Stephen White - Blinded

Over my first cup of coffee early that morning, I would probably have been placated by Sam’s assertion that Sterling was just another sick snake. But no longer. If Gibbs was right about Sterling, I knew he wasn’t just another sick snake. He was a cobra with blood from some undetermined number of women dripping from his needlelike fangs.

I reminded myself that Gibbs hadn’t given me permission to talk with Sam about the other women she believed her husband had killed, only about Louise. “Some guys are… more dangerous than others, Sam. Right?” was all I could think of to say.

“You mean this guy? I don’t know. From what little you’ve told me, I’m thinking the murder was a heat-of-passion thing. What are the odds of a repeat? Higher than you and me-or at least me, anyway-but statistically not that high. Contrary to public opinion, most people don’t develop a taste for it. For murder, I mean. What does he do, anyway? For a living?”

I wondered whether I could reveal that information based on the limited release I had from Gibbs. I decided I could. “He’s involved in the production of sporting events for a national cable TV channel.”

“ESPN? Does he do hockey?”

“I’m not going to tell you any more than I’ve told you.”

“Have I heard of him?”

“I doubt it. Maybe if you read credits.” If Sam read credits, I’d eat a hockey puck.

“It’s not like… Barry Melrose or Don Cherry, is it?”

I didn’t know who Barry Melrose was. Don Cherry? I knew I’d heard of him, but I couldn’t have guessed who he was, either. Given that Sam was asking, I assumed that both of them had something to do with hockey, and neither was in the production end of the game.

I said, “Production, not talent.”

“Cherry has a temper. Impulse problems, you know?”

“And that’s unusual among hockey players?” I asked innocently.

“It’s all relative.”

“Don’t worry; it’s not Don Cherry, Sam.”

He sipped water out of a cup with a straw. “She’s going to stop by to see you, too, you know.”

“Who is?”

He burped and lifted his hand to the center of his chest.

I almost screamed for a nurse.

“Reynoso. She won’t make an appointment, or ask you to Starbucks for a latte. But she’s going to show up to talk to you, too.”

“That’s okay. I’ll tell her exactly what I told you. That’s all I have permission to tell her.”

He stuck the tip of his finger so far into his ear canal that I wondered whether he was missing some essential part of his aural anatomy. “That might not satisfy her. Some cops aren’t as easygoing as I am.”

“Now there’s a scary thought.”

“You know more, don’t you? Your client didn’t give you permission to tell me everything, did she?”

“I can’t answer that, Sam. Confidentiality. I’m sorry.”

He nodded. “I may get out of here today. Doc’s coming by later. Says he may let me go home and get into an outpatient rehab program. You know: exercise, diet, stress reduction.”

“That’s great,” I said. “Maybe Adrienne can get you doing some yoga. It’d be great for your stress.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Hockey players do yoga.”

“Now you’re giving me chest pain.”

“Don’t joke about that, Sam. What about work?”

“My captain came by, made reassuring noises about me going back. He says they want to make sure I’m in the best possible shape before I’m back on the job. A million docs will have to clear me. He said I shouldn’t even think about working until after New Year’s.”

“A six-week vacation will do you good. Give you a chance to break in your new healthy lifestyle.”

“Six weeks at home right now is not exactly my idea of a stress-reduction prescription. Sherry’s already making noises about having to roast tofu instead of turkey next week. She’s not going to be happy having me moping around the house until after New Year’s.”

I knew I didn’t want to ask Sam what was going on in his marriage. I sensed he didn’t want me to ask, either. I played along with his denial. I didn’t feel good about it, but that’s what I did.

“You’ll have a great time with Simon, Sam.”

“He’s in school during the week, takes the bus up to the mountains to snowboard with his friends every weekend. Copper Choppers, you know about it? When Grace gets older, you will. Anyway, I don’t think my cardiologist is going to endorse me doing a whole lot of snowboarding this winter.” Sam asked, “Why did she stay with him so long? Your client? She’s known he was a murderer for a while. Why did she stay with him for so long?”

“Fear. Loyalty. Denial. That’s a tough question, Sam. Why do women stay in unhealthy marriages? We both see it all the time.”

He turned away from me and from my question. He moved a tissue box on his bedside tray. “Why is she turning him in now?”

“Another tough question.”

Sam picked that moment to adjust his bed. Once he had it right he said, “If it happens-if I get released from this place-would you maybe be around later to give me a ride home?”

I almost asked, “What about Sherry?” But I didn’t. I said, “Of course.”

“Although I don’t really want to,” Gibbs began, “I think maybe we should talk about sex.”

I almost said what I was thinking. What I was thinking was that Gibbs and I should be talking about serial murder. Sex could wait.

Instead I stifled a yawn.

At my insistence Gibbs had come back in for a session on Thursday. My only free time was seven-fifteen. In the morning. As good a time as any to talk about sex, right?

There was a brief time in my career when a preamble like the one Gibbs offered would have caused my ears to perk up just a little. Part of the arousal of interest I’d have felt would have been prurient or voyeuristic, I’m sure, but mostly the increased interest on my part would have had to do with inexperience.

I would have mistaken an introduction like hers for a promise that I’d hear the titillating prelude to something new, something different, something intrinsically interesting.

But just as my first visit to a nude beach had taught me that most people are more attractive-much more attractive-with their clothes on, my experience doing psychotherapy had taught me that most people’s sex lives weren’t particularly fascinating, and that the more details I knew, the less fascinating they turned out to be.

Where sex was concerned, a little mystery did indeed go a long way.

After well over a decade of clinical practice I tended to listen to tales of erotic encounters, or supposed erotic encounters, with the same detachment that I listened to the details of marital arrangements over housecleaning or the choice between individual and joint checking accounts.

“Just grist for the mill,” one of my old supervisors would have said about sexual topics in psychotherapy. “It’s all just grist for the mill.” I would nod knowingly to her in response to her maxim, but the truth was that I didn’t even know what grist meant. Still don’t.

I found that I looked back and contemplated the professional road I had traveled more and more as the years passed. Maybe it was a function of age, maybe it was just the fact that I had a growing list of things to look back on. In graduate school I knew a guy who insisted that he never looked back and didn’t even use his mirrors while driving. “Everything I need to see is out in front of me,” he claimed.

Me? I lived believing that whatever I didn’t spot creeping up behind me was likely to take a good-sized chunk out of my ass.

One of the items in my rearview mirror that early Thursday morning exactly a week before Thanksgiving was Diane’s contention that during the prior conjoint therapy I’d suffered from night blindness and totally missed the sexual fuel that was simmering in Gibbs and Sterling Storey’s relationship. I was determined not to make the same mistake twice.