Tracking Time

by Leslie Glass

  "Put on a sweater or a jacket, anything to cover up those boobs," Cheryl replied.

  Fifteen

  David hung out on Lexington Avenue, waiting for Brandy to get away from her mother and call him. It took all morning. He had eggs, bacon, and hash browns for breakfast in a coffee shop on Eighty-sixth Street, then moved on and had a second breakfast of pancakes and sausage with lots of syrup in another coffee shop on Seventy-ninth. The food hardly calmed him at all as he waited and waited. Brandy didn't try to reach him until almost one. They met up on Madison, crossed Fifth Avenue, and walked west through the park. They were going to Seymour Fabman's apartment to celebrate their first killing.

  As he walked, David was thinking about how good it felt to hit a man and bash his head in. It was more exciting to think about that than to worry about his payment. Brandy promised to do it with him on her father's sofa, the one in the window overlooking Central Park. He was a little worried about it since she'd told him she'd had sex many times before, and he'd never done it even once. He snorted. But he was a dangerous man now. No one could claim he was a loser anymore.

  "How's your mom?" he asked, thinking Brandy looked just unbelievable in the fuzzy sweater. And was now his slave forever.

  She clicked her exciting tongue pierce against her teeth. "You wouldn't believe what they did to her lip. Ugh, it's so gross. No one will ever kiss her now."

  "Why?"

  Brandy rolled back her top lip to show him where the doctor had made incisions to plump up her mother's deficient lip. The view of the pink wet flesh on the inside of Brandy's mouth almost made David nuts with excitement. He wanted to grab her on the spot, kiss her, and feel that metal pierce with his own tongue. She hadn't let him kiss her in the week and a half since she'd had it done because she was afraid of infection. Today was the day. She'd promised.

  She let go of her mouth, made a little skip away from him, and grinned at the bump in his pants, daring him to come and get her. This rendered him speechless with joy and pain. Should he grab her? Shouldn't he grab her? He hated it when she shrugged away from him. He wasn't sure what she expected him to do. He felt the power had shifted last night, and now he had to be the boss. He struggled with his confusion about it.

  "Any trouble with your mother?" she asked.

  "Nah, what about you?" he asked, biding his time on the boss thing.

  Brandy shook her head. They walked in silence for a while, knapsacks on their backs. As they neared the West Side, almost by tacit agreement they swerved north, away from the corpse in the cave. David's excitement about the promised sex gnawed at his ulcer. He chewed a Maalox.

  "Are you sure your dad won't be there?" He concentrated on the parent who could bust them for skipping school. That would be a royal pain given the circumstances.

  "Of course I'm freaking sure. He goes to work, doesn't he?"

  "Yeah, but last night, you said he wouldn't be there, and there he was la-" David snorted again. Seymour Fabman had been naked on the sofa, lapping at his girlfriend's crotch. David giggled. Brandy had run like a rabbit when she saw her father going down on a girl who looked as young as they were.

  Brandy turned the color of her sweater. "Shut up," she warned.

  "Well, he was. Did he see us?"

  "He didn't call my mom," she said vaguely.

  They came out of the park at Eighty-sixth Street and David stopped short. "Jesus! Already?" He was pumped now.

  News vans were lined up along Central Park West just outside police barricades. Emergency vehicles and police cars blocked the avenue even to buses. Cops were swarming all over the place, trying to get the traffic north of Eighty-fourth Street out of gridlock.

  "Wow. Wow, look at that."

  They headed toward the blue police barricade, then past it, right down the emptied middle of the street. A lot of other people had the same idea. No one stopped them. At Seventy-ninth Street Brandy walked up to a cop, who wasn’t doing anything. It was a girl cop, bulging in her uniform. Her hair was straggling out of a ponytail, and she stood by the park wall, looking over at the activity inside.

  "What's going on?" Brandy asked.

  She looked them over and shrugged. "Someone's missing. They're looking for him."

  "No kidding," Brandy said excitedly.

  "You kids better watch yourselves."

  David wondered what she meant by that. They moved on, didn't speak to anyone else. At Brandy's father's building, they stopped. The doorman was glued to the canopy in front.

  "Is my dad at home?" Brandy asked him.

  "Nope. He went out at eight this morning, same as usual."

  "Anyone else there?"

  He shook his head.

  Brandy and David went upstairs to the twelfth-floor apartment with the great view of the park. "This is cool," he said in the elevator.

  "Yeah," Brandy agreed. "I hope they find him soon." They got out and walked quickly down the hall. In the apartment, the music was off now and the place was cleaned up. They went straight through to the big windows facing the park in the living room. Right away they saw the man with the orange SAR jumpsuit being dragged along by a shepherd with one of those orange necklaces that glowed in the dark. The two were out by the edge of the lake. Nearby, some cops were beating the bushes and bending over to pick things up.

  Brandy disappeared into the kitchen.

  David's chest burned with the excitement. His gut, too. He was afraid his dick wouldn't work and wondered why it was easier to smash someone's head in than have sex. He hoped that Brandy wasn't in the mood.

  Sixteen

  Before his class Jason ran over to Maslow's office to leave a note on his door telling his patients he wouldn't be in that day and to call Dr. Frank. He also had some information on Maslow Atkins-his number at work, his parents' home number, his father's office number. He knew Maslow's analyst, an M.D. called Bernie Zeiss. Bernie and Jason served on several committees together at the Institute. Jason thought of Bernie as a plodding, rule-following prig of the old school who obstructed every attempt at modernizing the field of psychoanalysis. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to the man about sensitive issues that involved confidentiality. To get anywhere with Bernie he was going to have to lie. If he lied, he might get in trouble. He decided to risk it.

  After teaching his psychiatric residents at the hospital, which was about a half mile north of his Riverside Drive apartment, Jason walked home. Several taxis slowed as they neared him, but for once he didn't flag them down. He needed a few minutes to rethink the situation, and even more, he needed a break outside in the fresh air. As he walked, he was grateful for the caress on his face of the light breeze off the Hudson River and the familiar view of the New Jersey skyline. On this Wednesday in early September the trees on the Palisades were green, and there were still sailboats scooting around on the water. He had the terrible foreboding that big trouble was coming. Without realizing it, he picked up his pace. He was jogging by the time he turned the corner on his block. A large blank-faced doorman he hadn't seen before opened the heavy wrought-iron and glass doors of his prewar building and stood in his path.

  "Can I help you?" he asked, indicating the sign that said all visitors had to be announced.

  "It's okay. I'm Dr. Frank. I live here."

  "Oh, okay. I'm George."

  "Hi, George."

  Jason didn't have time for more pleasantries. He had twenty minutes before his next patient and a lot to do. He nodded and rushed to the elevator, which was visible in an old-fashioned cage, was over eighty years old, and broke down all the time. Jason could see its bottom all the way at the top of the building. The stairway circled the cage. Jason took it two steps at a time. His stomach rumbled as he ran up the five flights, but he didn't want to think about the comfort of food.

  In his office, his phone told him he had nine messages. His answering machine drove him nuts. Many people left extremely long messages about absolutely nothing. Sometimes it took fifteen minutes to get through t
hem. He skipped through this group quickly. His stomach rumbled. There was no message from Maslow, but he hadn't expected one. He punched out the number of Manhattan East, where Maslow worked as a staff psychiatrist thirty hours a week. It took a while to locate Dr. Ira Kiln, who had employed him there.

  "Oh, Maslow is turning out very well. He's an excellent doctor," Dr. Kiln assured Jason when he finally got him on the phone.

  "Yes, I know-"

  "And a wonderful young man-very caring and easy to work with." Dr. Kiln went on at some length, frustrating Jason's effort to inform him that he was not calling for a reference.

  "I know he's a first-year psychoanalytic candidate at your Institute. He talks about you often, and-"

  "Did you happen to see him last night?"

  Dr. Kiln stopped short. "No, Maslow doesn't come in on Tuesdays. What's this about?"

  "Thank you so much. I really appreciate your help."

  "What's this about?" Dr. Kiln asked again.

  "Oh, nothing. I'm just trying to locate him, and I didn't have his schedule."

  Jason sighed and called Bernie. Naturally, Bernie's machine picked up. Jason told Bernie's voice mail he needed to talk to him about a matter of extreme urgency, gave his number, and hung up. He checked his watch. He had seven minutes left. He dialed Maslow's parents' home number. A woman answered on the second ring.

  "Hello, this is Dr. Jason Frank," Jason began.

  "How do you do, Dr. Frank?" The woman had a soft, hesitant voice.

  "Is this Mrs. Atkins?" Jason asked.

  "Yes."

  "I'm one of your son's teachers at the Institute. I'm trying to locate Maslow-"

  "My husband isn't here right now. You can reach him in his office some time after noon."

  "I'm sure you can help me. Do you know where Maslow is?"

  "No idea, he travels a great deal for his company. His secretary will know. She has his schedule."

  "We're having a little miscommunication. I'm not talking about your husband. I'm talking about your son, Maslow. Do you know where I might find him!"

  "He's very busy, too."

  "I know he is. That may be the reason I'm having difficulty locating him. When did you speak to him last?"

  "Let's see, what day is it?"

  "Wednesday."

  "I think we spoke with him last Sunday-or maybe it was the Sunday before…" The soft voice trailed off.

  "You didn't talk to him last night or this morning by any chance?"

  "Oh no, he never calls when he's traveling."

  "Maslow is out of town?" Jason was puzzled.

  "Really? Where is he?" Mrs. Atkins asked.

  Jason chewed on his lip. The woman was on another planet. He spoke patiently. "As far as I know Maslow is right here in the city, and I'm trying to reach him, not his father."

  "Well, his father is more likely to know where he is than I am. No one tells me anything. Do you want his number at the office?"

  Jason had Jerome Atkins's number at work but he said, "Yes, thank you," and wrote it down a second time.

  The clock on his desk told him he had four minutes left. Jason noticed that the two numbers he had for Jerome Atkins were different. He figured one must be the company number and the other his private line. Jason dialed the one his wife gave him.

  "Mr. Atkins's office."

  "Yes, this is Dr. Jason Frank calling. I'm a colleague of Mr. Atkins's son, Maslow, and I need to talk to him. Is Mr. Atkins available?" Jason shifted his gaze from the clock on his desk to the six valuable skeleton clocks on his bookcase. He watched their pendulums swing back and forth, ticking off the precious seconds until his next patient was due. He shook his foot with impatience.

  "No, Mr. Atkins is out to lunch. Can I give him the message?"

  "Yes. Would you tell him Dr. Frank called, and it's a matter of some urgency." Jason gave her the number and hung up.

  His phone rang. He grabbed it on the first ring.

  "Jason, this is Bernie Zeiss."

  "Oh, Bernie, thanks for getting back to me so soon."

  "What's up?"

  "Look, to make a long story short, Maslow Atkins is missing and I need some information about him."

  "Oh, I'm a nonreporting analyst at the Institute. You know I can't tell you anything without talking first with the head of the educational committee-"

  "Bernie, just listen for a second. I know it's highly unusual to call an analyst about a patient, but Maslow is a student of the Institute, he's part of our family, and he may be in trouble. We have to-"

  "Well, I can put in a call to Ted right away. He'll put the question to the committee, and I'll get back to you tonight after the scientific meeting."

  "Bernie, this isn't the program committee where we argue over whether we're going to accept a paper no one will come to hear. A man's life may be at stake here. There's not time to check with Ted Tushy. You understand?"

  "What do you have to do with this, Jason?" Bernie asked, suddenly suspicious.

  "The police are looking for Maslow. If you don't talk to me, Bernie, you'll have to talk with them." Jason tried to be patient.

  "Jason? What has happened?"

  "I don't have time to go into it. There are police and tracking dogs searching for Maslow in Central Park. I need information right now."

  "Well, what do you need to know?" Bernie said hesitantly.

  "Was Maslow involved in anything illegal?"

  "What? No, no. Of course not!" Bernie sounded shocked. He recovered quickly. "Maslow was a very fine young man. Obsessional with marked sexual inhibitions. We were making very fine progress."

  Jason's stomach growled.

  "He spent an excessive amount of time studying and exercising, a good boy. He was terrified of his sexuality.

  But we were making good progress. Excellent progress." Bernie clicked his tongue, thinking about it. "You know, last week he had a date, his first in a year. He met a girl in the Institute library, a graduate student at Columbia. A fine girl. It didn't go as well as I'd hoped. Unfortunately, her specialty is the representation of the Virgin Mary in the iconography of the Roman Catholic Church. For Maslow, it was as if she herself were a Madonna. He tended to view women as either asexual idealized madonnas or as whores."

  That got Jason's attention. "Was there a whore?"

  "He did have this analytic patient, the borderline hysteric you were supervising him on. He was troubled by the treatment. He saw her as a wounded bird to be rescued. She was obsessed with him. He thought he saw her on the street, following him. I wasn't concerned about his competence. I felt his anxiety was induced by her intense transference. You were very helpful to him, but of course he felt he couldn't be completely honest about it with you. He was worried that his feelings for his patient were not appropriate and were making her worse. She's a self-mutilator and he feared suicide. My own view is that Maslow had a patient who was trying to get him to enact the overly intimate relationship she had with her father, and it made him nuts as he tried to resist."

  It made sense. Jason knew that Maslow's patient had been abused by her father and figured out that she was trying to embroil her young analyst in some kind of reenactment.

  "Working, working, run, run, run. That was Maslow. He wanted to keep his feelings at bay," Bernie was saying. "But around this patient, he had uncanny experiences."

  "What kind?"

  "He thought he saw her on the street. He heard her call his name or thought he saw her. She told him stories that had eerie resemblances to things in his own life. Things that no one else knew. He wondered if she was doing research on him, if she followed him. I told him we've all had experiences where a patient has seemingly supernatural intuitive knowledge. Freud himself believed in telepathy. It doesn't mean that the patient is doing research. Maslow was having difficulty accepting that such feelings are natural for him to have with such an ill patient."

  Jason noted that for someone who had been so reticent about confidentiality, Bernie was n
ow spilling out information at a rate of more density that he had in thirty years of Institute meetings, and also that he was talking about Maslow in the past tense. Bernie couldn't be stopped. Now he was Sherlock Holmes.

  "But you know, last week he looked up, saw this Virgin Mary girl across the table in the library. They started talking and he asked her out for dinner. It started out well. They were both bright, intellectual, attractive, and the conversation was easy. He asked her about her work. She had documented anti-female bias in the depiction of the Madonna in the church of San Paolo de Tey. Maslow was impressed. She asked him about his work. She was very interested in the concept of penis envy, and it gave him a chance to expound. Then she turned on him, told him that psychoanalysis is phallocentric and a central tenet of the male hegemony. In other words, the date didn't go well. I'm worried about this Virgin Mary girl. She had a lot of anger about this. She could be a latent psychopath who went after him."

  "Unlikely," Jason said.

  "Well, she hated psychoanalysis-you never know."

  "What about homosexuality?" Jason asked.

  "Oh, for him just admitting he had feelings for a girl was difficult enough. To help him get in touch with his unconscious homosexuality would have taken another twelve years." Bernie chuckled. "No, he liked girls."

  Then his voice changed. "I've got to go. Now I'm going to need you to sign a release for this, Jason. You are to tell nobody. You understand, nobody! I broke analytic confidentiality for you. You have to sign a release."

  "Yes, of course," Jason said, thinking Bernie should be so lucky. His stomach rumbled some more. Now he was really concerned. Forget the Virgin Mary, it was that patient contacting Maslow out of his office they had to worry about. They could have underestimated her pathology. Instead of a garden-variety hysteric, she could be a psychotic stalker. And they missed it. He was appalled. They'd been encouraging this boy like a lamb to keep treating the patient in analysis while he became more and more anxious. They missed it, both analyst and supervisor. They'd failed Maslow.