She reached for me and I fell backwards onto my desk, and she on top of me. Her hips were pressed against mine, grinding against them. “Damn it!” I yelled. “Stop this!” As I turned to avoid her mouth, I felt her lips slide along my cheek, a wet, red smear.
The events are distorted in memory, such was my turbulent state, but I know that her hands were tugging at my belt and that I resisted, pushing at her body, finally rolling free.
I managed to gain a standing position, discovering then that she’d loosened the belt, and that my trousers were slipping. “Vivian, don’t be a whore. Where’s your self-respect?”
She seemed astonished at my rejection; suddenly her face clouded. “You bastard,” she hissed.
I picked her dress up and tossed it to her, and, pulling up my pants, escaped to the outer office, where, as the fates would have it (but not unexpectedly, given their caprices), I almost collided with Irving Kolosky. He’d just come in from the hallway, on silent creeping feet.
“I heard voices,” he stammered. “Your door was open. I was just checking to see if the movers …”
His words trailed off into silence as he saw the longitudinal red smudge on my face, my belt and shirttails hanging loose. Then he peered through the doorway into the consulting room. I turned to see Vivian stepping into her frock, swearing, “You complete and utter total bastard.”
I strode past the gaping landlord down the hall to the toilet, and after washing the lipstick from my face, returned to find Vivian gone, and Kolosky too. Likely he was wasting no time finding ears for his tale of debauchery in the shrink’s consulting room.
You can imagine the scenarios that raced through my mind. My fear, of course, was that some garbled version of the facts would come to the attention of our wardens of correctness, and I would be faced with some prurient questioning into my conduct.
So the first thing I did when I gained the street was to find the nearest pay phone and call Irwin Connelly for some quick and desperately needed advice. I reached only his answering machine, but at least made sure I related the facts.
Then I went down to the Kits Pub, recuperating there until my hands stopped shaking, downing two double whiskys. My hormones were still racing through me, and I developed a headache. It was only when my bleary eyes made out the wall clock that I realized Sally must have arrived at Celestine’s loft at least an hour ago.
It took an agonizing ten minutes to flag a taxi to drive me to the heritage building in Gastown where Celestine Post maintains home and gallery. I stumbled into the ground-floor vestibule, hesitated by the elevator, then attacked the stairs, five storeys up. I was breathless as I lurched into the loft, Celestine Post holding the door, looking at me as if at a sick cat come home to die.
“My God, it’s Captain Phobia, drenched in sweat. He smells like swamp gas, Sally.”
I panted, caught my bearings. Though only with one bedroom, the suite is spacious, with half-sized windows but many skylights, a spiral staircase to the roof, where Celestine likes to smoke pot. She’s a competent artist, and her walls are covered in stark abstractions – slashes of brilliant colour. She’s also non-representational in appearance, cerise hair, rings in her multi-pierced ears, green tights over her thin legs.
Sally rose from a chair, tanned and healthy. More beautiful, somehow, maybe after a visit to an Italian salon, her hair different, fluffier. She studied me for a moment, dared a subtle kiss upon the lips, then drew back. “What’s this?”
I had washed the lipstick from my face, but she spotted a splotch on my collar, and her smile became a frown.
“You’ve been drinking. What’s going on, Tim?”
“Everything. The world has gone mad. Maybe not, maybe I have. A patient just tried to rape me. They know where I live. I’m moving offices.”
“Whoa.”
“Have a hit of this.” Celestine handed me a glass containing a liquid whose fumes caused me to gasp. Grappa, from a long-necked duty-free bottle. I knocked it back, excused myself, went to the washroom, washed the sweat from my face, stared at the baggy-eyed wretch in the mirror. I’d forgotten to shave that morning, my hair was tousled, matted.
It took me about an hour to summarize my Dadaist life through the last fortnight, and I finally achieved some sympathetic response. “You’ve every right to be the total mess you are,” Celestine said. Sally expressed concern as I related my near-defilement at the hands of … I’m afraid I used the term nymphomaniac, now banned in the colleges.
My main worry, I emphasized, had to do with the notes. You are next. I know where you live. I didn’t want Sally to be alone.
“Sally will stay right here. We’re used to sleeping with each other now.”
And who else? I wanted to ask. Sally, as if atoning for some guilt-inducing episode, took my hand, caressed my cheek.
We talked for hours, debating and conjecturing our way through the grappa, through the quality Bardolino Sally had brought me as a gift. Celestine claimed to find artistic inspiration from my dreams. Sally was locked onto the Huffian melodrama, to the hints of consanguinity. It is her view that the key to my happiness (to ours?) lies in the unearthing of my roots, my male inheritance.
I listened anxiously to their tales of travel for hints of moral lapses, becoming suspicious when not a single encounter with a man was mentioned, even in passing. Celestine enjoys her romantic adventures too much for such history to be blank. My concern for Sally (not jealousy, I’m over that) was as to her health; infectious diseases abound.
Finally, I asked, “Meet anyone interesting?”
“We only had eyes for each other, darling,” said Celestine.
I turned, expecting to see her winking at Sally, but she was deadpan.
The women had begun to stifle yawns, so I made ungainly to my feet. Sally shepherded me to the door, Celestine finally granting us a minute alone. I had a hard time summoning courage to make a case for our reunion.
“How long will you stay here?”
“Not long. I love her, but she’s too nuts. I’m not going to be denied my own home. I have to go back. You should think of going away for a while.”
I shook my head. Escape would be cowardly; like Sally, I couldn’t let fear rule my life. Again, I wondered if I was making too much of this. Maybe I wasn’t being threatened, merely teased, however maliciously.
I plunged: “I could move back home, sleep downstairs. Just a housemate, of course, I’d just be there for your protection, nothing expected.”
“Tim, I’m just not ready. I want you to understand.”
“Okay, I do.” But I didn’t, and I felt the pain of renewed rejection.
As I stepped out into the gloomy hallway, she turned me about, came into my arms, holding me. “We’ll talk, okay?”
“What went wrong, Sally?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was the time that you … You know.”
I know.
CHAPTER SIX
Date of Interview: Friday, August 22, 2003.
Tim arrived wearing a baseball cap, T-shirt, and floppy shorts: loose, he said, so he doesn’t sweat as much. He doesn’t wear “that spandex shit.” He has accelerated his training for his charity rally in October, le prix de Okanagan, as he calls it. He concurs with me that this is a healthy sublimation, a converting of his array of worries not only into an athletic effort but a worthy cause: all funds go to Médecins Sans Frontières.1 I’ve noted how his body, always lean, has become more sinewy with strenuous exercise. And he was in a sanguine mood, having come to a view that Sally “hasn’t completely garbaged” him. There was, indeed, a brief coming together during the week, and it has given him hope.
I feel we are finally making progress with the difficulties that caused their separation. I’m surprised that he was so slow to tell me about an interaction that occurred a few years ago, but the incident explains much.
As to my attempts to bring buried feelings and memories to the surface, he remains recalcitrant, though I have at least dra
wn from him more specifics about events surrounding his conception.
Almost miraculously, given recent history, no untoward incidents have occurred to mar his week – no threats, no letters, no awkward episodes with sexually assertive patients. All told, he presented as more emotionally stable than at previous sessions. His improved mood has had a salubrious effect on his appearance. A new face shows.
I suspect he has an unclear self-image, and doesn’t realize he can be quite attractive when he smiles. His long hair was tidily knotted at the back, and he had remembered to shave.
I have to do another thirty kilometres before the sun goes down, hit the hills – there are a few stiff climbs in the Okanagan. Care to join in sponsoring me? I’m getting a hundred here, a hundred there. I’m soliciting the rich law firms I work with.
I’ll put in a hundred. And five times that if you win.
That’s clever. Encouraging my healthy mania. We’re up to about fifty registrations already, looking to double it. We have categories for men and women, so there’ll be two first prizes. I’m probably taking it too seriously, it’s supposed to be a fun affair, pancake breakfasts, a barbecue at the finish. That’s on Halloween – appropriate, because I’ve a sense my demons and goblins will decide to back off if I make a good showing.
Excellent, your spirits are up. Before we get under way, Richard and I are inviting a few friends over for dinner next weekend – on the patio if it’s nice – and I was wondering if you’d care to join us. Seven or eight people – you won’t find it oppressive.
Very kind of you.
We’re at 55 Ridge Crescent, rather high up in West Van, I’m afraid.
May I ask Sally to come? I’m no longer banned from her life.
Of course.
We had a couple of evenings together. Working out a kink, something that happened a few years ago.
Have I heard about this?
I guess I’ve been containing it … I’ll be honest …
Please do.
I feel ashamed, afraid of what you’ll think. I hypnotized her. It was intended as a playful thing. We had come back from a restaurant, were relaxing by the fireplace – this was in the winter – and we got on the topic of the powers of suggestion. I offered to demonstrate.
He winced …
I accept full responsibility: it was at my urging. Sally was unsure at first – uncomfortable with the idea of not being in control of her thoughts and actions. But the more she hesitated, the more I tried to convince her that the exercise would be benign. I was her lover, her partner, her best friend: she could trust me above all others.
Coincidentally, at around this time, she’d briefly abandoned her children’s illustrations in favour of the large canvas (landscapes, moody winter scenes), because she’d been having difficulty conceptualizing Miriam’s trip to a country fair, and the carrot I held out was that I might help Sally pull out memories of a similar event she’d attended as a child.
Ultimately, she put down her glass of wine, took a deep breath, lay back on the rug, and said, “Okay, take me there.”
I had always suspected that Sally was a good candidate for hypnosis. During a playful demonstration a decade earlier – no deep or even light sleep – she’d been shocked by her faithful obedience to a suggestion that she scratch her nose.
In a thrice, she was out – at the count not of ten but of three. Before taking her to the rural fair, I resolved to rid her of her artistic block (perhaps I shouldn’t have taken that second glass of wine). You will be able to visualize, I promised, you will be pumped up with creative energy.
“Yes,” she said. “I can feel it.”
We dallied for a while at the fair, took in the judging of livestock, bought a candied apple, witnessed a pie-eating contest – we were having a fine old-fashioned country time. I wasn’t expecting anything untoward. But then she remembered – relived – an incident. She was with her parents, John and Gwen, and was being a brat, pestering them to be allowed to compete for a fluffy teddy bear: one of those ring-toss games.
Perhaps it was the heat and dust, or there was a pathological determinant, but her mother fainted, collapsed on the sawdust. Unfortunately, her frantic father – I know John well, a loving man, and it isn’t his style – blurted out a few harsh words at Sally, blaming her, as they knelt to Gwen. Medics quickly arrived. Gwen lay reviving for an hour in a first-aid tent, Sally standing by in guilt and shock.
Sally wouldn’t have suffered the kind of overpowering trauma one banishes from memory had not Gwen been found to have a ventricular fistula – a hole in the heart. Two years later she died.
Sally didn’t emerge from her hypnotic trance, but lay weeping on the rug. I suffered a loss of professional poise, began to flounder. I wanted to bring her back, but I hadn’t told her what the release signal would be – I usually rely on a clap of the hands. Still, I thought, surely she’d awake if urged to do – but it was as if she couldn’t hear my words. I tried, foolishly, clapping my hands. No response but a suddenly calm exterior. I gently shook her, and she opened her eyes – but they didn’t seem to observe me.
She rose. She walked upstairs to her studio. She stood before her array of brushes and oils and other painterly devices. She began to sketch and dab. I watched from behind her, anxious and fascinated, urging her to speak to me, to become aware of her surroundings: this is the winter of 1999, my darling, you’re in a hypnotic state. She ignored me, shook off my hand.
She remained for ten straight hours at a stretched piece of canvas on her drawing board. I waited her out, watching, pacing, my mind churning through published histories of when-hypnosis-goes-wrong, learned articles I had too carelessly perused. I knew that one ought not to shock the subject into coming back too quickly and brutally.
It was about six o’clock in the morning when she laid down her brushes. She’d created a vast, complex country fair, crammed with activity, and eight-year-old Mildred was standing alone and lost in the midst of it.
Sally returned to this world, began to weep. I held her in my arms, but she was rigid, angry, rejecting me.
“It’s all right,” I kept repeating. “You’re home again.”
“I’m not all right,” she said.
Altered, I suspect now. Forever altered, divided from me …
Flash-forward to last Sunday night, to a quiet table in a fine French restaurant. The promised date. Sally was in a serious mood, rebuking me, but gently.
“I don’t think I ever fully trusted you after that. You’d promised …”
“I’m sorry, honey.”
“You made me afraid of you. I’ve never really got over it …”
She had believed in me, in my mind, my ability to intuit, my skills, but the episode caused her to question my careless use of them. It scared her that I was able to exercise this awful power over her. That wasn’t the only problem.
“I felt I couldn’t own my emotions. And you seemed to be reading my mind. Simple things such as, ‘You look contrite, like you spent too much shopping.’ Or, ‘I really don’t want to go to that gallery,’ when I hadn’t even mentioned the opening. I began feeling like a plaything, an experiment.”
I was uncomfortable that she was using the past tense, but at least she was opening up.
I said, “You might have concluded I was merely well tuned in to you,” then explained, as I’ve done many times, that the so-called ability to read minds rests on a firm foundation: an insight based on clues that may only be subliminal. I became pedantic, citing Freud, his theory that telepathy is a subsensuous phenomenon; clues are conveyed by ancient senses that, like smell, still exist but which humans have allowed to atrophy from lack of use.
She listened patiently, smiling. I was boring her, I thought, or her mind was elsewhere. “There were never any romantic surprises,” she said softly. “I wouldn’t have minded a few.”
Ever buy her flowers? I hear you, Allis. I felt blind-sided by her gentle complaint, shocked that I’d been so neglectfu
l in matters of the heart.
“I love you, Tim. But love alters.” Her eyes were damp. “Sometimes the passion isn’t there.”
I was deeply hurt and didn’t know how to respond, and I was some time recovering.
We concluded with an excellent almond flan, and I felt partly released from my funk when she said, “I wish you’d learn how to cook.” Future conditional tense. Was there hope yet?
The rewooing of Sally Pascoe has continued – that was only the first of two dates during a week in which I was able to patch my tattered soul. My spectres began to recede and my dreams didn’t seem as fearful – but just as pulling, intense, and eccentrically coded.
Remarkably, one powerful dream was a seamless continuation of the standoff at the village wall – you will recall how we tried to pick it apart: the gates to the town swinging closed to me, the gates to my history, my reality. I was willing those gates shut, but was an opposite and equal force, symbolized by the merry sound of the banjo, pulling me there?
No doubt my incessant puzzling over that dream encouraged me to produce this sequel. I was again at the gate, but this time its keeper (now Clinton Huff, wearing the chains and robe of chief magistrate) asked me if I played an instrument. He seemed shocked when I told him of my familiarity with the clarinet. Clearly this was the key. He opened the gate.
As I followed him into the mountain village – a few wooden structures, of Bavarian design – the sprightly banjo music was supplemented by other instruments: guitar, accordion, brass, perhaps a washboard. I arrived at the town square, at the centre of which were a bandstand and a group playing what one might call hillbilly music. I was seized with the discomfiting sense that they all resembled me.
Huff asked me to produce my clarinet, and I was unable to. “He is a fraud,” he yelled, “an impostor.”
An angry mob seemed to be assembling, so I ran. Huff followed, and suddenly, confusingly, I was standing with him in the foyer of the courthouse, under the portrait of the Queen and her consort. Huff was sobbing. “She died for our sins,” he said.
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