Murders Among Dead Trees

by Chute, Robert Chazz

  “Yeah. Sure is,” I said. I’m troubled by people who can’t leave fast enough.

  Finally he did leave and as soon as the door whispered shut I dumped the anti-constipation medicine into the tea pot and gave it a swirl. Well, the box say it stops constipation but it’s really pro-diarrhea. I was still swirling the tea around hoping the stuff would dissolve faster when Dr. Circe came pumping out, all dressed up.

  “Got a date?” I said.

  She paused in mid-stride and I could tell she was taking me in and doing the cleansing breath thing like she’d taught me. It gave her a minute to rearrange reality now that I was back in her life again.

  “I don’t believe we’re scheduled for today,” she said. Had to hand it to her, she slapped her mask on tight after the initial surprise.

  “I need to see you,” I said.

  “I have another patient right now.”

  “He left.”

  “Oh?”

  “I popped in hoping I could talk to you and there was a guy sitting and waiting.”

  “And he just left?”

  “Yeah. He looked really angry. Pissed off.”

  “That doesn’t sound like the person I was expecting.” She walked over to the desk and filled her empty tea cup. I’d put an awful lot of the stuff in the tea and I worried she’d taste it. I’d watched her drink her tea over many therapeutic hours and knew she liked it strong, always with four tea bags in the pot. I’d thought of testing it at home with some of Ma’s tea but, for obvious reasons I didn’t want to try it out on myself and Ma brews her coffee one cup at a time and stands and watches it.

  My ex-therapist didn’t look like she believed me, but maybe that was because I couldn’t help but stare at her teapot. I must have looked shifty.

  “He got a phone call,.” I said. A text from somebody, I think. Then he just got up and left.”

  “Hm,” she said. “Georgie — ”

  “Gidget!”

  “Gidget, good. Gidget, did you not receive my letter?”

  “Yeah. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” I took out another water bottle from my backpack and drained it. I wanted to show her I was still doing something she’d asked me to do. Maybe we could compromise so I could change a little more and she wouldn’t put me through the hell of breaking in another therapist.

  “I don’t think that’s a grand idea. I think we’ve taken our therapeutic relationship about as far as it can go. We’ve tried over many sessions to get you to a place where you’re ready for the commitments of the process. Perhaps you’ll find better luck with another therapist who can provide what you need. Not every therapist is for every patient…and vice versa.”

  “So, what? You only work with the people who aren’t very fucked up, is that it? I’ve got to find a new therapist because…why exactly? I don’t make it easy enough for you?”

  “I didn’t feel we were making progress, Gidget. I’m concerned that if we aren’t making progress then you aren’t getting the help you need.”

  “I want another chance.”

  “We’ve had this conversation before.”

  “I want another chance.”

  She was giving me that kind smile of hers, very much practiced, like she was talking to a fairly retarded little kid. Then I noticed her smile went a little sideways. “Oh,” she said softly and put a hand over her stomach.

  “Are you okay?” I said, smiling now, too.

  “Georg — Gidget. I don’t think this is appropriate and if my scheduled client isn’t going to show up then I should finish up here. I have an engagement right after work and I’m really not feeling well, so… Oh! Excuse me!” She ran out the door and down the hallway toward the women’s bathroom.

  Awesome.

  I hadn’t expected my plan to work that well or that fast. I had hoped that she would see that I’d bothered to take a couple buses to get to her office and welcome me back. If that had worked, I would have accidentally knocked over her teapot with my backpack.

  That would be embarrassing but I’d be back in and by the time she figured out what I had done to get rid of Mr. Tear Stains, she’d forgive me because I’d demonstrated a real commitment to getting therapy from her. I’d be a story she could tell at cocktail parties for years. She’d act mad at first, but then she’d see how funny it was and how much I clearly need her and she’d forgive and forget and soon I’d be her favorite patient and she’d see she’d been totally wrong about me and someday soon I’d be skinny and she’d admit we’d made a lot of progress and I was a fine young woman and she’d be really sorry, apologizing all over herself for ever ever thinking she should get rid of me.

  But it hadn’t worked out that way, so Plan B was to get a terrible vengeance on that bitch. The trouble was, I wasn’t sure what to do next. I really thought Plan A would work. I mean, how many patients dared to come back and face her after she sent out her fucking letter railing on about “positive therapeutic outcomes”?

  I wandered into the inner office. I’d spent so many 55-minute hours on that couch, spewing on about Ma and her boyfriends and how nobody seemed to like me much and here she was, still not liking me much. It was like she didn’t get me at all and I really thought Circe did at first. What’s up with that? I thought she liked me a little bit. Sure, I’m quirky but if your therapist won’t cut you some slack, what the fuck?

  I went over to her desk and sat behind it. I still had no idea what I was looking for, so I looked in the drawers. I thought maybe she’d have a vibrator in there for the boring stretches between patients but I couldn’t find it. If I’d thought to bring some superglue, I could have really fucked up her desk and phone but, like I said, Plan A was supposed to work. I did a full circle around the office. Every time I came in here I told her the flowery wallpaper really sucked and that she should change it but she never had, so I guess I wasn’t the only one unwilling to change.

  How much more time would she be in the bathroom? I was running out of time and between all the water I had been drinking and the fear of getting caught in here, I really had to pee.

  In all the girl detective stories, the young heroine “casts about” for clues, so that’s what I did. I cast about for a way to fuck with Dr. Circe Papua. The filing cabinet behind the desk was closed but the key was in the lock. I stopped casting about.

  I peeked out into the outer office. No footsteps running my way, so I ran over to the tall fining cabinet, opened the lock and yanked open the bottom drawer. If I’d had time, I would have looked for my own file. I wondered how much she doodled in the margins of her notes. Would there be little drawings of dicks and vaginas? Would there be pages and pages of her handwriting, over and over again: “I hate this fucking fat, little bitch. I hate this fucking job. I should have been a librarian so if somebody started crying and whining I could just tell them to shut the fuck up. I have got to get rid of this fat little bitch.” I would have looked, but I didn’t have time.

  The bottom drawer was U – Z. There weren’t many files in there and I noticed an old phonebook was tucked in behind a few file folders. Y is for Yellow Pages. I took a squat and pissed in there, letting go and feeling scared about getting caught and having a very positive therapeutic outcome in about equal parts. Being scared apparently helps you pee harder.

  I pulled my pants back up and slammed the drawer shut with my foot in one motion. I had just finished buckling up when I heard footsteps. I flew over to the couch, feeling warm and light.

  “Gidget,” she said, like that said it all, like an accusation.

  “Are you okay?” I said, all sweet concern.

  “No. No, I’m not. I had t-to…uh…vomit.”

  “Maybe you better sit down.”

  She did and here we were in our usual spots, except now she had a filing cabinet drawer full of bright yellow urine. Not bad for a Plan B inspiration.

  Her face looked pale, like it had fallen in somehow. As shitty as she obviou
sly felt, she would leave soon and the piss would ripen in her phone book all weekend, and it was supposed to be a hot weekend. By Monday morning, the whole office would smell strongly of piss and she could explain that to Mr. Tear Stains and I’d be sitting at school feeling happy happy happy about my brilliant fucking vengeance all day. Maybe she’d have to start over on all her files. Maybe that shitty flowery wallpaper would absorb the smell enough that Dr. Circe would have to close up the whole office and redecorate. Maybe my leak would leak through the bottom of the cabinet and soak into the rug and through the floor and through the ceiling into the office on the floor below. Maybe she’d get in trouble with her landlord and have to move. Maybe she’d get so teary about it she’d quit being a shrink altogether. One way or other, she would sure be fucking sorry.

  “I was supposed to go out tonight,” Dr. Circe said. The way she said it I wondered if she knew.

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “I thought from my letter you would understand that our talking should be done. I’m not the therapist for you, Gidget. My letter was clear in that regard. What did you hope to accomplish coming here?”

  I felt my fat face getting hot. I wondered how long before the smell would waft our way. I wondered how she could be so mean as to kick me out in the first place. I still wanted to stay, but the piss in the filing cabinet might become apparent any moment so I wanted to run out of there, too. I wanted us both to get out of her office to let my revenge percolate and ripen.

  “Gidget,” she said. “I’m feeling very unwell and I’ve got a massive headache coming on so I think we both better leave.”

  “Okay.” I used my small humble voice.

  She looked at me with sad eyes. Instead of moving to get up she said, “You know…I think I made a mistake with you.”

  My heart rose up and rubbed against the insides of my ribs and I straightened up.

  “Ending it wasn’t the mistake,” she quickly added.

  “Oh.”

  “But I should have had another session with you to discuss why I had to terminate treatment. Not every therapist is for every patient and I felt that we weren’t a good fit. For this to work, we have to be able to trust each other and I never felt comfortable with you alone in the office with me. I’m sorry about that. You never gave me any reason I could put my finger on. It was just a feeling. I’m all for logic but I’m a psychotherapist. I have to trust my intuition, too. All you seemed to bring to your sessions was anger and I didn’t see anything else.”

  She had been wrong about me. Then she kicked me out of treatment and made herself right. Shit!

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you. We talked extensively about strategies you can use in your life which I hope you will act on. I still think those strategies will benefit you.” She held her head with one hand, like she was countering pressure that might push her forehead out. “We’re all just trying to get through life the best we can.”

  I swallowed a stone that hit my stomach when she said that. “What? What did you say?” I’d heard her, but I wanted to hear it again.

  “We’re all just doing the best we can.”

  I didn’t expect tears. Not from me. Never from me. It broke me open. “I’m scared, Dr.—Dr. Papua.”

  She looked at me with forgiving eyes then. She looked at me like she saw something new and hopeful. That really made me feel like shit on a shoe, piss in a drawer. I cried in stupid sobs that I hated myself for but couldn’t stop.

  “What if this is the best I can do? What if this is it? What if I’m never any less miserable than I am now?”

  Her shoulders relaxed a little bit and she softened. Somehow she made me think of Ma when I was really little, when I was still a skinny kid. “Gidget,” she said. “You’re showing me something instead of useless anger.”

  I didn’t answer. I just slipped sideways on the couch and wrapped myself around a pillow and cried and cried. I felt like that skinny little kid again, letting go like that and letting the big, fat, hot baby tears just roll and roll. When it finally stopped, Dr. Papua was looking at me with a kind, gentle smile that killed me.

  “You know, Gidget, maybe we do have some more work to do. I’m thinking I was harsh with you. I should have worked this out with you instead of taking the easy way out. You’ve been through a lot of therapists, I know. I think that prejudiced me. I expected that I was just the next in line, but you showing up here…” She spread both hands out in a gesture that said, “Welcome back.”

  I felt cold and got the first whiff. “This is excellent. I really, really want…uh, but first…this may be hard to explain…”

  HIGHER POWER

  Three things about this story first: 1. The incident with the light in this story? It happened to me. Weird wiring inside and outside my skull.

  2. Burt and Marcus attended the same church years before they met again in the short story, Parting Shots. Here’s the basis for Marcus’s lack of belief.

  3. My grandfather was a Baptist minister. He was a good man, but sadly I only remember three conversations with him. In the first, he’s trying to listen to the radio and tells me to be quiet. In the second, he’s giving me some answers to my questions about capital G God that do not satisfy me. In the third, he helps me put my letter to Santa in the big red mailbox. He examines my poor scrawl on the envelope before he hands it to me. Just as I stand on my tiptoes and slip my wishes, dreams and hopes into the mail slot with a mittened hand, he says, “I doubt the Post Office will accept it.” Oh, Grampy! ~ Chazz

  It started in the middle of the night as Sunday morning was growing roots and slowly rising from the ruins of Saturday night. Ted awoke, groggy, but dimly aware of his wife Birget’s soft snoring beside him. He had to get up to urinate. He shouldn’t have had the coffee so close to bedtime. Or was this one of those early signs of prostate cancer he’d read about in Reader’s Digest?

  Ted struggled out of bed, his low back aching — or was this kidney cancer? — and felt his way to the bathroom in the darkness. Once done, he perfunctorily ran his hands under cool water. He was waking up and didn’t want to. He made his way to the top of the stairs when lightning struck.

  Or he thought it was lightning. The sudden brightness came from directly overhead. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness so he was dazzled by the sudden brilliance. He froze for a moment and all was dark again. Confused, he took the five steps down to the living room and looked outside through the slats of the window blind. No storm, no rain. No lightning.

  He moved to the couch and lay down. It was 2:30 in the morning. He suffered insomnia a few nights a week and a move out of his warm bad to the cool of the leather couch was often enough to allow him to settle down again. He looked around the living room, making out the dim outlines of furniture, the bookcase, the television. He briefly entertained the notion that someone had broken into the house silently and had set off a camera flash but dismissed that as ridiculous.

  Then it happened again. His jaw dropped open and he almost laughed. The globe light at the top of the stairs in the hallway outside his bathroom flashed on.

  Ted got up and climbed the stairs again, flicking on the light switch as he went. The globe light shone down brilliantly again, a steady beam. He reasoned that the cumulative vibration of the household had loosened the light bulb. His grandson Tyler bounced around the house on his Saturday visits and he recalled with his own daughters that occasionally the light bulbs needed to be tightened when they went through their gymnastics phase.

  However, he wasn’t going to get a chair to stand on in the middle of the night at the top of the stairs. If he fell and broke his neck, Bridget slept so soundly she might not discover him dead until morning. Uncertain of his purpose, he reached up and was able to twist the glass globe over the light. It did not move. The beam stayed steady.

  Puzzled he reached out and flicked the upstairs light switch off, then on. The circuit responded normally, dark, then light. He shrugged, flick
ed it off and returned to the living room couch.

  He lay down and considered whether true insomnia had really set in and should he give in and search for the TV remote? Birget had been the last to bed and her habit was to leave the remote wherever she was, never returning it to the little wooden stand he had made for it in his workshop. He had presented it to her as a solution to his daily search for where she had left the device.

  “Jesus was a carpenter, Ted,” she had said. “You need to stick to spreading his word because I don’t want that sad little stand cluttering up my décor.”

  Ted had responded by putting the stand on the table by the TV with some force and she proceeded to ignore its existence and function ever since.

  The upstairs light flashed again.

  Ted stared up into the darkness, waiting for the next flash. Within a minute it came again, not as brilliant but there nonetheless. Wait a minute, he thought. I shut off the circuit! Both switches are turned off, so how is the light getting any power at all?

  Then Ted’s big moment came. The globe light flashed an answer to him, spoke to him. Ted didn’t sleep the rest of the night and he got up early to get ready for work. They had been married for twenty-one years this June, so their mornings had settled into a routine long ago. She always woke in a mood only caffeine could cure. He often joked that before nine she was a stereotypically mean 1945 German. After coffee she came up to the 21st century standard.

  At this, she often replied that if they were Unitarian, she wouldn’t have to do without a newspaper on Sunday morning. However, she was stuck married to a Baptist minister so she couldn’t get the paper like a normal person. Even though the Sunday paper was completed by Saturday night, she said, the only heathen who refused to respect the Sabbath was the poor, doomed paperboy who would be eternally alight and screaming for his transgression. “Doesn’t seem fair. You only work Sundays and you’ve supposedly got the key to the kingdom.”