Cody McFadyen: Shadow Man

"I want a pack of cigarettes," I said to the proprietor, still gulping in air.

He was an older man, in his fifties, who looked Indian to me.

"What kind do you want?"

The question startled me. I hadn't smoked in years. I looked at the rows behind him, my eyes catching the once-beloved Marlboros.

"Marlboros. Reds."

He got me the pack and rang it up. Which is when I realized I was in sweats and had no money. Instead of being embarrassed, I was, of course, angry.

"I forgot my purse." I said it with my chin jutted out, defiant. Daring him to not give me the cigarettes or to make me feel ridiculous in any way.

He looked at me for a moment. It was, I guess, what writers would call a "pregnant pause." He relaxed.

"You've been running?" he asked.

"Yeah--running from my dead husband. Better than killing yourself, I guess, ha ha!"

The words came out sounding funny to my ears. A little loud, a little strangled. I suppose I was a little crazy. But instead of getting the flinch or look of discomfort I so wanted from him at that moment, his eyes went soft. Not with pity, but with understanding. He nodded. He reached across the counter, holding the pack of cigarettes out for me to take.

"My wife died in India. One week before we were supposed to come to America. You take the cigarettes, pay me next time."

I stood there for a moment, staring at him. And then I snatched those cigarettes and ran out of there as fast as I could, before the tears started rolling down my cheeks. I clutched that pack of cigarettes and ran home weeping.

The place is a little out of my way, but I never go anywhere else now when I want to smoke.

I sit up now and smile a little as I find the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, and think of the guy at the store as I light up. I guess a part of me loves that little man, in the way you can only love a stranger who shows you a kindness so perfect at a time when you need it the most. It's a deep love, a pang in the heart, and I know that even if I never know his name, I'll remember him till the day I die.

I inhale, a nice deep lungful, and regard the cigarette, its perfect cherry tip as it glows in the dark of my bedroom. This, I think, is the insidiousness of the cursed things. Not the nicotine addiction, though that's surely bad enough. But the way a cigarette just fits in certain places. Morning dawns with a steaming cup of coffee. Or lonely nights in a house filled with ghosts. I know I should give them up again, before they get their claws all the way back into me, but I also know I won't. They are all I have right now, a reminder of a kindness, a comfort and a source of strength, all rolled into one.

I exhale and watch the smoke billow, caught here and there by little currents of air, floating and then disappearing. Like life, I think. Life is smoke, plain and simple; we just fool ourselves that it's otherwise. All it takes is one good gust and we float away and disappear, leaving behind only the scent of our passing in the form of memories. I cough suddenly, laughing at all the connections. I'm smoking, life is smoke, and my name is Smoky. Smoky Barrett. My real name, given to me because my mother thought it "sounded cool." This makes me cackle in the dark, in my empty house, and I think as I laugh (as I have before) just how crazy laughter sounds when you're laughing alone. This gives me something to think about for the next three or four hours. Being crazy, I mean. Tomorrow is the day, after all. The day when I decide if I go back to work for the FBI or come home, put a gun in my mouth, and blow my brains out.

A RE YOU STILLhaving the same three dreams?"

This is one of the reasons I trust my appointed shrink. He doesn't play mind games, dance around things, or try to sneak up and flank me. He goes straight for the heart of it, a direct attack. As much as I complain, and struggle against his attempts to heal me, I respect this. Peter Hillstead is his name, and he's about as far from the Freudappearance stereotype as you can get. He stands just under six feet tall, with dark hair, a model-handsome face, and a body I wondered about when I first met him. His eyes are the most striking thing about him, though. They are an electric blue I've never seen on a brunette before. Despite his movie-star looks, I cannot imagine transference happening with this man. When you are with him, you do not think about sex. You think about you. He is one of those rare people who truly care about those they deal with, and you cannot doubt this when you are with him. You never feel, when you talk to him, that his mind is roaming elsewhere. He gives you his full attention. He makes you feel like you are the only thing that matters inside his small office. This is what, to me, precludes having a crush on this hunky therapist. When you are with him, you don't think of him as a man, but as something far more valuable: a mirror of the soul.

"The same three," I respond.

"Which one did you have last night?"

I shift a little, uncomfortable. I know that he notices this, wonder what he's decided it means. I'm always calculating and weighing. I can't help it.

"The one about Matt kissing me."

He nods. "Were you able to go back to sleep afterward?"

"No." I stare at him, not saying anything more, while he waits. This is not one of my cooperative days.

Dr. Hillstead looks at me, chin in his hand. He seems to be contemplating something, a man at a crossroads. Knowing that whatever path he chooses will be one he can't take back. Almost a minute goes by before he leans back and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Smoky, did you know that within the ranks of my fellow practitioners, I'm not all that well thought of?"

I start at this, both at the idea of it as well as the fact that he is telling me at all. "Uh, no. I didn't."

He smiles. "It's true. I have some controversial views about my profession. The primary one being that I feel we have no real scientific solution to the problems of the mind."

How the hell am I supposed to respond to that? My shrink telling me that his chosen profession doesn't have any solutions to mental problems? Not exactly confidence-inspiring. "I can see how that might not be appreciated."

It's the best response I can muster on short notice.

"Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that I think my profession contains no solutions to mental problems."

And that, I think, is one of the other reasons I trust this therapist of mine. He is knife-edge sharp, to the point of clairvoyance. It doesn't spook me. I understand it--any truly gifted interrogator has this ability. To anticipate what the other person is thinking in response to what you are saying.

"No. What I mean is this: Science is science. It is exact. Gravity means when you drop something, it will always fall. Two plus two is always four. Nonvariance is the essence of science."

I think about this, nod.

"That being the case, what my profession does?" He gestures. "Our approach to the problems of the mind? Not a science. Not yet, at least. We haven't arrived at two plus two. If we had, I would solve every case that walked in that door. I would know, in case of depression, do A, B, C, and it would always work. There would be laws that never changed, and that would be science." He smiles now, a wry smile. Maybe a little sad. "But I don't solve every case. Not even half." He is silent a moment, then shakes his head. "What I do, my profession? It's not a science. It's a collection of things you can try, most of which have worked before more than once, and, having worked in more than one case, are worth trying again. But that's about it. I've stated this view in public, so . . . I don't have the greatest rep among many of my peers."

I give this some thought while he waits. "I think I can see why," I say.