Tom Mendicino - Probation

“Andy, I feel sorry for you. I really do.”

“Don’t. Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t want your fucking sympathy,” I shout, slamming my car door. The radials squeal as I back into the street. I press the accelerator, hitting the mailbox and crushing the post.

Thank you, thank you, God, thank you, Jesus, for sending me to that fucking interstate shithouse that oppressively hot summer night! Thank you for clapping on the cuffs, booking me, setting my bail, forcing me to call my loving wife and forcing her to rescue me. The poor little thing must have been torturing herself, trying to find a painless way to break the news to me, how to gently announce that she was ending our marriage. Of course, in the midst of all this angst, she still found plenty of time to call Beautiful Perfect Barry to invite him to my house while I was out of town, sharing a bottle of my champagne while they listened to her favorite bel canto recordings on my sound system. Chaste Goddess my ass, holding hands on my sofa, a roaring fire in my fireplace, making out in my great room. I wonder if she felt the slightest twinge of guilt when she took his hand in hers, led him to my bedroom, and fell back on my mattress, lifting her legs so he could slip off the lace panties I bought her, begging him to stick his fucking dick into her unfaithful pussy. She did it with him in my bed. My fucking bed. I know it.

It was poetic justice, you goddamn fucking bitch. The Lord has not forsaken me. All your best-laid plans torn asunder by that one phone call, denying you the opportunity to humiliate me, hurt me, reject me, pity me, cast me as the victim in our marital melodrama. I got there first and I have just one regret. I wish I had a photograph, irrefutable evidence of my insatiable hunger as I sucked that enormous musky cock with a look of pure and unconditional pleasure that you never, not once, saw on my face.

The voices on the radio are still babbling about the dead Kennedy. The host is repeating himself. The subject’s exhausted. There’s nothing left to say but no one wants to talk about anything else. I drive aimlessly for an hour, turning left, then right. I lived in this town for eighteen years. It’s impossible to get lost. I’ve got nowhere to go but back to my mother’s house.

Adios!

Aloha!

Au revoir!

Arrivederci!

No, make that…

Addio!

Sayonara, Mothra!

Bring out the cake! Blow out the candle! Give me my present! It’s almost our anniversary. Our first and last. We’ll crack open the Veuve Clicquot and celebrate!

“I just assumed you’d be continuing in therapy,” Matt says, sounding disappointed, almost dejected.

Why would he assume that?

“You’ve got a lot going on, what with your mother and all.”

“I can handle it.”

“And there’s the question of medication.”

Can’t he just call in refills as needed?

Each of his arguments is swept aside, inconsequential, and he’s forced to accept my decision and concede he can’t hold me here any longer. Our work is nearly finished as far as the State of North Carolina is concerned. And I’m tired of not having a level playing field. I’m tired of not being able to ask questions or, more accurately, tired of asking questions he never answers.

This evening, I had a chance encounter with one of the priests who share the house. The front door was open and Matt wasn’t in his office. I wandered into the kitchen, looking for a glass of water. A radio in the backyard was playing dance music, ancient and out of style or maybe so retrograde as to be fashionable once again. An emaciated blond in floppy shorts and a muscle shirt was slumped in a lawn chair, one long thin bare foot twitching to the beat as his bony fingers tapped the arm rest.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhh. Love to love you, baby.”

“Can I help you?” he asked, using his sermon voice, a deep rumble resonating from that scrawny chest.

“I’m here to see Matt…Father McGinley.”

“His office is at the front of the house. You passed it on your way back here.”

He held a pair of glasses up to his eyes and squinted, assessing whether I was one of Matt’s juvenile delinquent sociopaths, on the prowl, compulsively pilfering small objects. He saw I was nothing more than a garden-variety neurotic who, once chastised, would pad sheepishly back through the house. He dropped his glasses and turned his attention back to Donna Summer.

All I’m able to squeeze out of Matt is the blond’s a Jesuit from Wisconsin on loan to UNC-Charlotte for the academic year. He’s teaching a course on the French Deconstructionists for the comparative literature department. Matt studiously deflects any further questions, but I persist.

“Why is this so important to you?” he asks.

“It isn’t.”

“Then why so many questions?”

“I’m just curious.”

“Curious about what?” he asks.

About that priest, about you, about whether you are what you seem to be, controlled, engaged in life yet detached, distant enough to remain objective, not a prisoner to whims and urges, highs and lows. I’m curious about whether it’s all a façade and, just like me, you toss and turn in your spartan single bed, your beefy, hairy legs twisted in the sheets, kicking at the hobgoblins crawling out of the woodwork. Where do you hide from your demons? What’s the antidote for desire? Dropping to your knees for a rosary and a pair of novenas for the strength to resist temptation or a quick jack-off and a week without candy as penance?

“Nothing…actually, I am curious about something.”

“What?”

“How do we end this?”

“Haven’t you talked with your lawyer?”

“Right. We show up before the judge. No arrests. Completion of counseling verified. Listen to a word or two of wisdom. Look abashed, no, look reformed, like I couldn’t even conceive of fucking up again, like I’m a whole different person than the loser who stood there a year ago. Record expunged and I rejoin the ranks of solid citizens.”

“So there you are.”

“But I’m still curious. What’s your role in all this?”

“I submit a final report to the Court.”

“Have you started it?”

“Yes.”

“Is it finished?”

“No.”

“When do I read it?”

“You don’t.”

“What does it say?”

This line of questioning makes Matt uncomfortable.

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that.”

I nearly jump out of my seat. One more question he won’t answer, one more secret he’s hiding.

“Whoa, calm down.”

“What do you mean you can’t disclose it?”

“It’s a confidential report to the Court. It belongs to the State. That’s how it works. It’s not mine to give you. It’s the judge’s decision whether to share it. Your lawyer will have to file a motion to get a copy.”

“Wait a minute!”

“What?”

“Who the fuck are you working for here?”

“Well…”

“Haven’t you been preaching to me for months that I’m your patient?”

“Yes.”

“Then give me the report. I have a fucking right to see it. I’ve spent too much time in hospitals and doctors’ offices. I know about patients’ rights. You have to let me see it.”

“Andy, it’s not that simple.”

“It’s not that fucking complicated,” I shout.

“Andy, if you want to see your medical record, fine, but this is different. It’s a report that…”

I realize I’m crying and reach for the box of tissue on the low table between us. They’re oily and they stink, scented to suggest floral bouquets. It’s nothing but frustration, this outburst. I’m tired of him shutting me out, blocking me off. He watches, silently, and the longer he observes, the harder I cry. I point to the closed door. He understands, knowing I don’t want to be humiliated.