’m not checking up on you. Just my colleague.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said with a glance at Myrna.

  “I’m Mrs. Mendibles,” she said.

  Dr. Levi bowed. “Yes, hello.”

  He seemed to pause as if to decide what to say, or to wait for me to excuse my wife, but man, I was fine with letting her stay. Maybe if the wife heard about Bradlee’s condition, Bradlee would seem like less of an abstraction, less a touchstone for all this unspoken tension between Myrn and me.

  I told him how concerned everybody at the Attorney General’s office was about her well-being. He said yes, yes, the short white hairs on his head glowing like whiskers. Betraying little emotion was part of his skill set; it probably had to be for him to function day to day and not go mad. But then… I thought I saw a barely perceptible grin light the corners of his mouth. He can’t know, I told myself as he tapped his clipboard. Am I that obvious? No, he can’t know…

  “—recovering well from the gunshots,” he was saying. “Her wounds are healing, and no sign of infections, knock on wood. Now, my—”

  Myrna’s eyes were on me the whole time the doc was talking.

  “—greater concern is that the brain injury from her fall to the sidewalk was difficult to measure. We’re certainly encouraged, her eyes are open and she’s sitting up.”

  “Jesus!” I eased back a few feet and for the first time, allowed myself a look inside the room. A young man in a tight black v-neck shirt and jeans was seated by the bed, reading an open book. The bed was creased by a folding elbow, and Bradlee was cranked up at about thirty degrees. That is, a version of Bradlee was sitting up, the face and eyes perfectly bland, her hair straighter and more cleaned-up than usual, a long arm resting across her midsection like in an arranged portrait. Even without makeup, the face retained its beauty, but the look was one of joyless imprisonment. I imagined her thinking: Someone, anyone, kindly get me the fuck out of here. Whis is exactly how she’d have put it.

  And damn, did I wish I could be that someone.

  I nodded at Myrna, who’d ducked in behind me to look in on Bradlee, too. Myrna’s face was the same as when she’d caught me staring at Lenore coming out of the bathroom in her undies last Saturday morning.

  “—can’t
speak or move as yet,” the doc rambled on. “An MRI showed minor fluid build-up, so the neurosurgeon drilled a tiny hole in the back of her skull to allow for drainage and lessen the swelling, which proved effective. Otherwise—”

  Dr. Levi hedged his bets a while longer, though the message remained upbeat. My thoughts drifted away, back to the Fallon case and my latest involvement, which was having the unexpected effect of reviving my passion for practicing law. The only better result would be to impress Bradlee while I was in action, but obviously, that wasn’t a possibility at this juncture…

  “So tell us, what’s the outlook, Doctor Levi?” I was tired of his equivocations.

  The doctor paused long enough to regard the patient as if her blank stare might somehow change if she were to hear his next pronouncement.

  “Physically, she’s on the mend. Very resilient young lady.”

  “Don’t I know it,” I said as Myrna studied my demeanor.

  “As for the mental, just give it time,” he said. “There’s simply no telling when she may come around, but she should.”

  I thanked him in the customary fashion, although the man was only doing his job and, to me, had showed no special passion for his work. He turned and began to leave the room, but apparently thought of something more.

  “Oh. And you could pray, if you believe in that sort of thing.”

  To my shame, Myrna had bent over Bradlee, and with exquisite tenderness she squeezed her hand.

  “We do believe, Doctor. And we will.”

  26

  RUE LOBERG

  I’m used to being the one that comes into the room and everybody goes quiet. They see me and they think: well, look what the cat dragged in. Whisper things that aren’t true, or at least are only half true—which is probably worse than an outright lie, ’cause half-truths tend to stick on a person even worse than lies. I’ve got a lot of those half truths stuck to me, like a bad rash I can’t ever scrub off. Not ever.

  I’ve heard a few doozies these last few weeks, what with this case and all. Turns out that because Dr. Don is still a name, and some cable TV network apparently had plans to give him a new show, right after the show about those old-time Vegas hoodlums, the news people saw an angle for a new story. So the case made the newspaper and got reported on TV and naturally, people are talking. Like they always have. Try as I might to tune them out, I can’t help but be torn by the hateful words of those who don’t know me but think they do.