Джон Краули - New Haven Noir

A few weeks later I heard shouts from the lunchroom while I ate a sandwich at my desk. My next client told me Gavin had gotten into a fight.

Really? I said. I didn’t think I should ask who started it, but the girl told me anyway. Gavin had claimed that another boy shoved him while he ate. He jumped up, punching.

My client said, That boy touched Gavin. She reached out a finger to show me.

There were a couple of other fights.

Frank and I didn’t spend time together during those weeks. Late one afternoon, I stuck my head into his office. How can you claim he isn’t angry? I said. I couldn’t begin to say whether I was asking a legitimate professional question, trying to find out the status of my participation in the conference, arguing with him, or looking for a way to go to bed with him.

Oh, that’s part of the story, Frank said.

He didn’t ask me to sit down but I took the client’s chair. He was at his desk. Backsliding, he said, but accepting appropriate punishment — it makes it more convincing. He’s lost some privileges — he gets that. You worry too much.

That was all, and I soon left. Embarrassed to be caught worrying again, I bought my ticket. Frank had explained that we’d be reimbursed after the conference. But the next time we talked — outside the facility, a week or so later, as we headed to our cars — he said Gavin was refusing to go to the conference. No videos, no trip, he said. The little shit.

Oh! I said. I stopped, clutching my tote bag full of reports. Frank, I said. I was uncomfortably aware of all the fantasies of this trip I’d been allowing myself. And the ticket was expensive.

Not a big deal, he said. I’ll reason with him. But I can’t until he calms down.

What if he doesn’t calm down? I said.

He will. He sounded stern. I wanted him to be right so we could go to the conference — but also because I wanted his theories to be true, so as to prove that my doubts were unfair: I wanted my lover to be the distinguished psychologist I had thought was seducing me, not a smooth-talking fake.

I think he misread my expression — or maybe he read it too well. Look, I know what I’m doing! he said with real anger. For the first time, there was uncertainty — desperation — in his eyes, and he didn’t look as if he knew what he was doing. It was a hot, sunny afternoon in September, and we were standing on a cracked sidewalk two doors down from the residence, which had a parking lot so small we often couldn’t use it. His car was parked at the curb where we stood; mine was half a block away. Brown leaves were accumulating, though the leaves on the trees were still green.

I tensed. I didn’t want him angry with me. I said, No, no, of course he’ll calm down. Of course you know what you’re doing! My foot played with a piece of broken sidewalk.

But he stared at me, his eyebrows too dignified for failure. His blue shirt seemed to be sticking to him. I turned protective. If you can’t talk about Gavin, I said, aren’t there others?

He shrugged and turned away, opened his car door, and got in.

It will work out! I called lamely.

I didn’t hear from him after that. At work we barely spoke.

One Friday — maybe two weeks after that conversation and a week or so before the picnic — the day was chilly, so I wore a jacket to work. When I left that evening, Frank’s door was open and I called, Goodnight! as I passed, but he didn’t answer. I went downstairs, left the building, and was almost at my car when I remembered the jacket. I had left it in my office. I would want it over the weekend. I turned back.

Now Frank’s door was closed, and I heard voices as I neared it. The sound of crying. In a rough, sarcastic voice, Frank was saying something I couldn’t quite make out. It sounded like break . Break, sure, the break, of course, the break! It was the tone that stopped me, a kind of wild rage. I didn’t know what he actually said — still don’t. Then I heard something more clearly. I guess the crying was quieter. You really are worthless, Frank said. I don’t care what happens to you.

I didn’t decide to open the door and walk in, I just walked in. Gavin was crying but standing up, his arms tensed, ready to strike; Frank was sitting at his desk. Gavin was small for his age, I realized, but he moved like a man as he faced Frank.

Frank looked up, startled. You don’t believe in knocking?

You scared me, I said.

So knocking isn’t required when you’re scared? His voice was heavy with sarcasm. Sorry, I didn’t know about that rule!

Gavin turned and dropped his arms. He looked embarrassed.

Gavin, I said, do you want to come with me?

He glanced from one of us to the other. No.

We can go now and tell Diane what just happened. Dr. Frank shouldn’t talk to you that way. She could assign you to a different therapist.

No, Gavin said.

I think you should mind your fucking business, Frank said. You have no idea what’s going on in here.

I know it’s not all right, I said.

Frank said, Gavin has made it clear that he doesn’t need your help. Right, Gavin?

Gavin nodded. I didn’t know what to do. I went downstairs, but Diane had gone for the day. I left the building, again without my jacket, and drove home. All weekend I tried to decide what to do. Finally I phoned Frank. I’m sorry I walked in on you, I said.

No, he said. I’m the one who should apologize. I understand why you did. I sounded insane. But I wasn’t — truthfully, I wasn’t.

Can we get coffee? I said. What he’d told me was a relief. I wanted to hear his explanation. I wanted to get back to what we’d had before. Somehow. I wanted what had happened to go away, and maybe he could tell me why I didn’t have to keep thinking about it, why I didn’t have to act on it.

I pointed out to myself that I had no way of knowing what went on between Frank and his patients. Maybe this was some kind of role-play, some kind of exercise. I knew it was harmful, but surely, I told myself, it would be better to persuade Frank that what he had done was not appropriate than it would be to tell Diane what I’d heard. He’d lose his job. Anyway, I’d heard clearly only part of what he said.

We met at a coffee shop. I suppose he knew that whatever else I wanted, I still wished to go to bed with him. When he came in, he leaned over to kiss me on the lips, then bought himself coffee and pulled his chair around to the side of the table, so we were shoulder to shoulder.

Who have you told? he asked.

Nobody.

I knew it! he said. You’re too smart to get upset about something you don’t understand. You trusted me, on some level. I was right to sign you up for the conference — we think alike, Jen. We’ve got a good future.

Is the conference still on?

Well, Gavin didn’t want to go downstairs and tell Diane I was yelling at him, did he?

I said slowly, He was too scared of you to be honest with me.

No, Frank said. I think I understand Gavin. Anger is ordinary to him. He knows I’ll scream at him when I’m angry — he gets that. I respect him enough to tell him candidly what I think.

That he’s worthless?

At that moment, when he was saying no to me? Yes, that’s what I thought. I don’t always think that. He knows I don’t always think that.

I let myself believe him. Coffee turned into dinner and dinner turned into bed. I’m glad we’re colleagues, Frank said as we headed into my apartment. I’m glad we’re lovers, don’t get me wrong — but I’m even gladder that we’re colleagues. Which of course was the most romantic thing he could have said to me.

I phoned Frank twice in the hours after the picnic, when he and Gavin didn’t return. Leaving for the day, I stopped at Diane’s office. Her eyes were heavy and she seemed small and rumpled behind her desk. She said, I don’t even know his cell.