The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin' (161 page)

“In what respect did your grandfather feel he was special?”

“In
every
respect. Intelligence-wise, morality-wise. He sees himself as God’s chosen . . .”

“Why did you stop just now, Dominick? What are you thinking about?”

What I was thinking about was Thomas. God’s Chosen One, Part II. But I dodged the bullet. “I don’t know. I’m not that far into it—fifteen, twenty pages. I probably won’t even finish it.”

“Dominick? Tell me about your grandfather’s ‘closeness to God.’ “

“Hmm? Oh, he . . . back in Italy? When he was a boy? He claims in this thing that some statue in their village started crying tears. And that he—Domenico—was the first one to see it.”

“Domenico? You were named after your grandfather, then?”

I nodded. “Guilty. Anyway, I guess because of this statue thing, they earmarked him to become a priest. Took up a collection in the village, sent him away to get educated. Then things got screwed up. He had this younger brother—”

Brother problems, I thought, suddenly. We had
that
much in common, Papa and I.

“I don’t know. I just don’t
like
the guy very much. All his I’m- better-than-this-one, I’m-better-than-that-one crap. He’s—what’s the word?—grandiose. . . . But, you know, it’s kind of interesting from a family history perspective or whatever. All the immigration stuff. How he established himself once he got here. It fills in some of the blanks.”

“Yes? Tell me about that.”

“Well, there’s this one guy he mentions named Drinkwater—Nabby Drinkwater. They worked in the mill together—this Drinkwater guy and my grandfather. And it’s weird because, well, because Thomas and I worked one summer with
Ralph
Drinkwater. Remember? We talked about that once: that summer when Thomas started falling apart? When we were all on that work crew. Gotta be the same family, right? Wequonnoc Indians named Drinkwater? . . . So,
that’s
kind of interesting: the coincidences. Seeing how his generation and ours . . .”

Dr. Patel stared at me for a second or two more than I felt comfortable with, then jotted something down on the little pad in her lap.

“What’d I just say?” She cocked her head a little. “You just wrote down something.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well? Did I just say something incredibly revealing, or am I boring you so much that you’re working on your grocery list, or what? What did you write down?”

“I wrote the word
grandiose.
”

“Yeah? Why?”

“I believe I mentioned earlier that, before you came here today, I was reviewing our past sessions. And I was struck, just now, by your use of the word
grandiose.”

“Yeah? Why? Because housepainters don’t usually use three-syllable words?”

“No. Because you’ve used that word in here before. Do you recall the context?”

I shook my head.

“In connection with your brother. You were making the point, quite validly, that there was grandiosity in your brother’s position.”

“His ‘position’ on what?”

“His belief that God had somehow singled him out as His instrument in the prevention of conflict between the United States and Iraq. That God had ‘chosen’ him. And now, using the same word—grandiose—you’ve just told me that your maternal grandfather felt similarly ‘chosen.’ So, I found that interesting. Worthy of further exploration, perhaps.”

I shifted in my seat. “Yeah, but . . . Thomas never even read this thing of my grandfather’s. He couldn’t possibly have gotten the idea from Domenico. If
that’s
what you’re getting at.”

“I’m not ‘getting at’ anything, Dominick,” she said. “I’m merely recording observations. Looking for patterns that we may or may not wish to examine later.”

“During the big autopsy?”

“Ah,” she said. “Now that’s the third time you’ve used
that
word. May I inquire about your use of the metaphor, Dominick? If you see our work together here as an ‘autopsy,’ who, may I ask, is our corpse?”

“I just—”

“It’s the key ingredient, is it not? The body of the deceased? So tell me: whose cadaver are we examining?”

“What . . . what are you being sarcastic for?”

“You misinterpret me. I’m neither working on my shopping list nor being sarcastic. Answer my question, please. Our cadaver is . . . ?”

“My grandfather?”

I could tell from her expression that it wasn’t the answer she was looking for.

“My brother? . . . Me?”

She smiled as serenely as Shiva. “It was
your
metaphor, Dominick. Not mine. May I ask you something else, as long as we are discussing the subject of grandiosity? Do you feel the word—
grandiose
—in any way describes
you
?”

“
Me?”
It made me laugh. “Joe Shmoe? I don’t
think
so. . . . Far as I know, Jesus never asked
me
to stop a war. No statue’s ever cried tears for
my
benefit.”

“And yet, earlier, you described yourself as fate’s test case. Likened your trials and tribulations to those of Job, who, of course, is legendary because of the way God tested his faith. So, I was just wondering. . . . More tea?”

She told me I should keep reading—that books were mirrors, reflective in sometimes unpredictable ways. What the hell had she meant—was
I
grandiose? Where had
that
little zinger come from?

“Look,” I said. “Do you think we can cut to the chase here? How much time do we have left, anyway?”

She consulted the clock, cocked strategically at an angle so that the patient couldn’t read it. “About thirty-five minutes,” she said.

“Because, no offense, I didn’t come here just to have a
book
discussion.”

She nodded. “Why
did
you come, Dominick? Tell me.”

I told her about seeing Rood’s face in the attic window.

About Joy’s pregnancy—the way she’d tried to pass me off as the father of her kid.

About the night I’d faced myself in the medicine cabinet mirror.

Dr. Patel asked me if I had continued to have suicidal thoughts since that night—if I had continued to plan ways in which I might end my life. I shook my head. Told her that the worst despair had passed—that I’d weathered it.

“You’re sure?”

I nodded. I
was
sure, too. I wasn’t bullshitting her. That night had scared me enough so that I’d stepped back from the ledge and stayed there. Had started thinking, okay, maybe there
is
life beyond . . . beyond . . .

I fished Joy’s cassette out of my jacket pocket, and the little cassette player I’d brought along. I told Dr. Patel about the night at the hospital when I’d awakened and found the Duchess standing there. “The gutless bastard was trying to sneak it onto my nightstand and get the hell out of there,” I said. “He was pretty good at sneaking. He was an expert. Only I woke up. Ruined his little getaway. Listen to
this.
”

I hit “play.” Studied her as she listened to Joy’s confession.

When I finished, she sighed. “What your girlfriend did was a terrible betrayal,” she said. “Obviously, she is a deeply troubled young woman. And yet . . .” She seemed stumped for a moment. Lost in thought. “And yet, Dominick, like you and me—like all of us, really—she is struggling. Working, I think, to develop some insight. To become a better person. Which is not to dismiss what she did—not at all. Tell me, how did you feel a moment ago—while you were listening again to her words?”

“I just . . . I don’t know. I’ve listened to that damn tape so many times now, I don’t . . . I guess I’m numb.”

“Why did you want to play the tape for me instead of just telling me about it?”

“I just . . . I wanted you to hear what they
did
to me. I mean, taking the most intimate thing that two people can do together and . . . I just wanted you to hear it in her own words.”

“So, you are not so much interested in exploring your feelings about Joy’s betrayal. Or the failure of your relationship. You are merely giving me a tour of the museum.”

“The museum? . . . I don’t follow you.”

“Your museum of pain. Your sanctuary of justifiable indignation.”

“I, uh . . .”

“We all superintend such a place, I suppose,” she said, “although some of us are more painstaking curators than others. That is the category in which I would certainly put you, Dominick. You are a meticulous steward of the pain and injustices people have visited upon you. Or, if you prefer, we could call you a scrupulous
coroner
.”

“What . . . what do you mean? Curator of my—”

“Well, let’s see. There is the monument to your having suffered a shared childhood with Thomas. And the frequently revisited exhibit of your stepfather’s many injustices. And, of course, the
pièce de résistance:
your shrine to your ex-wife.”

“Uh . . . ?”

“And now, this most recent acquisition. This tape which you have brought for me to listen to—which, as you say, you have listened to many, many times yourself. So many times, it has made you
numb.
” She took another sip of tea, smiling benignly. “The Dominick Birdsey Museum of Injustice and Misery,” she said. “Open year-round.”

For the remainder of the hour, I was polite. Terse. I was damned if I was going to give her what she wanted: some truth-revealing tantrum, some anger-stoked baring of my soul so that we could dissect me the way her friend, what’s-his-face, had dissected all those fairy tales. She was sneaky, really. Devious. First she tricks me into promising I’ll come for four more sessions, then she whacks me between the eyes with a two-by-four.

She walked me to the door. Her advice, she said, was to keep reading my grandfather’s transcripted story. Whatever I felt about him personally, he had given me a gift—something that very few ancestors who predeceased their descendants ever gave.

“Yeah?” I said. “What’s that?”

“His voice on the page. His history. Indirectly or not, Dominick, your grandfather is speaking to you.”

I started the Escort, backed out of the handicapped space. I was already in traffic before it dawned on me that I’d negotiated my way back down Doc Patel’s long flight of stairs without panicking about falling. Without even really noticing my own descent.

Papa’s voice. Thomas’s voices. Joy’s voice on that tape . . .

The Dominick Birdsey Museum of Misery.
Fuck
her
. At the red light, waiting to get back onto the access road, I took Joy’s cassette out of my pocket. Tossed the goddamned thing out the window. It felt good doing it, too.

Felt
real
good.

That’s how good a curator
I
was.

Fuck
her
.

28 July 1949

For two nights now, no sleep. I long to forget but weep to remember those strange
days when my brother Pasquale became not the simplest, but the most puzzling of
men. . . .
Omertà, omertà
, the Sicilian in me whispers.
Silenzio!
In the Old Country, the code of silence is a stone dropped into a pond. Its rings
expand and encircle all.
Siciliani
remember but do not speak. And yet my brain hungers to
understand—to crack open a brother’s secret and look inside. Pasquale, I speak not to
dishonor your name, but to try one last time to understand and forgive. . . .