Walter Mosley - Debbie Doesn't Do It Anymore

“Write that down.”

I don’t usually talk to myself. As a matter of fact I had never done so (or at least I don’t remember doing it) before that day. But I got up and went to the kitchen where our housekeeper, Mrs. Slatkin, usually kept a blank book diary where she wrote down the things she wanted us to buy. This little journal was fairly new. Only a few pages had been scribbled on. I tore out the used sheets and jotted down the words I’d asked myself to write.

Only the first few words, I’m cut off , seemed to go anywhere. A junkie in paradise was more like a book or movie title, and a bitch in heat locked in a room full of doggie dolls used too many words to get the point across.

My father’s midnight special was on the kitchen table next to where I wrote. I was wondering about the significance of this, this juxtaposition, when the doorbell sounded.

It was the first nineteen notes from Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony. That was the only classical music that Theon knew. He’d loved it as the orchestration of the Sean Connery movie Zardoz .

I put the pistol in the pocket of my tatty blue-and-yellow dress and wandered up toward the front door thinking that everything was connected but, at the same time, nothing mattered.

She was tall and austere-looking in her navy blue, calf-length dress suit and maroon high-heeled shoes. Dr. Anna Karin was ten years older than I but in some ways her face seemed younger, at least more innocent. She smiled when I opened the door. I could imagine why. When last she saw me I was in a tight red vinyl minidress with white hair nearly down to my tailbone. My eyes were oceanic blue and I had glossy platinum-colored nails longer than a toddler’s fingers.

“Hello, Sandra,” she said.

Karin was born in Copenhagen but she didn’t have an accent. Her enunciation was very, very American, more so than most people you meet who were born here. That was how I could tell that she wasn’t — American, that is.

We met when I was going through a bout of anorexia. Theon was afraid that I’d hurt my health (and our income) and so he got Karin’s name from one of his legit Hollywood friends.

“A house call?” I said.

“I was concerned.”

We stood at the threshold staring at each other — the handsome Scandinavian and I.

I wondered why she was there and what my black skin would look like next to hers. This latter thought wasn’t sexual musing but professional reflex. How women looked on a set when paired up with one or many men often made a scene work.

But I was retired.

“Come on in,” I said, turning my back and leading her into the white-on-white-in-white living room.

“Have a seat,” I offered, and she lowered herself into one of the three oversize stuffed chairs that were upholstered in lambskin.

“This room is quite stark,” she said. “Is it your husband’s design?”

“No. This is the only room in the house that I’m responsible for.”

“You look very different.”

“So do you.”

“How do you mean?” Anna asked, holding her hands up a few inches, indicating the space around her as if it were a permanent aura.

“I’ve never seen you outside of your office before.”

“How are you, Sandra?”

“I haven’t shaved my pussy for days. It itches.”

“What does that mean to you?”

“No,” I said.

“No?”

“You’re a visitor in my house, Anna. I’m not on your couch; I haven’t asked for a session. If you want to be a friend I’m happy to offer you some wine or mineral water. I’ll even make an omelet if you’re hungry. But I will not be psychoanalyzed in my own home — by a guest.”

Ideas and convictions were already coming out of me and I’d only written a few words in my journal.

“What happened?” Anna asked.

I told her the story of Theon and Jolie, of Big Dick and my first orgasm in years, of the gangster, the cop, and Rash Vineland, who could get me to talk like no one had in a very long time.

“I don’t want to sound like a therapist in your own home,” Anna said. “But you sound so detached. It’s like you have no connection to these tragedies or any other feelings.”

“I’m a spiritual paraplegic,” I agreed. “I’m stuck, cut off, and numb.”

Concern creased the sophisticated brow of the descendant of bloodthirsty Vikings.

“What can I do?” she asked.

“I’m broke, Anna. That’s why I didn’t return your call. Theon spent all our money, every cent, before he died. I can’t afford to see you. In a couple of months I won’t even have my own bed to sleep in.”

For a long while she stared at me. I thought that she was looking for a friendly way to excuse herself. The world we lived in was defined by the ability to pay, and I no longer had that talent. Her accent alone was enough to tell me that she couldn’t, that she wouldn’t and even shouldn’t reach out across the void of poverty.

“I work from eight in the morning until five every afternoon,” Anna said after a long span of silence. “You can choose any two mornings at six and I will be there to meet with you.”

“I don’t need two mornings,” I said, a little breathless with gratitude, not in appreciation for the free offer of therapy but for the generosity itself. I might have been near tears.

“Yes, you do,” Anna Karin said. “As a matter of fact I will only agree to see you if you consent to meeting me twice a week.”

“I don’t understand.”

Anna’s eyes were a pale blue, like a day that had been bright but was now being covered by a thin layering of clouds.

She smiled.

“I don’t want you to leave yet,” I said then, realizing that she wasn’t going to answer my question.

She sat back in the plush chair and eyed me closely.

I enjoyed the scrutiny. This made me think of the pleasure Lana got when I gazed so closely at her.

“I know you don’t,” Anna said. “But there’s a delicate line here. We are about to embark upon a very fragile phase of our relationship. This is not about friendship. A friend would not be able to break the bond that you’re held by. A friend would not be able to let you go.”

Again I felt something. There was some kind of truth in her statement. I knew what she said was right but I couldn’t have explained why.

Anna stood up then and nodded.

“Wednesday and Thursday,” I said, because it was a week away and I needed time.

“Six in the morning,” Anna added.

“Do you have to go?”

“Yes,” she said. “I do.”

The next thing I knew I was on my feet holding Anna with all my might. She gripped me in an embrace that was almost a restraint. I was surprised by her strength.

We let go at the same moment, as if the movements had been choreographed.

“I will see you this coming Wednesday,” she said. “Six a.m.”

I watched as she walked away, unable to bring myself to accompany her to the door.

I got to Threadley’s at a little after nine that evening. The door was locked, so I pressed the bell and waited patiently. Lewis Dardanelle was somewhere inside. He was like a vampire who only came out to work at night. Most of the people he met were by appointment only.

I was still wearing the faded dress and tattered sneakers. But I had showered and so felt presentable.

“Mrs. Pinkney,” a voice spoke from a speaker embedded in the wall.

“Yes, Mr. Dardanelle. I’m here about your call.”

“I’ll be right down.” His voice was crisp, almost buoyant.

I thought about my mother. She still lived in the small house where I was raised, off Central Avenue, down around Watts. I wouldn’t be able to send her any more checks. That would make my older brother, Cornell, happy. He always wanted to be seen as the breadwinner of our family but I was the one who supported Mom. I wondered how Cornell was, if he’d speak to me ever again.