Keller's Therapy

by Lawrence Block

  Keller walked past a whole wall of videocassettes and leafed through a display of magazines. He had been there for about fifteen minutes when the kid said he was going for his dinner. The older man said, “Oh, it’s that time already, huh? Okay, but make sure you’re back by seven for a change, will you?”

  Keller looked at his watch. It was six o’clock. The only other customers were closeted in video booths in the back. Still, the kid had had a look at him, and what was the big hurry, anyway?

  He grabbed a couple of magazines at random and paid for them. The man bagged them and sealed the bag with a strip of tape. Keller stowed his purchase in his carry-on and went to find himself a hotel room.

  The next day he went to a museum and a movie, arriving at the bookstore at ten minutes after six. The young clerk was gone, presumably having a plate of curry somewhere. The jowly man was behind the counter, and there were three customers in the store, two checking the video selections, one looking at magazines.

  Keller browsed, hoping they would decide to clear out. At one point he was standing in front of a whole wall of videocassettes and it turned into a wall of caged puppies. It was momentary, and he couldn’t tell if it was a genuine hallucination or just some sort of mental flashback. Whatever it was, he didn’t like it.

  One customer left, but the other two lingered, and then someone new came in off the street. And in half an hour the Indian kid was due back, and who knew if he would take his full hour, anyway?

  He approached the counter, trying to look a little more nervous than he felt. Shifty eyes, furtive glances. Pitching his voice low, he said, “Talk to you in private?”

  “About what?”

  Eyes down, shoulders drawn in, he said, “Something special.”

  “If it’s got to do with little kids,” the man said, “no disrespect intended, but I don’t know nothing about it, I don’t want to know nothing about it, and I wouldn’t even know where to steer you.”

  “Nothing like that,” Keller said.

  They went into a room in back. The jowly man closed the door, and as he was turning around Keller hit him with the edge of his hand at the juncture of neck and shoulder. The man’s knees buckled, and in an instant Keller had a loop of wire around his neck. In another minute he was out the door, and within the hour he was on the northbound Metroliner.

  When he got home he realized he still had the magazines in his bag. That was sloppy, he should have discarded them the previous night, but he’d simply forgotten them altogether and never even unsealed the package.

  Nor could he find a reason to unseal it now. He carried it down the hall, dropped it unopened into the incinerator. Back in his apartment, he fixed himself a weak scotch and water and watched a documentary on the Discovery Channel. The vanishing rain forest, one more goddam thing to worry about.

  * * *

  “OEDIPUS,” JERROLD BREEN SAID, holding his hands in front of his chest, his fingertips pressed together. “I presume you know the story. Unwittingly, he killed his father and married his mother.”

  “Two pitfalls I’ve thus far managed to avoid.”

  “Indeed,” Breen said. “But have you? When you fly off in your official capacity as corporate expediter, when you shoot trouble, as it were, what exactly are you doing? You fire people, you cashier entire divisions, you close plants, you rearrange human lives. Is that a fair description?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “There’s an implied violence. Firing a man, terminating his career, is the symbolic equivalent of killing him. And he’s a stranger, and I shouldn’t doubt that the more important of these men are more often than not older than you, isn’t that so?”

  “What’s the point?”

  “When you do what you do, it’s as if you are seeking and killing your unknown father.”

  “I don’t know,” Keller said. “Isn’t that a little far-fetched?”

  “And your relationships with women,” Breen went on, “have a strong Oedipal component. Your mother was a vague and unfocused woman, incompletely present in her own life, incapable of connection with others. Your relationships with women are likewise blurred and out of focus. Your problems with impotence—”

  “Once!”

  “—are a natural consequence of this confusion. Your mother herself is dead now, isn’t that so?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your father is not to be found, and almost certainly deceased. What’s called for, Peter, is an act specifically designed to reverse this entire pattern on a symbolic level.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “It’s a subtle point,” Breen admitted. He crossed his legs, propped an elbow on a knee, extended his thumb, and rested his chin on it. Keller thought, not for the first time, that Breen must have been a stork in a prior life. “If there were a male figure in your life,” Breen went on, “preferably at least a few years your senior, someone playing a faintly paternal role vis-à-vis yourself, someone to whom you turn for advice and direction.”

  Keller thought of the man in White Plains.

  “Instead of killing this man,” Breen said, “symbolically, I need hardly say—I am speaking symbolically throughout—but instead of killing him as you have done with father figures in the past, it seems to me that it might do to nourish this man.”

  Cook a meal for the man in White Plains? Buy him a hamburger? Toss him a salad?

  “Perhaps you could think of a way to use your particular talents to this man’s benefit instead of his detriment,” Breen went on. He drew a handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his forehead. “Perhaps there is a woman in his life—your mother, symbolically—and perhaps she is a source of great pain to your father. So, instead of making love to her and slaying him, like Oedipus, you might reverse the usual course of things by, uh, showing love to him and, uh, slaying her.”

  “Oh,” Keller said.

  “Symbolically, that is to say.”

  “Symbolically,” Keller said.

  * * *

  A WEEK LATER BREEN handed him a photograph. “This is called the Thematic Apperception Test,” Breen said. “You look at the photograph and make up a story about it.”

  “What kind of story?”

  “Any kind at all,” Breen said. “This is an exercise in imagination. You look at the subject of the photograph and imagine what sort of woman she is and what she is doing.”

  The photo was in color, and showed a rather elegant brunette dressed in tailored clothing. She had a dog on a leash. The dog was medium size, with a chunky body and an alert expression in its eyes. It was that color which dog people call blue, and which everyone else calls gray.

  “It’s a woman and a dog,” Keller said.

  “Very good.”

  Keller took a breath. “The dog can talk,” he said, “but he won’t do it in front of other people. The woman made a fool of herself once when she tried to show him off. Now she knows better. When they’re alone he talks a blue streak, and the son of a bitch has an opinion on everything. He tells her everything from the real cause of the Thirty Years’ War to the best recipe for lasagna.”

  “He’s quite a dog,” Breen said.

  “Yes, and now the woman doesn’t want other people to know he can talk, because she’s afraid they might take him away from her. In this picture they’re in the park. It looks like Central Park.”

  “Or perhaps Washington Square.”

  “It could be Washington Square,” Keller agreed. “The woman is crazy about the dog. The dog’s not so sure about the woman.”

  “And what do you think about the woman?”

  “She’s attractive,” Keller said.

  “On the surface,” Breen said. “Underneath it’s another story, believe me. Where do you suppose she lives?”

  Keller gave it some thought. “Cleveland,” he said.

  “Cleveland? Why Cleveland, for God’s sake?”

  “Everybody’s got to be someplace.”

  “If I were taking thi
s test,” Breen said, “I’d probably imagine the woman living at the foot of Fifth Avenue, at Washington Square. I’d have her living at number one Fifth Avenue, perhaps because I’m familiar with that particular building. You see, I once lived there.”

  “Oh?”

  “In a spacious apartment on a high floor. And once a month,” he continued, “I write out an enormous check and mail it to that address, which used to be mine. So it’s only natural that I would have this particular building in mind, especially when I look at this particular photograph.” His eyes met Keller’s. “You have a question, don’t you? Go ahead and ask it.”

  “What breed is the dog?”

  “The dog?”

  “I just wondered,” Keller said.

  “As it happens,” Breen said, “it’s an Australian cattle dog. Looks like a mongrel, doesn’t it? Believe me, it doesn’t talk. But why don’t you hang on to that photograph?”

  “All right.”

  “You’re making really fine progress in therapy,” Breen said. “I want to acknowledge you for the work you’re doing. And I just know you’ll do the right thing.”

  * * *

  A FEW DAYS LATER Keller was sitting on a park bench in Washington Square. He folded his newspaper and walked over to a dark-haired woman wearing a blazer and a beret. “Excuse me,” he said, “but isn’t that an Australian cattle dog?”

  “That’s right,” she said.

  “It’s a handsome animal,” he said. “You don’t see many of them.”

  “Most people think he’s a mutt. It’s such an esoteric breed. Do you own one yourself?”

  “I did. My ex-wife got custody.”

  “How sad for you.”

  “Sadder still for the dog. His name was Soldier. Is Soldier, unless she’s gone and changed it.”

  “This fellow’s name is Nelson. That’s his call name. Of course the name on his papers is a real mouthful.”

  “Do you show him?”

  “He’s seen it all,” she said. “You can’t show him a thing.”

  * * *

  “I WENT DOWN TO the Village last week,” Keller said, “and the damnedest thing happened. I met a woman in the park.”

  “Is that the damnedest thing?”

  “Well, it’s unusual for me. I meet women at bars and parties, or someone introduces us. But we met and talked, and then I happened to run into her the following morning. I bought her a cappuccino.”

  “You just happened to run into her on two successive days.”

  “Yes.”

  “In the Village.”

  “It’s where I live.”

  Breen frowned. “You shouldn’t be seen with her, should you?”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t you think it’s dangerous?”

  “All it’s cost me so far,” Keller said, “is the price of a cappuccino.”

  “I thought we had an understanding.”

  “An understanding?”

  “You don’t live in the Village,” Breen said. “I know where you live. Don’t look so surprised. The first time you left here I watched you from the window. You behaved as though you were trying to avoid being followed. So I bided my time, and when you stopped taking precautions, that’s when I followed you. It wasn’t that difficult.”

  “Why follow me?”

  “To find out who you were. Your name is Keller, you live at 865 First Avenue. I already knew what you were. Anybody might have known just from listening to your dreams. And paying in cash, and all of these sudden business trips. I still don’t know who employs you, the crime bosses or the government, but then what difference does it make? Have you been to bed with my wife?”

  “Your ex-wife.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Christ. And were you able to perform?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why the smile?”

  “I was just thinking,” Keller said, “that it was quite a performance.”

  Breen was silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on a spot above and to the right of Keller’s shoulder. Then he said, “This is disappointing. I had hoped you would find the strength to transcend the Oedipal myth, not merely reenact it. You’ve had fun, haven’t you? What a naughty little boy you’ve been! What a triumph you’ve scored over your symbolic father! You’ve taken his woman to bed. No doubt you have visions of getting her pregnant, so that she can give you what she so cruelly denied him. Eh?”

  “Never occurred to me.”

  “It would, sooner or later.” Breen leaned forward, concern showing on his face. “I hate to see you sabotaging your own therapeutic process this way,” he said. “You were doing so well.”

  * * *

  FROM THE BEDROOM WINDOW you could look down at Washington Square Park. There were plenty of dogs there now, but none of them were Australian cattle dogs.

  “Some view,” Keller said. “Some apartment.”

  “Believe me,” she said, “I earned it. You’re getting dressed. Going somewhere?”

  “Just feeling a little restless. Okay if I take Nelson for a walk?”

  “You’re spoiling him,” she said. “You’re spoiling both of us.”

  * * *

  ON A WEDNESDAY MORNING, Keller took a cab to La Guardia and a plane to St. Louis. He had a cup of coffee with an associate of the man in White Plains and caught an evening flight back to New York. He caught another cab and went directly to the apartment building at the foot of Fifth Avenue.

  “I’m Peter Stone,” he told the doorman. “I believe Mrs. Breen is expecting me.”

  The doorman stared.

  “Mrs. Breen,” Keller said. “In Seventeen–J.”

  “I guess you haven’t heard,” the doorman said. “I wish it wasn’t me that had to tell you.”

  * * *

  “YOU KILLED HER,” HE SAID.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Breen told him. “She killed herself. She threw herself out the window. If you want my professional opinion, she was suffering from depression.”

  “If you want my professional opinion,” Keller said, “she had help.”

  “I wouldn’t advance that argument if I were you,” Breen said. “If the police were to look for a murderer, they might look long and hard at Mr. Stone-hyphen-Keller, the stone killer. And I might have to tell them how the usual process of transference went awry, how you became obsessed with me and my personal life, how I couldn’t seem to dissuade you from some inane plan to reverse the Oedipal complex. And then they might ask you why you employ aliases, and how you make your living, and . . . do you see why it might be best to let sleeping dogs lie?”

  As if on cue, the dog stepped out from behind the desk. He caught sight of Keller and his tail began to wag.

  “Sit,” Breen said. “You see? He’s well trained. You might take a seat yourself.”

  “I’ll stand. You killed her, and then you walked off with the dog, and—”

  Breen sighed. “The police found the dog in the apartment, whimpering in front of the open window. After I went down and identified the body and told them about her previous suicide attempts, I volunteered to take the dog home with me. There was no one else to look after it.”

  “I would have taken him,” Keller said.

  “But that won’t be necessary, will it? You won’t be called upon to walk my dog or make love to my wife or bed down in my apartment. Your services are no longer required.” Breen seemed to recoil at the harshness of his own words. His face softened. “You’ll be able to get back to the far more important business of therapy. In fact”—he indicated the couch—“why not stretch out right now?”

  “That’s not a bad idea. First, though, could you put the dog in the other room?”

  “Not afraid he’ll interrupt, are you? Just a little joke. He can wait for us in the outer office. There you go, Nelson. Good dog . . . Oh, no. How dare you bring a gun to this office? Put that down immediately.”

  “I don’t think so.”


  “For God’s sake, why kill me? I’m not your father. I’m your therapist. It makes no sense for you to kill me. You’ve got nothing to gain and everything to lose. It’s completely irrational. It’s worse than that, it’s neurotically self-destructive.”

  “I guess I’m not cured yet.”

  “What’s that, gallows humor? It happens to be true. You’re a long way from cured, my friend. As a matter of fact, I would say you’re approaching a psychotherapeutic crisis. How will you get through it if you shoot me?”

  Keller went to the window, flung it wide open. “I’m not going to shoot,” he said.

  “I’ve never been the least bit suicidal,” Breen said, pressing his back against a wall of bookshelves. “Never.”

  “You’ve grown despondent over the death of your ex–wife.”

  “That’s sickening, just sickening. And who would believe it?”

  “We’ll see,” Keller told him. “As far as the therapeutic crisis is concerned, well, we’ll see about that, too. I’ll think of something.”

  * * *

  THE WOMAN AT THE animal shelter said, “Talk about coincidence. One day you come in and put your name down for an Australian cattle dog. You know, that’s a very uncommon breed in this country.”

  “You don’t see many of them.”

  “And what came in this morning? A perfectly lovely Australian cattle dog. You could have knocked me over with a sledgehammer. Isn’t he a beauty?”

  “He certainly is.”

  “He’s been whimpering ever since he got here. It’s very sad, his owner died and there was nobody to keep him. My goodness, look how he went right to you! I think he likes you.”

  “I’d say we were made for each other.”

  “I can almost believe it. His name is Nelson, but of course you can change it.”

  “Nelson,” he said. The dog’s ears perked up. Keller reached to give him a scratch. “No, I don’t think I’ll have to change it. Who was Nelson, anyway? Some kind of English hero, wasn’t he? A famous general or something?”

  “I think an admiral. Commander of the British fleet, if I remember correctly. Remember? The Battle of Trafalgar Square?”