None of this Ever Really Happened (20 page)

"So, it was probably in the next session that he told me
that the reason I was having problems sustaining relationships
was because I had unresolved issues with my father,
who had left when I was six and when he was the only man I
knew, and it was some form of arrested development. Well, it
all made perfect sense to me, and he said he could help me.
For a while we had very productive sessions and I was very
excited. I was really getting somewhere.

"Then, about the tenth time I saw him, he said kind of
out of the blue not to be alarmed if I started to feel attracted
to him, that this is a common phenomenon that happens as
trust develops between a patient and a therapist; and that
if it were to happen to me, he wanted me to know that it
was normal and just not to worry about it. In fact he said it
could even be a good thing, that sometimes patients are able
to explore their phobias and desires—I remember thinking
it was odd that he used the word 'desires'—in the safety of
the therapeutic relationship, that using the therapist as both
a guide and guinea pig, they can learn to trust, they can learn
healthy ways of sharing and giving and so on, and then the
therapist can help them bring the treatment to a conclusion
and move beyond it, apply all this stuff in their lives, and so
on. The hard part about all of this is that he's very good at
his job. Very, very good. He really helped me—for a while, at
least. Helped me to learn how to compromise without setting
up resentment. Taught me where the line is between myself
and the other person, something I'd always had trouble with.
Taught me how to recognize and state my needs. Taught me
how to say no in a reasonable, healthy way; all of this seems
so ironic now. Taught me how to negotiate. Then," she took a
deep breath and laughed again. "Oh God, this is so hard."

"Would you like to stop?" I asked.

"No, no. I need to tell someone. It might as well be you. By
that I mean a stranger. Someone who's objective. Just do me
one favor. Just look that way. Just don't look at me, okay?"

"Sure." For thirty or forty minutes, as she talked, I wrote.
I didn't look up, but later in the parking lot, I did look at
her and smile and thank her and say, "May I ask you one
question?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever thought about reporting this?"

"Yes. I know I should. I really know that I should."

When I got home, there was a message from Rosalie on
the answering machine: "Six years ago Decarre had a lumbar
fusion at L4 and L5, which would greatly limit the flexibility
of his lower back."

I had found two more pieces of the puzzle, but I was still
missing the one right in the middle that interlocked with half
a dozen others: Was Lisa Decarre's patient? I had a plan for
finding out, but it was tricky and iffy, and I'd get only one
shot at it. If it didn't work, I might never find out, and if I
never found out, none of this was going anywhere. Again I
got up early and took the dogs to the beach. Again I wrote the
script in my head and then on paper. Again I opened a Diet
Dr Pepper and used the prepaid cell phone.

"Customer service."

"I'm wondering if you can help me with a discrepancy
between our records and a doctor's records," I said.

"I'll do my best. Can you give me an account number?"

"Will a Social Security number do?" I gave her Lisa's and
identified myself as Lisa's father.

"I'm sorry, but all account information and medical records
are confidential. Now if you have Lisa Kim call us, we'll
be happy to help her."

"I know this is going to make you feel terrible, but Lisa is
deceased. She was killed in a car accident."

"Oh gosh, I see it now. I'm so sorry . . ."

We each apologized a couple of times. I talked about tying
up loose ends. I said Lisa had been billed for a doctor's
appointment we were certain she hadn't kept, and we wanted
to know if the insurance company had been billed, too, and
paid its portion.

The woman on the phone said that she would help me,
but it was a violation of law and policy; she could lose her
job. "All I am allowed to say to any unauthorized inquiry is, 'I
have no information on that individual.' That's all I can say."

"Are you allowed to
not
say, 'I have no information on
that individual'?"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Can you just say nothing?" I asked.

"Well . . ."

"I mean, suppose I ask the question, and suppose you
do
have information on the patient; can you remain silent?"

"Well, I don't know. I suppose . . ."

"If I give you a date of an office visit, and you don't have
any information, then you answer that you have no information,
right?"

"Right."

"What if I give you a date, and you
do
have information;
can you say nothing?"

She was confused. She stalled. She asked if I could verify
that I was Lisa's father, and asked me Lisa's street address,
phone number, and mother's maiden name. I dutifully read
these from the sheet of newsprint labeled "Lisa's Vital
Statistics."

She paused. "Okay, I'll try it."

"Thank you very much. I really appreciate this. Can you
tell me if Lisa saw Dr. Albert Decarre on Tuesday, December
4?" I asked.

"I have no information on that individual," she said.

"How about on November 27?"

"I have no information . . . listen, this sounds like you're
fishing. I can't—"

"I know, I know. Just one more, I promise. Just one more.
How about on Tuesday, November 20?"

I did not hear an answer. "Are you still there?"

"Still here," she said.

"Okay, then. Thank you very much," I said.

"You're welcome."

I hung up the phone and whooped. I drained the Dr Pepper.
The son of a bitch had been treating her. He had seen
her on November 24, just before Thanksgiving and just about
when she'd written the letter. What had happened to prevent
her from sending it may have happened in that session.

I looked at the clock. An hour until I was to pick up Lydia.
I went into the bathroom and ran the shower. The phone rang
and it was Lydia. She said she had another ride.

"But you said you had no way—"

"Pete."

"Yes."

There was a pause. Then she said carefully, "That was too
hard for me yesterday. I can't do that anymore. It was that
dumb sandwich. I gotta go."

"Wait, Lydia, wait a minute."

"Can't. They're here for me."

"What about Charlie's letter?" But the phone was dead. I
went back to the bathroom and turned off the shower. I sat
on the deck. I could remember living with Lydia, but I could
not imagine doing it again. It all seemed past tense. I had a
strange sense of something like emotional gravity weighing
at me, pulling me down. I went back in the living room to the
"things to do" list. I added this: Look for an apartment.

Then I lay down on the floor.

T
HE LAST TIME
I'd seen Steve Lotts had been at Wendy
and Carolyn's good-bye party, and he'd walked away in
what looked a lot like disgust. Despite Carolyn's suggestion,
I had no intention of calling him. Strangely, he called
me instead. Of course, it wasn't strange at all. I found out
later that Carolyn had talked to him right after she had talked
to me and told him that I might be on to something after all,
and that I needed some advice.

Steve suggested we eat lunch at his favorite place, the
North Pond Café in Lincoln Park. He was waiting for me over
a glass of pinot grigio since it was his first day off in a while.
I had one, too, since it was nearly my last day off. A front had
come down the lake and cleaned the city out; it was clear and
almost cool for the first time in weeks, cool enough that you
knew for the first time that summer would not last forever.
As always, Steve had chosen the perfect table. We were looking
out across the pond and the trees to the skyline.

"You gotta try this thing, this asparagus-mushroom-cream
tart. Unbelievable," he said. He didn't mention the
words we had exchanged at the ball game or at the dinner, and
he didn't mention Lydia. I filled him in on Albert Decarre.

"He lied to her. He lied to his own wife," I said.

"Oh, like what else is new. I mean, how many guys
don't
lie to their wives? Exactly why I'm not married."

"Why would he tell her it was the hospital calling?"

"So he wouldn't have to say he was being exposed or
threatened or blackmailed or slandered," he said. "So he
wouldn't ruin her dinner party? I don't know, or maybe he was
boinking this Korean chick, and he had something to hide.
Doesn't mean he killed her, Pete."

"There's an eyewitness. I'm an eyewitness. I saw him get
out of the goddamn car with my own two eyes."

Steve said a bad drunken lawyer would take me apart on
the stand over that.

"You don't think I'd make a credible witness?" I asked.

"It's not that. It's all the other stuff. It's dark. It's raining.
You don't remember this guy for seven months, and then
only under hypnosis. Yikes. Hypnosis makes juries nervous.
Hocus-pocus. Besides, there's your personal stake in all of
this. I'm sorry, Pete, but—"

"I mean it almost sounds as if you think I'm making all
of this up," I said.

"Of course not. I believe the guy was there. I believe he was
involved in the girl's death. He could have at least prevented
it, and it's possible he caused it. He's mixed up in it somehow,
but that's just my belief. Believing and proving are two
different things, and frankly you just don't have any evidence
at all."

"So how do I get evidence?"

"I'm not sure you do." He shrugged. "It's an imperfect science.
Fifty percent of major crimes are never solved. Fifty
percent of criminals get away with it, and believe me a lot
of criminals are really dumb. God knows what percent of
the smart ones get away with it, and this doctor of yours is
smart."

"But he's guilty."

"So's O. J. You know it, and I know it, but . . ." He shrugged
his shoulders. "Like I said, its an imperfect science."

"So that's that?" I asked. "There's nothing more to do?"

"Be patient. Most criminals want attention. When he feels
safe enough or confident enough, he may screw up and tell
someone or make some other mistake. If you want to know
the truth, I think he'll do it again, and when you have two
crimes to compare, you see patterns and—"

"You really think he'll kill again?"

"Not kill, unless he has to. I don't see him as a murderer
so much as a sex criminal. People can kill once out of passion,
for instance, or maybe out of fear or desperation and
never do it again; but sex criminals, those guys are almost
always serial criminals. It's a compulsion. My guess is that
he's done it before, and that he'll do it again."

"In the meantime, what do I do?" I asked. "Wait around
for someone else to be hurt or killed?"

"It sucks, I know, but you've done all you can do."

I wasn't so sure.

For the first time in ten weeks, I put on long pants and went
to work. There's always a certain apprehension about the
opening of school, if only because I've been gone for so long;
this was especially true in the year of Lisa Kim. I sat through
two days of meetings, refusing to pay attention. I didn't want
to be there. In the past, coming back had always been a transition
because summer is such a pleasant distraction. Now
work seemed the distraction. I felt that I should be sitting
at my desk in front of my computer and lists, planning my
next move. The first week of class, I took Friday off and went
to Indiana to buy a gun in what was no doubt an attempt to
hold off the dull, numbing sleep of winter and to prolong the
electric uncertainty of that summer.

I probably could have driven there, done my business, and
driven home in one day, or even stopped coming or going to
the cottage, but I didn't want to. I wanted to feel comfortable
there, to know my way around, to learn some street names, to
walk on the sidewalks, turn the corners, so I checked into an
old motel on the Red Arrow Highway Thursday evening, left
Art and Cooper there with McDonald's Happy Meals, and
took myself out to dinner. I didn't even hurry the next day. I
took the dogs to the beach and ate a real breakfast in a real
diner before I started to poke around.

I found the pawnshop first, and in it I found the gun.
Then I found the church, the church custodian, and the laundromat.
The church was locked, but the church custodian
said there was a noon mass on Saturday and open worship
until evening mass. "Then I could come in and sit quietly and
pray between services?" I asked.

"That's right."

In the afternoon I used my prepaid cell phone to call the
pawnshop and price the gun I had found that morning including
a box of ammunition and tax. Then I went to a supermarket
and purchased a cashier's check in that exact amount,
using cash.

Then I found a nice pub in New Buffalo with Pilsner
Urquell on tap, drank a couple pints watching the end of the
Cubs game and the news, bought myself dinner again, and
went back to read in bed.

The next morning, I found Alice. I also found Don, Arnelle,
Cindy, and Mr. Hayes, but from the start I was pretty
sure it would be Alice. Her flyer on the supermarket bulletin
board was neatly handprinted and read, "House and
Yard Work. Dependable Quality Cheap. No job too big. I do
windows." Not one of the fringe of little tabs at the bottom
had been taken. That was good. Her enterprise was new,
and she was still hungry, plus she had a sense of humor.
Mr. Hayes sounded old, and I liked Don, who also did yard
work, but I thought I really wanted a woman; I thought I
might have an emotional as well as a physical advantage if
I chose a woman. Arnelle sounded okay, but Alice was my
first choice, so I held my breath when I called her at two
from my car.

"'Lo."

"Is this Alice?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Alice, my name is Tom. I saw your flyer in Kroger's, and
I'm calling you about some work."

"You come to the right place then."

"May I ask you a few questions?"

"Course."

"Are you bonded and licensed?"

"I am not," she said without explanation or apology.

"K. How many employees do you have?"

"You talking to her. I be the CEO, CFO, and the entire
rank and file, honey." She laughed easily.

"K. Please don't take this personally, but do you have a
criminal record?"

"Nope. I ain't never got nothing but traffic tickets."

"No DUIs?"

"Nope."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Positive."

"Alice, do you have a car?"

"Such as it is."

"Okay, Alice." I paused for a minute, looked at my checklist,
and made a decision. I told her I would like to hire her
to do something other than housework. The job would take
about one hour and pay three hundred dollars in cash. It
would be clean, 100 percent legal, and absolutely safe. I told
her I wouldn't ask her to do anything she didn't want to do,
and that she could say no at any point, no questions asked,
but she would have to do it right now.

"This very minute?" she asked.

"Within the next few minutes. Would you like to hear
more?"

She didn't answer and I thought I'd lost her; then she said,
"Keep going."

"Okay." I asked her if she knew where the church was.

"Yes, I know it." It was ten minutes from where she lived.

"Okay. If you want to take this job, go get in your car and
drive to the church as soon as we hang up the phone. Go into
the church—it's open—and sit in the next to the last pew on
the left side. I'll come and sit in the last pew right behind you.
Do not turn around. I do not want you to see me, and if you
do, our deal is off. Understand?"

"What you want me to do?"

"I'll tell you when you get here. You still interested?"
Again she hesitated. "Alice, if you have any qualms—"

"Honey," she said, "I can't afford me no qualms. Give me
fifteen minutes." She was there in twelve. From the laundromat
I watched her park her car half a block away and hurry
toward the church. She was a big woman of maybe thirty-five
who had bad knees and hair, but who wanted my business.
Inside she was right where she was supposed to be, and I sat
down behind her.

"Alice, I'm Tom. Please don't turn around."

"Uh-huh. What you want me to do?"

"Across the street there's a pawnshop called Quality Loan."

"I know it."

"If you are willing, I'll give you a money order, and you'll
go to Quality Loan and purchase this item for me." I slid an
index card across her shoulder and she took it.

"Item #1058. What is it?"

"It's a pistol. You ask the man for item #1058, and he'll have
you fill out two forms, one state and one federal. Fill them
out truthfully. As long as you're truthful, everything is perfectly
legal. Then he'll make a phone call to get approval. The
answer may take fifteen minutes, it may take a half hour. You
either get approved, delayed, or denied. If you have no criminal
record and no DUIs, you'll get approved. Then you give
the man the check, and he'll give you the gun. There's an outside
chance that you'll get delayed; then they have three days
to approve or deny."

"Then what?"

"Then nothing. The deal's off. You come back here, sit
down, I sit down behind you and give you a hundred dollars
in cash for your trouble, and we say good-bye."

"That's all?"

"That's all if you can't make the purchase, but you can;
you will be able to as long as you don't have a criminal record
or a DUI, and it's all perfectly legal."

"Not the next part," she said.

"Hold on. You buy the gun, then come back here and sit
where you are sitting. I'll sit down behind you again. You
show me the item, then put it down on the pew beside you.
I hand you three hundred-dollar bills." I leaned forward and
fanned the bills in front of her for a moment. "You leave the
item under your coat on the pew and go up to the chancel to
pray . . . you Catholic?"

"For three hundred dollars I am."

"You go up to the front to pray. When you come back,
the item will be gone and so will I. Then, at your convenience
but within the next week—the next seven days—you go to
the police and tell them exactly what happened. You bought
a gun for self-protection, went to church, left it on the pew in
a bundle with your coat, went to pray, and someone stole it
from you. What's the world coming to. That's it. You're clear
and free, and I'm long gone."

I waited.

"You sure it's legal?"

"As long as you report it."

She waited. "Listen, could I sleep on this, do it tomorrow—"

"Tomorrow's Sunday."

"Monday, then?"

"Sorry. It's a one-shot deal. It's now or never."

We both waited. She looked at the index card and read
the number: "One-oh-five-eight. You got the check?" she
asked me.

"I do."

She put her hand back for it. "Let's go then."

I bought a soft drink and a
Sun-Times
to occupy myself
while I waited in the laundromat, but I was too nervous to
even look at the paper long enough to read the headlines.
I just looked out the window and at my watch. It was taking
forever. Maybe she had to wait for service. Maybe she
called the police. No. Maybe she went out the back door with
the gun. No. What was taking so long? It had been forty-two
minutes. Then I turned away for a moment because a man
had brought his dog into the laundromat and the Hispanic
attendant was trying to get him to take it out; the man was
raising his voice. I thought he might have been drinking.
I was concerned that the attendant might call the police.
When I turned back, Alice was hurrying up the steps of the
church; another couple of seconds, and I would have missed
her. I crossed the street and stopped in the vestibule, calmed
myself before stepping through the padded doors into the
cool stillness of the sanctuary. I sat down and touched Alice's
shoulder. She put a heavy box in a bag on her shoulder so
I could see it, see the brand name and illustration, but she
did not let go of it; she held it tightly. I handed her the bills,
and she looked at them, rubbed them between her fingers as
if they were made of fabric. Then she pulled herself heavily
to her feet, saying, "Go say a prayer." She stopped, her back
still to me, in the aisle. "So who am I suppose to pray for?"
she asked, without expecting a reply. "I'm hoping it ain't
your wife."

"Wait a minute," I said. "Don't turn around, but listen for a
minute. I'm not going to shoot anyone. I'm a writer. I'm doing
this for a story just to see if it can really be done. That's all."