The Night, The Day

by Andrew Kane

  The light in the kitchen went off and he could no longer see his mother walking about. He knew she was heading upstairs with a cup of tea for his father; that she would quietly place it on the desk in his study without distracting the rabbi from whatever religious text he was pondering. This was the ritual Martin remembered, every evening like clockwork. In that, he found some repose.

  He glanced at his watch. It was getting late. He had waited for Elizabeth to fall asleep before leaving home and had instructed the nanny to beep him if she should awaken. He wanted to be next to her as she slept, to make sure she was safe and protected. He wanted her to know he would always be there. But tonight, he just had this thing he needed to do.

  He contemplated once more whether to take those steps to cross the street. What would he even say to them? How would they receive him? He looked at his watch again, wondering why the hell time always moved so quickly, and with a final gaze at the house, he turned on his heel and went back to his car.

  chapter 4

  September 4, 1996

  Great Neck, New York

  The Great Neck peninsula is located on the New York City border, adjacent to Queens County, in the northwest corner of Long Island. Several small towns and villages inhabit its borders, populated mostly by upper-middle-class Jews and Asians amid a smattering of other religious, ethnic and socioeconomic groups. The Asian presence is relatively recent, while the most apparent demographic change of the past decades has been a sizeable influx of Iranian Jews, or “Persians” as they prefer to be called.

  Martin’s office was on the ground floor of a four-story condominium on Middle Neck Road, in what was known as “The Old Village,” just north of one of Long Island’s busiest commercial districts. Middle Neck was the “Main Street” of the peninsula, lined mostly with small prewar buildings, broad sidewalks, and a plethora of highbrow shops and restaurants. The street was usually crowded enough to render the comings and goings of the therapist’s office virtually unnoticed, something both Martin and his patients appreciated.

  Martin walked into the waiting room and extended his hand. “Mr. Benoît, I’m Martin Rosen.”

  Benoît rose, smiled, and shook the psychologist’s hand. “Nice to meet you, doctor,” he said.

  Martin noted the body language, the unstated confidence. Benoît stood equal to his height, at least twenty pounds heavier, but carried himself in a manner that projected strength rather than heaviness. He had a full head of shiny gray hair, his eyes were brown and intense, his cheekbones high, and his chin was so tight that smiling, somehow, seemed to strain him.

  Martin led him into the office and gestured to a comfortable black leather couch.

  “Ah, the proverbial couch,” Benoît remarked. “Shall I lie down?”

  “No need, sitting is fine,” Martin responded.

  Martin didn’t practice classical psychoanalysis, a technique in which patients lie down and freely associate while the therapist sits behind and is minimally interactive. Martin’s sessions were face-to-face, with plenty of feedback and even confrontation when necessary.

  The office decor was more contemporary than Martin would have chosen on his own. It had been Katherine’s creation. In the end, he had been surprised at how comfortable he felt with it. His desk was a tinted glass slab, resting on two black lacquered platforms. Behind the imposing black leather executive chair were Formica bookcases, well-stocked, the books neatly arranged. Another bookcase ran the length of a second wall, a third wall was devoted to diplomas and awards, and the fourth was adorned with three matching pastel collages.

  Beneath the diplomas was the patient’s couch – Martin wanted them looking at him, not his credentials. Along the adjacent wall, beneath the collages, was Martin’s therapy chair, a black leather recliner in which he never reclined, at least not in the presence of patients. He purchased the recliner while in graduate school and had grown attached to it over the years. For the amount of sitting he had to do in the course of a day, which could sometimes add up to twelve hours, it was perfect.

  The two men settled in. Martin placed a clipboard on his lap and uncapped the fountain pen that Katherine had given him for his 35th birthday. Martin was too practical a man to indulge himself with a $200 Montblanc. Katherine firmly believed that occasional extravagance made life more fun.

  “Well, so here we are,” Benoît said.

  Beneath the charm, Martin read the man’s discomfort, a common reaction for first-timers, but compounded for someone of Benoît’s stature. Martin was accustomed to this; one didn’t practice in Great Neck without encountering the rich and powerful. He smiled responsively. “May I call you Jacques?” he asked.

  “Oh yes, of course. Everybody does.”

  Martin guessed that this probably wasn’t true, though he appreciated the graciousness nonetheless. After gathering standard information from Benoît, Martin got down to business. “So, you’ve been out of the hospital for a few days, how have things been going?”

  “Perfectly well. I am back at work, full time, feeling good, with no complaints. Everything is exactly as it was before this unfortunate incident.”

  “So, how can I help?” Translation: Let’s get past all the reasons why you may feel you don’t need any more treatment. You’re here. What do you intend to get out of it?

  “Well, I suppose I should discuss what happened. They tell me that if I can understand it better, it is less likely to happen again.”

  “They being?”

  “Dr. Reddy and all the kind people at the hospital.”

  “Your wife as well,” Martin added, revealing a bit of his initial conversation with Reddy.

  “Yes, I cannot forget my darling wife. She has been so worried, coming to you is the least I can do to appease her.”

  Martin was pensive for a moment; they were off to an adequate, though formal, start. Normally, he would go slowly, chat some and build rapport. But there was something about this guy that tempted him to rattle the cage just a bit. “Good, so you’re here to learn more about yourself and also to make your wife feel better. I can at least help you with the first part.”

  Benoît smiled.

  “Let’s talk about the afternoon you took the pills,” Martin continued.

  Benoît nodded.

  “Do you know why you felt so despondent?”

  Benoît sighed as if in deep thought. “I can only tell you what I told them in the hospital. I am in the hotel business, as you probably know. I own about thirty resorts all over the world. In the past year alone, we have made eleven new acquisitions. Things have been, as they say, taking off. I travel the world constantly. There is more pressure than you can imagine. Shareholders, hungry vice presidents, corporate customers. I am not growing any younger, and perhaps I felt it all somehow slipping away. Does that sound strange?”

  Martin considered the question. It did sound strange, at least as a reason for suicide. “I’m not sure,” he said.

  “Yes, I suppose I expected that answer. Dr. Reddy was also, how should I put it… skeptical.”

  “Does that upset you?”

  “To be honest, I am used to people accepting what I say.”

  “But you can understand our concern, considering the circumstances.”

  “Well, I’m here.” A forced smile.

  Martin considered the historical information Benoît had provided. As he had anticipated, it was clinically unremarkable. Benoît claimed he did not have any relatives who suffered from depression, and denied having had any previous bouts himself. This was it, a single, isolated incident, leading to an impulsive, irrational act. Martin had thought of asking about the Xanax, the fact that Benoît had complained to his doctor about not sleeping, but hadn’t taken any of the pills until the overdose, almost a month later. But he decided to hold back. Benoît seemed discomfited enough for one session.

  The visit
passed quickly and another appointment was set for the following week. Since Benoît was a busy man, past his immediate crisis, and seemingly no longer a danger to himself, Martin felt that weekly sessions would be sufficient. Benoît affirmed his availability, at least for a while; he had delegated many of his business responsibilities to some of those “hungry” vice presidents. If he had learned anything from all this, he told Martin, it was that he needed to slow down.

  As Benoît was leaving, he turned to Martin. “By the way, would it be all right for my wife to speak with you?” he asked.

  Martin was curious. An interesting proposition, he mused. Sometimes such an arrangement could get tricky, but Martin still wondered if it might help. “That depends on how you feel about it,” he responded.

  “Oh, it’s perfectly fine with me. I have no secrets from Martha. Anything you can do to help her through this will be greatly appreciated.”

  Speculating as to what sort of trap he was getting into – it was Martin’s belief that patients frequently set traps for their therapists – he said, “Fine then, have her give me a call.”

  chapter 5

  Martin Rosen had finished with his last patient of the day, but his mind was still on Jacques Benoît. He had to admit, the man was a mystery. As a therapist, Martin naturally assumed that his patients kept things from him. This was often unintentional, though generated by a sense of embarrassment or guilt over whatever wasn’t being disclosed. With Jacques Benoît, however, things felt different, somehow more deliberate and calculated. Martin couldn’t put his finger on it, but something wasn’t right.

  He gathered his things, closed his briefcase and decided to stop for a bite on the way home. Every Wednesday evening, like clockwork, he took himself out for dinner and a nightcap, yet he still regarded it as a decision rather than a ritual. Perhaps it was because he didn’t like rituals, or perhaps he didn’t like to feel that he “needed” the night out. Either way, after long days like this, he certainly could use it.

  He dialed home to remind Jamilla that he would be late. He usually informed the nanny of his whereabouts when he wasn’t in the office, even though he carried a beeper. He liked to cover all bases.

  He came out of the building and turned south on Middle Neck Road. His car was in a lot around the block, but his usual nightspot, Millie’s Place, was only a mile or so down the street and he felt he could use the walk. Most of the stores were closing and the walkway was fairly quiet. He appreciated the town this time of night.

  He came into Millie’s Place and took a seat at the bar. The regular Wednesday night crowd was there, as well as a few newcomers. Millie’s Place always attracted newcomers. It was that type of restaurant, a Long Island hotspot with an upscale crowd, top-shelf booze, gourmet eats and nostalgic tunes. It wasn’t the scene that drew Martin, it was that Millie’s had been Katherine’s favorite restaurant. They had frequented it together and he felt comfortable there.

  The bartender, Steve, gave him a welcome smile, placed a double Glenlivet rocks on the bar without being asked, and said, “How goes it, Marty?”

  “It goes,” Martin responded as he took his first sip.

  Steve brought up a bowl of peanuts.

  “You shouldn’t have,” Martin said.

  “A guy’s gotta eat.”

  Martin toasted and downed another sip.

  “So, what’s it gonna be tonight?” Steve asked.

  “Don’t know. What’s good?”

  “The chateaubriand’s always good.”

  “Too pricey.”

  “Okay, how about the veal Marsala? Gary’s got a brand-new recipe he’s trying out. Been a real hit tonight.”

  Martin turned around and scanned some of the tables. Of the few diners remaining at this hour, not one appeared to be eating veal Marsala. He smiled at Steve. “I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it.”

  “Now, there’s a trusting soul.”

  Steve handed Martin’s order to a waiter and went back to work. Martin concentrated on his Scotch and exchanged smiles with some of the regulars, though they knew he wasn’t one for chitchat. This was his time to himself.

  Suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see a woman he didn’t recognize.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I just saw you from the other side of the bar and thought I might come over and introduce myself.”

  Her accent was British, her looks somewhat Sharon Stonesque: shoulder-length straight blond hair, hazel eyes, seductive smile, thin but shapely figure.

  “I hope I’m not being too forward,” she said.

  “Well, uh, no.” Martin wore his uneasiness.

  “I’m sorry, I just thought that maybe… it doesn’t matter.” She turned away and started back to the other end of the bar.

  “No, really, it’s okay,” he said as he reached out and took her arm.

  She stopped and smiled. “Sure?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  A moment of silence.

  “Can I get you a drink?” Martin asked.

  “Only if you insist.”

  “I do,” he said, trying to make up for his initial reaction. “What’ll it be?”

  “A glass of Merlot.”

  He gestured for the bartender. Steve came over, an astonished look on his face. He had never seen Martin talk with a stranger. On rare occasions, maybe one of the regulars who knew the deal, but never a stranger. “A glass of Merlot,” Martin said.

  Steve glanced at the woman, then looked at Martin approvingly as he poured the wine.

  “My name is Cheryl, Cheryl Manning,” she said, holding out her hand.

  “Marty Rosen.” He took her hand, feeling it as both delicate and strong, confirming his sense that there was something dichotomous about her, the way she had come up to him so boldly, yet cowered at the first sign of resistance. He didn’t want to play “shrink,” but it was in his blood. It also made him feel safe if he understood things, or at least thought he did.

  “Looks like you’re a regular here,” she said.

  “How can you tell?”

  “ I noticed when you walked in, how the bartender brought your drink without your asking. Then I watched the two of you chatting and all.”

  Martin had to admit he loved the way Brits spoke, especially the women. He was also flattered. “You saw all that?”

  “I watched you quite carefully,” she said.

  Martin took a rather large sip of his drink.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “There I go again, making you uncomfortable.”

  He looked her over. She was a real stunner, and her accent was just something else. That, and the bit of alcohol he’d consumed on an empty stomach, made him say, “I suppose I can get used to it.”

  Steve came back, and placed some utensils and a napkin on the bar. “Food’ll be right out, Marty,” he said as he took Martin’s glass to replenish it.

  “You’re eating?” Cheryl asked.

  “Yes, dinner. Care for some?”

  “No thank you, I’ve had mine.”

  Steve brought Martin’s drink over with his meal. “Looks like that guy wants to get me drunk,” Martin said to her.

  “He seems to like you.”

  Martin considered the comment. “We’ve known each other for a long time.” He took a bite of his veal.

  “So,” she said, “what kind of work do you do?”

  Martin didn’t welcome the question; he knew his answer would change things and, he had to admit, he was starting to enjoy himself. He couldn’t help remembering Nancy Hartledge, the psychologist he’d met in Chicago, wondering if this was going to be a repeat performance. Of course, if he were advising one of his patients, he would say it was entirely up to him. But Martin was always lousy about taking his own advice.

  “I’m a clinical psycholog
ist,” he said.

  “As in, head shrink?”

  “Some people use that term.”

  “Have you been analyzing me?”

  “You want the truth?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I never work unless I’m paid.”

  “Oh come now, that’s as much bull as I’ve ever heard,” she said playfully.

  “Distrustful, aren’t we?”

  “I thought you weren’t analyzing!”

  “Touché. Caught me.” He saw that her drink was low. “How about another?” he asked.

  “I’d love one.”

  At that moment, Steve just happened to appear with a fresh glass of Merlot.

  “He’s a regular mind reader,” Cheryl observed.

  They shared some laughter.

  “Now it’s your turn,” Martin said. “What do you do?”

  “Me? Oh, nothing so interesting as being a shrink, I assure you.”

  “And what, pray tell, might that be?”

  “Public relations. A firm in the city, you probably haven’t even heard of it.”

  “Try me.”

  “Okay, Lipton Associates.”

  “You mean Jacob Lipton Associates?”

  “So you have heard of us.”

  “Anyone who reads the financial section of the newspaper knows who Jacob Lipton is. Holocaust survivor. Came to this country with nothing. Built up his own company from scratch. Made most of his fortune in the past few years doing PR for mergers and acquisitions, placating the worried, so to speak.”

  “That’s my boss.”

  “How did you come to work for him?”

  “It’s a long story, but I’ll give you the short version. I studied at Oxford, came to the U.S. in search of fortune and fame, answered a few ads in the New York Times, one thing led to another, and here I am.” She held up her hands, indicating that was that.