Wolfman - Art Bourgeau (6 page)

He answered on the second ring. "Hi, darling,"
she said. His deep voice brightened and her doubts began to fade
immediately. This wasn't the voice of a man having an affair.

"I had a few minutes between patients and
thought I'd give you a call. How’s your day going?"

She heard a sigh. "Fine, until a student showed
up for a lunch date I'd forgotten. She’d asked me to read some of
her stuff and chattered on and on . . . wrecked the morning, made me
feel like you with a patient . . ."

Margaret smiled. There it was, the logical
explanation. Just like she told her patients . . . better to confront
fears. "Was her work any good?" Why did she ask that?

"
Sophomoric. Teen-age ramblings about Tibet and
being an ancient queen."

"
Well, I hope the afternoon goes better for you.
Which poem are you working on?"

"The one about the young boy seeing the rockets
come in at the beginning of the Tet Offensive."

She knew the poems about his Vietnam time were like
reopening an old wound. She heard the bell in her reception room.
"Darling, I've got to go, my next patient is here. Love you."

"See you tonight," he said.

As she hung up she felt much better. The tightness,
the upset were gone. She would have no trouble concentrating now. She
smoothed her skirt, adjusted the collar of her blouse and started for
the door. This would be the new patient, the one who had called.

She had given no thought to what he might look like,
but at first sight two things struck her. His blond, rather
aristocratic handsomeness and the visible tension in him, evident
even in the way he was sitting. "Mr. Weatherby, I'm Dr. Priest,"
delivered in her quietest most reassuring tone. . .

The sound of her voice startled Loring. He turned.
Standing in the doorway was a tall woman in her late thirties. Her
shoulder-length hair, highlighted by a touch of streaking, was light
brown and hung loose, framing her face, which had a touch of
roundness coming with her age. Her lips weren’t too full and seemed
more likely to smile than frown. Her nose was broad at the bridge,
her brows full, her skin soft and pale. But her eyes . . . they hit
him . . . large blue eyes, knowing intelligent eyes . . .

She turned and started back into her office. Loring
got up and followed her. He could hear her walk, hear the rustle of
nylons against her skirt. Since his call he’d thought a good deal
about what she would look like. Nothing he’d imagined prepared him
for . . . for her femininity that seemed overpowermg . . .

He stood beside one of the chairs in front of her
desk while she closed the door and then pulled the blinds, darkening
the room to a soothing quietness.

She sat behind her desk. "Please sit down."
He did, scarcely daring to breathe.

"Before we get into any specifics, let’s talk
for a few moments. Have you ever been to a therapist before?"

He shook his head, no words came. Why was he so damn
nervous? Before he’d come he’d made up his mind not to be that
way. Had even allowed himself an extra measure or two of belladonna.
She smiled now. A warm genuine smile. "I'm not the dentist,"
she said.

Her words, her tone relaxed him a little. "Then
you aren't going to give me nitrous oxide," he said, trying to
go along.

Another smile. "No, unfortunately it doesn't
work for me. I'd like to ask you a few questions . . ." And she
led him through name, address, birth date. When she asked about
medications he lied about the tension-relieving belladonna and said
"none." When she asked about his family he balked. That
wasn’t what he was here to talk about.

"
They're in Chicago. This doesn't involve them."

She did not press it. "Let's talk a moment about
what we try to do here. People come because they're dissatisfied with
part of their life. Something’s causing too much pressure.
Depression, or stress."

"With me it’s work-related," Loring said
quickly, wanting to dispel any thought she might have that he was
crazy or something. "Things have just gotten out of hand and I
need to talk it out. That's all. Stress, right."

She nodded. "If you decide to start therapy
we'll talk about a lot of things. Sometimes it can be unpleasant,
even painful. It helps some — to remember that when you come here
you can say anything, tell me anything without worrying about it.
It's all about opening up."

Loring looked away from her. He saw the couch along
one side of the room. In spite of her soft words it reminded him at
that moment of the rack. "I'm not going to lie on that," he
said, nodding toward it.

"That's okay."

He kept his eyes on it like it was an enemy to be
watched. A vision came to mind of Dr. Priest standing at the head, a
mask covering her soft features, her breasts bare, and he felt
himself laugh before he could stop it.

"What's funny?" she asked, not looking
toward the couch but keeping her eyes on him.

Her question embarrassed him. He couldn't tell her
that. The idea that he’d thought of her like that . . . undressed .
. . he couldn't bring himself to think the word "sexually"
. . . made him feel ashamed. This was obviously a good woman,
everything about her said it. Still, he really wanted to tell her
what he was thinking . . .

After a moment he said, "I guess patients lie to
you."

"Sometimes."

He was silent then: "There's something I'd like
to ask you."

She waited.

"When I called for the appointment you didn’t
seem surprised. . ."

"Your doctor told me about you. I was expecting
your call."

Loring sat upright. Suddenly he thought of the letter
he’d found in his desk, the one from his sister addressed to his
home. This wasn't right. He felt his heart start to pound. "What
did he say about me?" His voice seemed unnaturally high when he
said it.

"He told me your name and that you might call."

His chest felt tight,the way it had felt in the
fitting room. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer but he
said, "What else?"

"That you'd been under a great deal of stress .
. . you’ve just said it yourself."

Loring shook his head. "He shouldn't have, not
without my permission. He had no right to go around talking about
me." He looked about the room. Coming here was a mistake. There
was no help here. lust get out and go home. No one can help you but
yourself. Don't let her get you under her thumb like . . .

"Mr. Weatherby . . ." She repeated his
name. "Let me explain something. I don’t accept patients off
the street. All of them come from referrals. Your doctor behaved in a
routine manner. He didn’t violate your confidence . . ."

Something in her tone, a note of. . . strength . . .
combined with the softness made him look at her again. Their eyes
met, and she held his gaze. Her eyes were not penetrating. The
opposite. Their blueness reminded him of fine china and cloudless
skies. Corny but true. When he looked at them he felt . . . felt she
was offering him something. Maybe some relief?

But what would she want in return? Strange thought,
but even as he thought it he felt himself begin to relax again and
the fear, tension, began to recede some. He saw that she saw this as
she gave him another smile. Christopher Marlowe's words came to mind.
"Was this the face that launched a thousand ships and burnt the
topless towers of Ilium . . . ?" Come on, she's no Helen of Troy
. . .

He said the only thing he could think to say. "Are
you a Freudian?"

"Somewhat. Freud is the father of modern
analysis, so we're all Freudian in that sense. But there are others
whose work is important, too. I'm eclectic, I suppose."

Vague as it was, the answer seemed to satisfy him, to
somehow go to his discomfort. At least he didn’t want to leave.

"Do you ever fail with a patient? Not help them,
I mean."

Said more to draw her out and hear her voice than for
her answer.

"Yes," she said. "Therapy involves
many things. It's not foolproof, but I don't think that’s something
we should worry about now." She paused. "Do you mind if I
smoke while we talk?"

"No, go ahead." She was asking him. Good.
He watched her put the cigarette between her lips and light it.

"
Would you like to talk about what's especially
bothering you?" she asked.

He felt the edge return. "My doctor didn't tell
you . . . ?"

"No," she said, and he breathed easier
again. It was his story. He would tell it in his own way.

"Well . . . I don't know exactly how to begin."
She made no effort to help him. He watched her draw on her cigarette
and exhale the smoke. The delicacy of it sent a slight chill up his
spine. He tried to collect his thoughts. "The incident . . . I
guess you would call it . . . happened when I went to pick up a
suit."

He paused. She still didn't say anything. "When
I went to try it on . . ." How could he tell this? More than
anything he did not want to humiliate himself in front of this woman,
have her laugh at him. Even though he'd only been with her a few
moments something about the way she looked at him made her opinion of
him important . . . "I mean, there's really not too much to it.
It was the stress of the day, the stock market crash. I was edgy, a
little nervous, and the suit was too big. I . . . I overreacted . . .
I guess you’d call it."

She drew on her cigarette again and exhaled, the
tendrils of smoke carrying a hint of her perfume to him.

"How did you overreact?"

He began slowly. Remembering was surprisingly
painful.

"The day had gone pretty badly from start to
finish. I left the office early with another broker. We were going to
have a drink. On the way we stopped at Treadwell's to pick up a suit
that was ready for me. We went into the fitting room and I tried it
on. When I stepped in front of the mirrors . . . they have mirrors
that surround you . . . the suit seemed much too big. Not just a size
or two. It was like they'd given me a suit for a basketball or
football player. I thought they'd made a mistake, but when I
complained they looked at me like I was nuts or something."

"You say it seemed too large. Was it?"

He looked around for something to fix on and saw her
tap the ash of her cigarette into a large crystal ashtray on her
desk. The blue-whiteness of the glass was cooling. "That's when
things began to get out of hand. I insisted that they bring another
suit. When I tried it on it was worse than the first."

He knew how weird this all must sound. It did even to
him and he had lived it. Nothing about it made sense. "Like I
said, the day had gone badly . . . I didn't want to go for the drink,
I just wanted to go home."

"Why did you accept?"

He looked at her. She knew the answer for God's sake.
It was so ordinary. The only ordinary part of the whole thing.

"I felt obligated to my friend. I guess . . .
Anyway, Treadwell's always makes me uncomfortable. It’s so . . .
stiff."

"
Stiff. . . is that the best word to describe
it?"

Her question angered him. Why was she picking this
way at what he was telling her? It made him want to shake her, 
upset her cool detachment, make her feel what he was feeling . . .
"No, 'fartsy' is a better word." She didn't react. "It's
one of those places you almost have to shop at if you're in my
business . . . The thing that bothers me most about it is the fitting
room. Having to stand there while they adjust you and touch you, it
makes my skin crawl. It makes me feel like. . . I don’t know,"
he said, not wanting even to think about how he felt violated
whenever someone even touched him.
 
"Do
you always feel this way when you go there, or was it something that
made this particular time different?"

He watched her put her cigarette to her lips. There
was a beauty to her actions . . . at the same time they were almost a
torment for him. She knew. His doctor must have told her. Why was she
doing this to him? Another base thought came to mind, of them alone
together — he pushed it back, didn't want to think of her that way.
The thought of doing it to another person was repulsive . . .
Concentrate, he ordered himself. If you don’t finish now you'll
never be able to . . . "I never like to be touched, I admit it.
But this time was worse, much worse. There was something there . . .
something in the air . . . I can’t describe it. All I remember is
that when I tried on the second suit my heart started to race and I
knew . . .well, I didn't know, but I thought I was . . . this sounds
so crazy . . . I thought I was shrinking. That's when I left and went
to my doctor."

"Has anything like this happened to you since?"
Her face showed no reaction to what he had just said, and that
infuriated him. She was stripping him, laughing to herself. A tease,
like girls his classmates had talked about long ago. . .Only this was
worse. They just teased with the flesh. She teased with something
deeper. . .

There was more but he wouldn't tell her. She'd
laughed enough. She didn't need to know how he'd felt afterward, or
how he woke up in his leather chair not knowing how the hell he’d
gotten there. Wondering how he'd gotten from his I bed to there. Or
about the dreams . . .