Grimoire Diabolique (8 page)

“Mr. Barrows,” she immediately sighed, “if you want to pay me $450 per hour to lie, then go right ahead. I’ll take your money. But that’s hardly productive now, is it?”

His smirk made his face feel hot. He felt like a naughty child.
This ice-queen is a real piece of work.
“Guess not,” he admitted.

“Your marriage did
not
return you to normalcy, did it?”

“No.”

“Your ‘affliction’ only increased, and you hid it from your wife until—”

Barrows loosened his collar. “Yes, until she caught me red-handed. She got the flu one week. She…”

“Go on. I’m your psychiatrist, Mr. Barrows. The more you tell me, the more I can help.”

Barrows’ shoulders slumped. “She caught me eating her Kleenex out of the wastebasket. In truth—”

“Yes?”

“—whenever she had a cold or the flu…I loved it.” He rubbed his face in his hands. “All that Kleenex. All that snot and phlegm.” It was like a treat, like a midnight snack.

When Barrows looked back up at Untermann, it was shamefully, between his fingers. But the curt, elegant face remained unchanged. It remained inquisitive, calculating. Not shocked.

He sat back up straight in the leather chair. “How come you’re not disgusted?”

“For the same reason an oro-facial surgeon is not ‘disgusted’ by a critical burn victim. The same reason a dentist isn’t disgusted by an abscess. Your job is ministering to the intricacies of finance, Mr. Barrows. My job treating bizarre and often repellent mental disorders. To me, however, they’re neither bizarre nor repellent. They’re merely disorders.”

Barrows was amazed at her professional detachment…so then he sought to challenge her again, not with lies this time, but with a simple question with which to gauge her response.

“Let me ask
you
something. May I?”

Coils of faint smoke drifted upward. “Yes, but I’ll only answer if I deem it to be productive toward your therapy.”

All right.
By now Barrows couldn’t deny a flirting attraction to her, and this seemed a sorry notion indeed.
I’ve just told this woman that I eat phlegm that I pay bums to spit in my mouth. I’m sure she’s just dying to go to the opera with me…

“Earlier,” he faltered to begin, “you said…that you’ve heard worse…”

“Oh, my God yes,” she casually replied. “Mr. Barrows, you’ve come in here thinking that you’re an unspeakable person because of your dritiphily, but believe me, that’s nothing compared to some of the patients I’ve treated.”

“
Really?
” he said, incredulous.

Dr. Untermann reeled off her list as casually as if reciting scores at a miniature golf match. “I’ve treated zoophiles and scatophiles and pedophiles. I’ve treated Munchausen Syndrome where women really do love their kids but can’t help bringing them to near-death. I’ve treated women with Helsinki Syndrome, who fell in love with the men who tortured them in ways that beggar description. I had a strange ‘pica’ case where a teenage girl unconsciously collected dog stool—she’d carefully dry the stools and consume them—and I had a sexual-septicist once—a man obsessed with masturbating with a handful of his own feces. When I was at Georgetown, one of our case studies was an accountant who would collect used condoms from the alleys in Washington, D.C.’s red light district and eat them; he was operated on over a dozen times because the condoms would inflate with his own waste and cause massive and potentially fatal intestinal blockages. We had another man addicted to eating ‘toe-cheese,’ and yet another man—a Virginia rancher—who could only attain erection by sucking the drool off the lips of cattle.” She exhaled more smoke, unperturbed. “Then we have what we call the ‘packers.’”

“Puh-packers?” Barrows dared.

“Men and women who, behind closed doors, are habituated to filling their rectal and reproductive cavities with—well, with just about anything you can imagine. Hamsters, fish, billiard balls, live snakes, live bullfrogs, wines bottles, garden slugs. You name it. One man from Annandale, Virginia, would blow mealworms into his urethra through a plastic tube. A fourteen-year-old girl from—she was a military dependent from Walter Reed—would insert the tip of a turkey baster into her own urethra in order to repeatedly aspirate air into her bladder. Some people simply like to be
filled,
Mr. Barrows, for reasons that can never be clinically perceived.Then we’ve got the more common aberrations—the collectors: the gym teachers who collect dirty socks, the custodians who collect used tampons, the fetishists who break into houses and collect undergarments soiled by the so-called ‘skidmarks.’ Pedicurists who keep their clients’ toenail clippings. Doctors who collect pus-drenched bandages, and nurses who collect enema nozzles to secret away back to their homes, to sniff and lick.”

Barrows felt exhausted listening to this, and disgusted. But there was more….

“One of my colleagues at the Clifton T. Perkins Evaluation Center wrote an entire diagnostic paper on a dermatologist who would topically anesthetize appropriate prison patients and, with pliers, squeeze the ‘milk’ out of large moles, and lick it up. During my internship at the psych wing of the Fallaway Med Center, there was a nun who constantly volunteered for duty in places like Calcutta, Karachi, and the Sudan. Her sister superiors alerted us to her problem: she was cleaning the ears of the dying with Q-Tips and sucking off the wax.”

Fuck,
Barrows thought.

“Stercoraceous syndromes are actually even
more
common,” she continued. “People obsessed with human excrement—their own or that of others. Adolf Hitler was said to be a stercoramanic; he liked to defecate on women’s faces—poor Eva Braun, hmm? A reverse syndrome involves the opposite, clearly Freudian: people who can only become sexually aroused while being defecated
on.
The actual shit-
eaters
are called coprophiliacs or cacophiles—hence the children’s colloquialism
caca
. You’d be surprised how many feces-eaters there are in the realms of modern mental disorder.”

Barrows’ head began to feel light from shock.

“We’ve even had a few vomit-eaters,” the elegant woman added went on, “like the derelict you saw at the bus stop. People who can find no sense of actualization without the self-abasement of consuming the puke of strangers—they’re called ‘refluxomanics,’ by the way. And though I’ve never actually met a phlegm-eater before, I’ve read several case files regarding them. So you needn’t feel exclusive, Mr. Barrows. There are, indeed, other people sitting in the same boat as yourself.”

Barrows needed a drink. Bad.
Phlegm-eater,
he thought. There it was, a single, simple term. “But you also called it…what?”

“Dritiphily—from the Middle English noun
drit,
meaning something akin to
human filth
. You see how obscure the base word is? It doesn’t even actively exist in our language any more. But obsessive-compulsive symptomologies do indeed exist within a broad range of clinical verges. Utterly minor to the utterly
outré.
Your regrettable affliction—your dritiphily—is the most extreme manifestation of the poor soul who must count to ten every time they see a red truck, or must step on every third crack in the sidewalk.”

Even Barrows, in his overall shock, had to take exception. “Paying rummies and sick street whores to spit in my mouth isn’t exactly stepping on sidewalk cracks.”

“Outwardly, no. But inwardly, it’s all rooted in the same inception,” the staid woman replied. “We simply have to
identify
that inception—in your particular case, Mr. Barrows—and then we’ll disclose the proper avenue of your—”

“My cure?” Barrows said hopefully.

“Yes.”

She turned her hand, raised her rice-paper wrist to cast a glance at her watch. “We still have plenty of time. I think we should go on.”

“All right,” Barrows agreed. “Please.”

“So what have we done thus far? We’ve identified the more intricate manifestations of your dritiphily. We’ve established, through your own self-revelation, that you are habituated to eating phlegm, and that this ingestion is the only thing that permits you to achieve sexual arousal. Yes?”

Barrows didn’t like the sound of that, but he kept reminding himself what he was here for. Hence, his reply: “Yes.”

“Normal childhood, normal upbringing,” she said more to herself. “Not at all uncommon. The
bad
childhoods, the
ab
normal upbringings—those are the environmental breeding grounds for the Henry Lee Lucases, the John Wayne Gacys, the Jeffrey Dahmers. But you’re a successful investment financier, not a psychopath, not a serial-killer.”

Thanks,
Barrows thought.

“Instead,
your
anomaly is rooted
in between
those notions. It’s hidden. It’s secreted away somewhere. Think of a well-crafted clock, but with the tooth of one solitary gear broken. We will find that cog, Mr. Barrows, and we will fix it.”

“You make it sound easy,” his voice grated.

“It may be. How badly to do want to be cured?”

He looked up quickly. “I’ll do anything. Pay…
anything.
”

“You’re accustomed to throwing money at your problems,” she acknowledged. “But that may not suffice here. Your mind is not a carburetor simply in need of a new gasket. But as your current psychiatrist, I’d be negligent in not informing you of some potential ‘quick fixes.’ There are, for instance, some rather radical treatments not endorsed by the APA, available in South America. Cariothiazine infusions which alter the chemistry of your brain, acupuncture, various aroma- and thermal-therapies. Narco-synthesis and bio-feedback cycles. I’ll admit, sometimes they work, but I can’t recommend them.”

Barrows sat closer to the edge of his seat, wringing his hands. “I’ll try anything, and…I’ll pay. I’ll pay
a lot.
”

“So you’ve said. One thing I can recommend a bit more than the latter would be an aversion-therapy clinic in Köping, Sweden. Believe me, they’ll cure you of anything—the hard way.”

“I’ll do it!” Barrows nearly shouted at her.

“I don’t suppose that the $30,000-per-month in-patient fee would bother you. But I’ll be honest in informing you that all too often these rather Pavlovian aversion techniques only eradicate one disorder to expeditiously replace it with another.”

“Great. I go from eating phlegm to eating shit? No thanks,” Barrows gruffed. He sat back, hands held out uselessly. “What then?”

“Your best chance for a successful recovery?”

“Tell me!”

Her long fingers idly rolled the cigarette then crushed it out. “Your best chance for a successful recovery stands with what you’ve previously frowned at. Maintained—and expensive—psychotherapy,” she said. “Certainly, I’m aware now that you’re a man of considerable income, and, especially due to the nature of your profession, you may think that I’m merely recommending the option that would most benefit my own financial interest. Therefore, to reduce any such trepidations, I’d be happy to give you a list of other psychiatrists who would be happy to render a second opinion.”

To hell with it,
Barrows thought. Her staunch demeanor and cool locution told him enough:
She’s it. Where else can I go? Fuckin’ Sweden? Goddamn South America?
Besides, at the very least, she was attractive; Barrows, in fact, caught a quick fantasy in his mind: Sucking down a big green loogie and fucking her right there on the desk. Maybe if he put a gun to her head, she’d spit in his mouth. “That won’t be necessary. I want you to treat me. Please.”

“Fine,” she said crisply and leaned forward. She began writing on a small tablet. “For the first month, our sessions will be five days a week, seven if necessary. You’ve told me that you typically embark upon your…need…when you leave work, correct?”

“Yes.”

“So I’ll schedule you for, say, six p.m.? Will that suffice?”

 
“Yes,” Barrows agreed.

“Instead of stalking down James Street every day after work, you’ll be coming here.” She finished writing, handed him a small slip of paper. “Here’s a prescription for a drug called Hydroxyzine. Ten milligrams four times a day. It will help ease the physical aspects of your dependency. In the meantime, I’ll schedule you at Harborview for a physical: blood tests, histamine counts, and the like, and also your first atropine injection, which helps take the edge off too. Then we’ll set you up for a written battery—MMPIs, TATs and TEDs, the Baley Scales and the Rorschachs—these are tests which might seem frivolous to you, but their conclusions will help me get a better fix on the more systematized aspects of your psychological make-up.”

“I’ll do it,” Barrows said without pause.

“Try to control your urges. You’ll probably fail for now, and that’s all right.”

He took the prescription, looked at it as if gazing upon something dear. For a moment, he wanted to cry.

After all these years, he’d found someone who would help him.