Wolfman - Art Bourgeau (11 page)

Loring stared at her. His anger seemed to make
everything crystal clear . . . "Fear is a conch shell. You hold
it to your ear and think you hear the sea."

She prompted him. "But it's only an illusion . .
."

Her response pleased him. At last she was beginning
to understand. "Yes, but it's a universal one. You put a gun to
the head of a Frenchman and he’ll feel the same thing as an
American."

Margaret paused to light a cigarette. He was trying
to slip away again, but she wasn't going to let him. They needed to
make progress together. So far their sessions had led her to believe
that his episode in the fitting room was an hysterical one, not
psychotic. His high anxiety level, his stomach trouble, his inability
to sleep all went with it. A retreat from the unpleasant through
illness or illusion. A statement of vulnerability, as lung might say.

Even though the fitting room episode was more severe,
she was sure he had had similar episodes in the past, and that this
one had been triggered by the invitation to his sister's wedding.

But why?

"We were talking about your mother. . ."

Loring stared at her for a moment. Maybe she can
understand, he thought.

"You’re much younger, much prettier, much
smarter, but sometimes you remind me of her when you do that . . .
smoke, I mean. The way you look at me when you do that. It's as if
you know a secret. There's a cool elegance . . . a sensual — sorry,
shouldn't have used that word. It's unprofessional here."

He was still not accepting his role of patient. "You
mean the word ’sensual’? It's okay if you find something about me
sensual."

By the book, she told herself, but in spite of her
words Margaret was now self-consciously aware of her cigarette. He
had boxed her into a corner. If she continued to smoke after what
he’d just said he might well interpret it the wrong way, as sexual
interest on her part. But if she stopped he would certainly interpret
it as rejection. She took a drag on her cigarette, trying to keep her
movement as natural as possible while watching him watch her.

Of the two possibilities rejection was the more
serious. Patients often developed crushes on the analyst. She could
handle that, but if he felt rejection all their work, the trust would
come undone. She blew out the smoke and tried to think of it as
building a working bond between them rather than a submission on her
part.

From the first, if someone had given her a pencil and
told her to draw an emotional portrait of him she figured it would be
a hunchback, body bent, twisted, handsome features filled with pain.
Not a cripple. He wasn't that. She was adamant with herself about
that. In time he would straighten, realize his worth, but the pain of
the process would be his. Her role was to have the guts and skill to
help him face that pain.

As he watched her he felt something that he had never
felt before. He knew it was not another of the things that happened
nightly since the episode. Things he hoped were dreams but feared
were not.

What he felt now was not of the darkness but of
light, and he wanted it to fill him, he wanted to revel in it, to
nurture it, to call it . . . love. It must be, he told himself. See,
she feels it, too. She gives herself to me. We are no longer faces on
playing cards that rub against each other in the deck. We are one,
like Lancelot and Queen "G" . . . The desire teared his
eyes.

From a distance he heard her say, "Why haven't
you seen your parents since you graduated from college," and the
mood was broken. He felt a bubble of anger release and before he
could stop it, rise to the surface.

The explosiveness of it startled Margaret.

"Don’t call them my parents. Parentology
should be the name of a religion. A California church that sells
vitamins. You sound like my sister. They are not my parents. She is
my mother, an accident of birth . . . he is her husband. My father is
dead. Do you hear that . . . my father is dead . . ." His voice
rising.

Margaret sat very straight in her chair. What was
happening was important, their first breakthrough. It was so sudden,
so powerful. She continued to smoke with deliberate movements,
wanting him to feel the bond between them, mentally urging him on,
thinking the words "Come on. Let it out. Come on," over and
over.

He turned away from her in his chair, feeling
ashamed. Like a night long ago with his mother. The femininity of
tears made him embarrassed and he didn't want Margaret to see him.

"Don’t you understand?" It was as if he
was feeling one language but speaking in another, unable to link
them.

"Look at me. Help me to," she said quietly,
feeling something of his pain, wanting for a moment to touch him, to
reassure him.

He turned to her. "He . . . he killed himself. .
. when I was eight . . ."

The past, that part of it, came rushing at him in a
jumble. It was on his lips before he could think. Stop, he told
himself. You'll lose her. Don’t say a word. You'll lose her if you
say any more.

Margaret waited. When he shut up she knew that the
door that had opened so abruptly had closed again. She was, of
course, curious about his father's suicide, but only as it related to
Loring. It wasn't her immediate concern. They could go back to his
father's death later. She was more interested in his feelings about
his mother. Clearly his outburst was linked to her, provoked by talk
about her.

"
After your father's death she remarried . . ."

"He was my father's business partner. They were
manufacturers’ representatives," he said, holding himself
tight in check.

The way he answered bothered her. His tone was flat,
empty of emotion, each word getting a too measured beat with no
emphasis. The flatness could mean he was trying to tell her his
displeasure that he was unable to express in words. "How long
was it before she remarried?"

He shook his head. Why this? Why did she go out of
her way to hurt him? Didn’t she understand that painful as these
sessions were, being here with her was the only thing in his life
that he looked forward to? Maybe if he explained it in his own way
she would understand . . . "A few months," he finally said.
He knew Margaret wanted more, but there were things about those years
he would not even let himself remember,
much
less speak about.

"Even though she's artistic, structure is very
important to my mother. At first you wouldn’t think the two would
go together, but they do. She weaves these incredible tapestries from
scratch. They’re like nothing you’ve ever seen, not colors or
flowers, human figures, I mean whole scenes. They sell for thousands
and thousands. Museums buy them, collectors, she's booked up years in
advance. Always has been . . .

"Once after she remarried I drew a picture like
one of her tapestries and gave it to my sister. It was of a picnic.
In it was my mother, my sister, Wolf my German shepherd, and me. When
my mother saw it she was angry." His tone was still flat.

Margaret was delighted. The door hadn't closed after
all. So far he had refused to discuss his dreams, but at least here,
fertile for interpretation, was his subconscious at work. Freud had
said dream-thinking and wish-thinking were the same thing, central to
the resolution of the conflict, bypassing the repressions of the
conscious mind. Well, they were getting closer. she liked the
feeling, the bond between them. 'Her patients were people, not
modules of neuroses, she reassured herself. They were important to
her, but because of the intricacies of his particular conflict, and
perhaps his newness, she admitted that sometimes he seemed more so
than some others.

"Why was she angry?"

"She said it was a bad picture. The structure
was all wrong, that I'd made Wolf too large in relation to the other
family members, but I knew the reason was really because I hadn't
included her husband. You see, she'd made her choice . . ."

"And you weren't too happy with her choice . .
."

"Happy or not happy . . . it was her life,"
he said.

"It was your life, your sister’s life, too,"
she said, wanting him to confront his anger about her choice.

"My sister is happy, always has been."

"
Then you . . ."

"There were times . . . it was okay with me. I
was happy I . . ." Suddenly defensive.

She lit another cigarette. "Do you remember
actually drawing the picture?"

"Vaguely. It was a long time ago."

"When you drew Wolf larger than the people, what
were you thinking."

Her question brought back memories of Wolf. Of his
room and Wolf sleeping at the foot of his bed, protecting him. Of
them together, exploring the world, their fort, their playtime.
Finally he said, "That was the only real friend I had."

"What about the other people in the picture.
Weren’t they your friends, too?"

He shook his head. "Maybe when my father was
alive . . ."

Margaret took a drag on her cigarette. He was no
longer watching her when she did, his attention seemed on the far
away, as if he was watching scenes from long ago. The look on his
face was so unhappy that she wished she could be in those scenes with
him to help him through.

"Do you miss your father?"

He looked around the room. It’s cool softness
reminded him of a cave. He tried to think of it that way. Their fort,
his and Margaret's. It could be.

"A day never goes by that I don’t think of
him," he answered truthfully.

The aloneness in his reply had to move her, and she
remembered her own father's death.

He focused on her. "They're wrong, you know,
when they say the body can’t remember pain . . ."

Her eyes momentarily widened. It was the exact
thought she was thinking at that moment.
 

CHAPTER 8

SLOAN LOOKED at the findings from the Hightower
apartment and listened to Mercanto's theories without interruption.
When he finished there was a look of some respect on Sloan's face
that Mercanto had not seen before.

"I have to agree with you. It looks like you're
on to something. Of your two theories you’re probably right, drugs
look like the more likely. His lifestyle fits it. The park fits it,
but I wouldn't rule out the blackmail theory, either."

"You have something in mind?"

"The ex-wife . . . remember how I told you she
acted when she came to identify the body? Seeing him mutilated like
that didn't faze her. Could be something sexual . . ." Sloan
said, picking up the amyl nitrates, "something that started when
they were married, and she hated him for it. Maybe it wrecked their
marriage and the blackmail was a way to get even. Maybe he decided
he'd had enough. That's why they met, for him to tell her he wasn't
going to pay her any more and she flipped out."

Mercanto nodded. "Makes sense . . . in a sick
sort of way."

"It’s a sick business. Keep at it."

Mercanto drove from the Roundhouse on Race to Locust
Street near Rittenhouse Square. He parked and walked down the block
to Hightower Opticals. The business occupied an entire brownstone.

The first floor reception area was more like an art
gallery than a place that made and sold glasses. Scattered on the
polished pine floors were low square chairs covered in black, glass
tables with magazines on them, and green plants.

Soothing music was piped in. Mercanto recognized it
as New Age by a Japanese musician named Kitaro. He'd heard it before
from friends in his Aikido dojo.

He went up to the receptionist, a young blonde with
long hair seated behind a white desk, and showed her his badge.

"I’m here about Mr. Hightower’s murder.
Could I see whoever’s in charge?"

The sight of the badge seemed to make her nervous.
"That would be Cheryl Goldman, the manager," she said.

While she made the call Mercanto strolled over and
looked at one of the large paintings on the wall. It was done in
blues, greens, and reds, all blending together in a soft harmony
without any discernible lines. A brass plaque at the bottom of the
frame said: "Seafire by Murray Dessner." He knew Frank
would admire the way it seemed to capture from the inside the essence
of its subject.

The receptionist hung up the phone. "She'll be
right down . . . God, the place has been in a upheaval since . . .
you know. We were all so shocked. He was such a nice man. Who would
do such a thing?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out."

A tall, dark-haired woman in a close-fitting black
dress entered the room. "I’m Cheryl Goldman," she said.

Mercanto showed his badge again and followed her to
an office on the second floor. She sat behind the desk, he in front.

"This seems like a pretty big operation here . .
." he said.

"It is," she said proudly. "We have a
staff of twelve. For an optometry practice that's an incredible
size."

"
What makes this one so special? Chestnut Street
is loaded with them," he said.