Over the Edge (5 page)

It was an ill-defined relationship, neither friendship nor therapy, for the latter implies a contract to help, and he had yet to confess the existence of a problem. True, he was intellectually alienated, but so were most of the kids on the project; alienation was assumed to be a common trait of those in the cosmic range of intelligence. He sought no help, wanted only to talk. And talk. About psychology, philosophy, politics, literature.

Nevertheless, I never relinquished the suspicion that he'd shown up that first Friday to unburden himself of something that bothered him deeply. I'd observed his moodiness and periodic anxiety, bouts of withdrawal and depression that lasted for days, had noticed the sudden dark look or wet eye in the midst of a seemingly neutral conversation, the acute constriction of the throat and involuntary tremble of hand.

He was a troubled boy, plagued, I was sure, by significant conflict. No doubt it was buried deep, wrapped, like a mummy, in a gauzy cocoon of defences, and getting to the core would be no mean task. I decided to bide my time: The science of psychotherapy is knowing what to say, the art is knowing when to say it. A premature move, and all would be lost.

On the sixteenth Friday he arrived carrying a load of sociology books and started to talk about his family, spurred on, supposedly, by a volume on family structure. As if lecturing from that text, he ejected the facts, helter-skelter in a voice devoid of emotion: The Cadmuses were 'rolling in money'; his paternal grandfather had built an empire in construction and California real estate. The old man was long gone, but people spoke of him as if he were some kind of god. His other grandparents were dead, too.

As were both his parents. ('Almost like a hex, huh? Sure you wanna stick around with me?')

His mother had died in childbirth; he'd seen pictures but knew little about her. Three years later his father had committed suicide by hanging himself. The responsibility of raising an orphaned toddler had fallen to his father's younger brother, Dwight. This had translated to the hiring of a succession of nannies, none of whom had stuck around long enough to mean anything to Jamey. A few years later Dwight had married and fathered two daughters, and now all of them were one happy family - this last comment pronounced with bitterness and a look that warned against further questions.

His father's suicide was one subject I was determined to broach eventually. He'd indicated no self-destructive thoughts or impulses, but I considered him at elevated suicidal risk; the moodiness concerned me, as did his extreme perfectionism, sometimes unrealistic expectations, and fluctuating self-esteem. When you added a history of parental suicide, the odds tipped further upward; the possibility that he'd choose, one bleak day, to imitate the father he'd never known couldn't be ignored.

It came to a head midway through our twentieth session.

He liked to quote poetry - Shelley, Keats, Wordsworth -and was particularly enamoured of a poet named Thomas Chatterton, of whom I'd never heard. My questions about the man were evaded with contentions that a poet's work spoke for itself. So I did a little library research of my own.

An afternoon spent slogging through dusty volumes of literary criticism produced some interesting facts: The experts considered Chatterton a genius, the chief poet of England's eighteenth-century Gothic revival and the major precursor to the Romantic movement, but in his day he'd been alternately ignored or vilified.

A tormented, tragic figure, Chatterton lusted for fortune and fame and was denied both. Frustrated at the lack of appreciation for his own works, he perpetrated a major literary fraud in 1768, producing a group of poems supposedly
  
written
  
by
  
a
  
fifteenth-century
  
monk
  
named

Thomas Rowley. But Rowley never existed; he was a figment of Chatterton's imagination, his name cribbed from a tombstone at St. John's Church in Bristol. Ironically, the Rowley poems were well received by the literati, and Chatterton enjoyed a brief, vicarious adulation - until the hoax came to light and its victims exacted their revenge.

Excommunicated from the literary scene, the poet was reduced to pamphleteering and menial jobs and, eventually, to begging for scraps of food. There was a final, morbid twist: Though penniless and denied bread on credit by local merchants, the starving Chatterton complained to a benevolent apothecary of rat infestation in his garret and was dispensed arsenic.

On August 24, 1770, Thomas Chatterton swallowed poison, a suicide at the age of seventeen.

The next time Jamey quoted from him I reported what I'd learned. We were sitting on the rim of the inverted fountain that fronted the psych building. It was a clear, warm day, and he'd taken off his shoes and socks to let the water trickle over bony white feet.

'Uh-huh,' he said glumly. 'So what?'

'Nothing. You got me curious, so I looked him up. He was an interesting fellow.'

He moved several feet away and stared into the fountain, kicking one heel against the concrete with enough force to redden the skin.

'Something the matter, Jamey?'

'Nothing.'

Several minutes of tense silence passed before I spoke again.

'You seem angry about something. Does it bother you that I looked up Chatterton?'

'No.' He turned away disgustedly. 'That's not what pisses me off. It's that you're so smug - thinking you understand me. Chatterton was a genius, Jamey's a genius; Chatterton was a misfit, Jamey's a misfit. Click, click, click. Putting it all together like some fucking case history!'

A pair of passing students heard the anger in his voice

and turned to stare. He didn't notice them and gnawed on his lip.

'You're probably worried I'm gonna snarf rat poison up in some attic, right?'

'No. I've - '

'Bullshit. You shrinks are all the same.' He folded his arms across his chest, kept smashing at the fountain. Pinpoints of blood sprouted on his heel.

I tried again.

'What I was saying is that I've wanted to talk to you about suicide, but it has nothing to do with Chatterton.'

'Oh, really? And what does it have to do with?'

'I'm not saying you're suicidal. But I have concerns, and I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't bring them up, okay?'

'Okay, okay. Just spit it out.'

'All right,' I said, choosing my words carefully. 'Everyone has bad days, but you're depressed way too much of the time. You're an exceptional person - and I don't mean just your intelligence. You're sensitive, caring, and honest.' The compliments might have been slaps across the face from the way they made him flinch. 'Yet you don't seem to like yourself very much.'

'What's to like?'

'A lot.'

'Right.'

'That's part of what worries me - the way you put yourself down. You set extremely high standards for yourself, and when you succeed, you ignore the success and immediately raise your standards. But when you fail, you won't let go of it. You keep punishing yourself, telling yourself you're worthless.'

'So what's the point?' he demanded.

'The point,' I said, 'is that you're setting yourself up for constant misery.'

He avoided eye contact. The blood from his heel trickled into the water and disappeared in a pink swirl.

'None of this is meant as criticism,' I added. 'It's just that you're going to encounter disappointment throughout your life - everyone does - and it would be good to know how to cope with it.'

'Sounds like a great plan,' he said sarcastically. 'When do we start?'

'Whenever you want.'

'I want now, okay? Show me how to cope. In three easy lessons.'

'First I need to know more about you.'

'You know plenty.'

'We've talked plenty, but I really don't know much at all. Not about the things that bother you or turn you on -your goals, your values.'

'Life and death stuff, huh?'

'Let's say important stuff.'

He faced me, smiling dreamily.

'You wanna know how I feel about life and death, Dr. D.? I'll tell you. Both suck. Death's probably quieter.'

Crossing his legs, he examined the bloody heel as if studying a biology specimen.

'We don't have to talk about this now,' I said.

'But I want to! You've been leading up to it all these months, right? This is what all the buddy-buddy stuff has been about, right? Building rapport so you can head-shrink more effectively. So let's talk about it now, okay! You want to know if I think about killing myself? Sure. Once or twice a week.'

'Are they passing thoughts, or do they stay with you for a while?'

'Six of one, half dozen of the other.'

'Do you ever think about a method?'

He laughed out loud, closed his eyes, and began reciting in alow voice:

Since we can die but once, what matters it,

If rope or garter, poison, pistol, sword,

Slow wasting sickness or the sudden burst of valve

arterial in the noblest parts,

Curtail the misery of human life?

Tho' varied is the cause, the effect's the same

All to one common dissolution tends.

The eyes opened.

'Tom C. had an answer for everything, didn't he?'

When I didn't respond, he laughed again, forcing it. 'Not amused, Dr. D.? What do you want, catharsis and confession? It's my life, and if I decide to bow out, it's my decision.'

'Your decision will affect other people.'

'Bullshit.'

'No one lives in a vacuum, Jamey. People care about you. I care about you.'

'What textbook did you pull that out of?'

The fortress seemed impenetrable. I searched for a wedge.

'Suicide is a hostile act, Jamey. You, of all people, should appreciate that.'

His reaction was sudden and extreme. The blue eyes ignited, and his voice choked with rage. Jumping up, he turned on me, shouting shrilly:

'My father was dog shit! And so are you for bringing him up!'

He bobbled a shaky finger in front of my face, sputtered, and ran barefoot across the courtyard. I picked up his shoes and socks and took off after him.

Having crossed the science squad, he swung left and disappeared down a flight of steps. Catching up wasn't difficult because his gait was clumsy, spindly legs knocking against one another like syncopated chopsticks.

The steps ended at the loading dock of the chemistry building, an empty concrete rectangle, oil-slicked and darkened by brick walls on three sides. There was only one exit, a green metal door. He tried the latch, but it was locked. Turning to run, he saw me and froze, panting. His face was white and tear-streaked. I put down the shoes and approached.

'Go away!'

'Jamey - '

'Leave me alone!'

'Let's work this out - '

'Why?' he screamed. 'Why bother?'

'Because I care about you. You're important to me, and I want you to stick around.'

He broke into sobs and looked as if he were going to crumple. I came nearer, put my arm around his shoulder, and held him.

'You're important to me, too, Dr. D.' He sniffled into my jacket. I felt his arms go around my waist, small hands caressing my back. 'You really are. 'Cause I love you.'

I stiffened. It was the wrong thing to do, the worst thing to do. But it was reflexive.

He cried out and twisted free, the young face a mask of hatred and pain.

'There! Now you know! I'm a little faggot! I've been one for years, and now I have the hots for you!'

The shock had worn off, and I was in control again, ready to be therapeutic. I stepped forward. He shrank back.

'Get away, you lame fuck! Leave me the fuck alone! If you don't, I'll scream for help!'

'Jamey, let's talk - '

'Help!' he wailed. The sound reverberated in the emptiness of the dock.

'Please - '

He screamed again.

I put the shoes and socks down and walked away.

Over the next few weeks I made repeated attempts to talk to him, but he shunned me. I played the scene over and over in my head, wondering what I could have done differently, wishing for magic while cursing the limitations of words and pauses.

The more I thought about it, the more I worried about suicide. After much deliberation I broke confidentiality and phoned his uncle. Knowing it was the right thing to do didn't make it any easier.

I talked my way through an army of underlings and finally reached Dwight Cadmus at his office in Beverly Hills. Introducing myself, I kept the betrayal to a minimum,
 
 
mentioning
  
nothing
  
about
  
homosexuality,

addressing only my concerns for the boy's safety.

He listened without interruption, answered in a voice that was dry and deliberate.

'Hmm, I see. Yes, that is of concern.' A ruminative pause. 'Is there anything else, Doctor?'

'Yes, if you have guns in the house, unload them, hide the ammunition, and put them away.'

'I'll have that done immediately.'

'Lock up your medicines. Try to keep him away from knives - '

'Certainly.'

' -and ropes.'

Strained silence.

'If that's all, Doctor-'

'I want to reemphasise how important it is to get him some professional help. If you need a referral, I'd be happy to provide you with a couple of names.'

'Thank you. I'll discuss this with my wife and get back to you.'

I gave him my number, and he thanked me again for my concern.

I never heard from him.

I PUT the file back and called Canyon Oaks again. Mainwaring hadn't returned to his office, but his secretary assured me he'd got the message.

In the silence of the library my thoughts wandered. I knew if I sat around long enough, they'd return to roost in dark places. Rising, I searched for the cordless phone and found it in the living room. With the phone hooked to my belt, I stepped out onto the terrace and descended the stairs to the Japanese garden.

The koi were swimming lazily, a concentric rainbow. The sound of my footsteps brought them to the rock-edged rim of the pond, gulping hungrily and churning the water in anticipation.