Empathy (14 page)

“What would be terrible?”

“For them to see us as we truly are. And for them to see her for her.”

“Why would that be terrible?”

“Because in their minds we are inherently terrible and she would, therefore, be punished emotionally. Better to pretend you're not what they think is terrible even though that's what you really are and even though you know it's not terrible - although somewhere else you do believe it's terrible - to avoid the emotional punishment.”

“Got it.”

“So, I decided to look as straight as I possibly can. I put on a beautiful black dress, designer stockings, shined my heels, makeup, two earrings from the same set. Then I got on the subway. An hour later, I climb out in the middle of nowhere and up ahead I see three of my friends. You know what? They all made the same decision. They all put on their best, most feminine clothing and they looked so beautiful. I loved them. We were walking together, our high heels clicking on the streets, our waists shapely, necks exposed and decorated. Then we stepped into the chapel and all Nancy's relatives were wearing polyester double knits. They couldn't stop staring. Later, at the shiva, her Uncle Heshy asked me if we were a rock and roll band. It's really hard to get away with being the wrong thing.”

Then they bought the flowers. Seventeen dollars' worth.

“How do I look?”

“You look good, Anna. You look all dolled up.”

“I've been in training for this for weeks. I've been swimming every day and doing yoga and running before work and only eating macrobiotic food and taking vitamins and not smoking. I went out shopping three times for the right dress and finally got this one for sixty-five dollars. That's a lot of word processing, let me tell you.”

It was a serious dress.

“Maybe you're reliving something here,” Doc said.

“Then I went and got a haircut and I tried on different lipsticks. I bought new heels. The prettier I look, the more she'll like me.”

“Sounds like you're going to a funeral.”

“You know, Doc, I did do this recently for another funeral. All my mother could say was ‘Thank God you wore a dress. But your hair is too short.'”

“Yeah, I've got a mother like that too,” he said.

“Look, Doc,” Anna stopped short. “I just don't want her to take one look at me and say ‘
That dyke
.'”

“Who, your mother?”

“And my old lover's mother. None of them.”

Crossing the streets took longer than either of them were used to because the avenues were so wide, but the lights changed more slowly so everything compensated.

“Doc, I promised myself this. I'm ready to do whatever it takes to get inside. If they have to call the police to stop me, let them call the police. Okay, Doc, wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” he said. Then he followed her into the building.

There was a doorman, just as Doc had predicted, and Doc watched him with suspicious anticipation. Would her disguise actually work? Anna announced herself with great dignity and grace and then the doorman phoned upstairs.

“Anna O. to see you,” he said.

There was a sense of excitement as the doorman listened for a while.

“Thank you,” he said into the phone.

“Sorry,” he said to Anna, casually. Then he glanced suddenly to the left.

“What do you mean?”

He looked to the right, the way that all human beings do when they're uncomfortable, and then he looked directly at her to reassert his position. Doc noticed that it was the same eye formation that he himself used when looking at homeless people. But Anna O. wasn't homeless.

“You can't go.”

“But I didn't even get to talk to her.”

The flowers were big ones, they smelled like a really romantic date. You could bury yourself in those flowers and feel cool all over.

“Look, I can't help you,” the doorman said. “Call her from the corner.”

Anna ran to the corner, but Doc stayed behind until he heard the doorman mutter under his breath.

“She's pretty but she's a dyke.”

But when Doc looked over at the doorman's face, he found the comment was directed at him.

Then Doc ran to the corner too. This was the Upper West Side so the pay phones worked. Anna's movements were a little wild. She wasn't really thinking about what she was doing. He could see that she was furious. She'd thought that that dress would make a difference. She was so furious in fact that Doc thought she might be rude and blow the whole thing. That's the way people lose these days. If they show how they feel it's called rude. It is called manipulation.

“Hello? Hello? Mrs. Noren? This is Anna O., Mrs. Noren. No, I am not selling you
The Watchtower
. I'm your daughter's former lover. Oh … Oh … thank you, Mrs Noren. Thank you. Thank you.”

Doc followed his client into the elevator.

“Come in, come in,” Mrs. Noren said. She had one of those huge apartments where no one lives and half the rooms are covered with drop cloths. “I'm so glad you came. How about that stinker, huh? How about that daughter of mine? What a creep.”

“You know it,” said Anna O.

“All the time she was telling me she did everything alone. She went on this trip alone. She went to that movie alone. She went out with this
friend
, that one. Finally I says to myself
, Helen, your daughter is a real stinker. Your daughter must be having sex with a woman. She's finally come out of the closet
. There was no other explanation. Let me tell you something, Anna, and …”

“Doc.”

“Oh, a doctor, how nice. Let me tell you that that daughter of mine is a smart girl. Too smart. She knows a lot of things that I don't know. But she only tells me things that I already know. Every word out of her mouth is one big cliché.

“Did you ever try asking her questions?” Doc suggested.

“Once,” Helen answered, plopping down on a drop-clothcovered armchair, her dress and shoes caked in plaster dust. “Once I asked her a question only because I really wanted to know the answer. It was ‘Why blame communism on the Jews just because they invented it?'”

“What did she say?”

“She said, ‘Ma, it's not like that anymore. Now we're as bad as anyone else, which is even more obvious.'”

“And what did you say?” Doc asked again.

“I said, ‘What do you mean, “anymore”? I live here too you know, and for me it is still a current question.'”

That's when Doc took a seat because he felt so very comfortable.

“Let me tell you something Anna O.,” Helen said with no sign of waning interest or energy. “Believe me, I understand you. I know why you came here. When I was young I felt the same way that you do now. The only famous person who ever looked like me was Anne Frank. Later, Ethel Rosenberg. Only martyrs for role models. You know that there's no such thing as the secret of the atom bomb? It takes thousands of volumes of information all fed into a computer. It's not like you can just add water. The Rosenbergs were executed for a crime that cannot be committed. But when will they be avenged? So, that no good kid of mine. What did she do?”

“Well …” Anna said, sitting slowly on a dust-covered ottoman. “She used to make love to me and then roll over and say ‘You're narrow because you're gay but I'm universal because I'm not.'”

“Repulsive,” Helen Noren said, pulling out a box of butter cookies from under a sheet. “Oh, you brought me flowers, beautiful. Must have cost you seventeen dollars at least.”

Doc ate a cookie.

“And for you, Doc, I have this book. Don't open it now. Save it for later. Here, I'll wrap it up in a paper bag and Scotch-tape the edges. Open it when you need a present.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you know,” she said, breaking the tape with her teeth, “that a paper bag is a thing of the past? Did you notice it?”

“There are still a few stores that have them,” Doc said. “Mostly stationery stores.”

“Oh, really?” Helen said, handing him the package. “I never get any.”

Anna O. ate a cookie.

“Honey,” Helen Noren said, wrapping her arms around Anna O. and holding her close to her breast. “There is justice in this life. Don't you worry. There can be plenty of justice.”

Doc listened very closely.

Later, Doc opened the package. It was a book called
Romantic Sentences
. It was blank.

The wind smelled clean, like clean magazines. It smelled like invisible ink. The phone rang.

“I have a collect call from Elijah Timothy Stevens. Will you accept?”

“Yes.”

“Hello, uh … is this the doctor?”

“Yes.”

“I am Elijah Timothy Stevens.”

“Yes?”

“I got one of your business cards the other day and I was wondering if you do phone counseling.”

“If you think it would help.”

“Well, Doc, it can't hurt now, can it?”

“I don't know.”

“Uhm … do you take Medicaid?”

“No. It's only ten bucks an hour.”

“Well, we'll have to work out something doctor because my problem is that I am broke and … up here in, well … I'm in the Bastille, Doc, if you know what I mean.”

“You're in jail.”

“Bingo.”

“Well, in that case my services are free for you, Mr. Stevens.”

“Thank you, doctor. Merely accepting my collect call is halfway to a cure.”

“I'm glad to hear that.”

“Well, that's all I need for now, Doc. But you take care of yourself and I'll get back in touch again real soon. Don't worry. I'll be thinking about you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stevens.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

When he hung up the phone, he realized that the breeze through the open window was too cold, so he knew that it was one of those seasons. But he was not ready to close it. From then on there was a certain brace at the beginning of each day and a feeling in the middle of the night that he did not have enough protection.

Even turning on the radio was a flirtation with danger because certain songs could come on at any moment that would evoke memories, that would evoke specific associations that no longer needed to be considered. So, he turned it off and went back to a magazine instead. There, surprisingly, was the face that he had once known. The very face that had just been hologrammed into his mind. At first he was attracted to the grayness of the reproduction, but when he found himself unable to skim over it, he knew that there was something on that page for him. This person had won an award. She had accepted it in a white leather skirt, white patent-leather heels, and a white-seethrough chiffon blouse. She was in the newspaper in that clothing. When handed her award, she said, “Thank you to all the dancers I have ever performed with for giving me the physical gratification that has kept me coming back for more.”

Sometimes
, thought Doc
, it is bad for people to get too much attention because their egos overinflate and they feel a certain immunity from thinking. But when a person is dismissed, it can be a blessing in disguise because then they have to be quiet and count their friends. Only then can you speak to them directly with any realistic hope of investment.

The phone rang.

“Will you accept a collect call from Elijah Timothy Stevens?”

“Yes.”

“Hi, Doc.”

“Hello, Mr. Stevens. Has something happened in the last hour that you need to talk with me?”

“Yes, Doc.”

“That's fine, Mr. Stevens. I just want to remind you that every patient is limited to three sessions. So this will be your second session. Understand?”

“Understood in practice, but not in theory, doctor. Why only three?”

“Mister, I'm not a martyr. I get what I need out of it by the third session and you can too. What happened?”

“Well, I used to work in a public school, a New York City public school. Do you know what that means, Doc? Can you imagine the guilt involved? It means students coming to school already disoriented instead of getting that way there the way we used to do. It means students who have never been out of their neighborhoods and don't know what
tractor
means.”

“Why not?”

“Think, Doc. Think back to when we were kids. All those TV shows about farmers' daughters and talking horses. Now it's all domestic dramas. You have to watch every week in order to understand what's going on. Anyway, it means the kind of school where the principal gets busted for doing crack in the boy's john. And even worse …”

“What could be worse than that?”

“I was that principal.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Stevens.”

“They flew me up here to Ogdensburg Correctional Facility just south of the Canadian border. They flew us up on this little propeller plane called Air Rikers. They manacled our wrists together and our ankles, doctor. Then they put us on the plane. Do you think I can sell that to
The Village Voice
? I know this black girl from Yale who works up there. I want to call her and tell her about this big story but I need
to charge the call somewhere. Can I charge it to you without using up my third session?”

“Yes.”

“All right then, it's been good talking to you, Doc. I want you to know that I'm thinking about you and I miss you and I'll stay in touch and let you know what's going on. Okay, you be good now. Bye, Doc, love ya.”