Lying on the Couch (22 page)

The Golden Gate Analytic Institute had lived in peace for fifty years, perhaps because its aggressive energies were effectively released toward more visible enemies: a robust Jungian Institute and

Lying on the Couch ^ i 3 9

a succession of alternative therapy schools—transpersonal, Reichian, past lives, holotrophic breathing, homeopathic, Rolfing— that rose relentlessly and miraculously from the steaming springs and hot tubs of Marin County. Moreover, John knew that there would be some literate journalist who would not resist a story on a psychoanalytic institute split. The spectacle of well-analyzed analysts unable to live together, posturing, straining for power, bickering over trivialities, and finally divorcing in a huff, made for wonderful literary buffoonery. John did not want to be remembered as presiding over the institute's fragmentation.

"Recall?" exclaimed Morris. "Such a thing has never been done."

"Desperate remedies for desperate times," murmured Olive Smith.

Marshal watched John Weldon's face vigilantly. Upon seeing a slight nod in response to Olive, he took the cue.

"If we don't accept Rick's challenge—which I'm sure will become part of the public domain shortly—then our chance of healing this breech is very slim."

"But recall," said Morris Fender, "because of a wrong interpretation?"

"Don't minimize a serious issue, Morris," said Marshal. "Is there any analytic tool more powerful than interpretation? And are we not in agreement that Seth's formulation is both wrong and dangerous?"

"It is dangerous because it is wrong," ventured Morris.

"No," said Marshal; "it could be wrong but passive—wrong because it doesn't move the patient along. But this is wrong and actively dangerous. Imagine! Every one of his male patients who craves some slight comfort, some slight human contact, is led to believe that he is experiencing a primitive desire to crawl back through his father's anus into the comfort of his bowel-womb. It's unprecedented, but I believe it's right that we take steps to protect his patients." A quick glance assured Marshal that John not only supported but appreciated his stand.

"Womb-rectum! Where did this shit, this heresy, this . . . this . . . this mishugas come from?" said Jacob, a fierce-looking analyst with hanging jowls and enormous gray sideburns and eyebrows.

"From his own analysis, he told me, with Allen Janeway," said Morris.

"And Allen's been dead for three years now. You know I never trusted Allen. I had no evidence, but his misogyny, his foppery, those

140 ^ Lying on the Couch

bow ties, his gay friends, his taking a condominium in the Castro, his building his whole life around the opera ..."

"Let's stay focused, Jacob," John Weldon interrupted. "The issue at this moment is not Allen Janeway's sexual preference. Nor Seth's. We must be very circumspect about this. In today's climate it would be a political catastrophe if we were perceived as censuring or bouncing a member because he was gay."

"He or she were gay," said Olive.

John impatiently nodded assent and continued. "Nor, for that matter, is the issue Seth's alleged sexual misconduct with patients— which we have not yet discussed tonight. We've had reports of sexual misconduct from therapists who've treated two of Seth's ex-patients, but neither patient, as yet, has agreed to file charges. One is unconvinced that it caused lasting harm to her; the other states that it introduced an insidious and destructive duplicity into her marriage but, either because of some perverse transferential loyalty to Seth or because she is loath to face the publicity, has refused to press charges. I agree with Marshal: our proper course is to stay with one issue, namely, that under the aegis of psychoanalysis, he has made incorrect, nonanalytic, and dangerous interpretations."

"But look at the problems," said Bert Kantrell, one of Marshal's cohorts in his analytic class, "think of the confidentiality issues. Seth could sue us for slander. And what about malpractice? If Seth were sued for malpractice by one of his former patients, what would prevent other patients from coming after the deep pockets of our institute or even the national institute? After all, they could easily enough say that we sponsored Seth, that we appointed him to a major training position. This is a hornet's nest; we'd best keep our hands out of it."

Marshal loved seeing his competition appear weak and indecisive. To highlight the contrast, he spoke with all his confidence. "Aw con-traire, Bert. We are far more vulnerable if we do not act. The very point you make not to act is the reason we must act and act with dispatch to dissociate ourselves from Seth, and to do all we can to correct damage. I can just see Rick Chapton, damn him, bringing a suit against us—or at the very least siccing a Times reporter on us— if we censure Seth and then do nothing to protect his patients."

"Marshal's right," said Olive, who often served as the moral conscience of the institute. "Believing, as we do, that our treatment is potent and that the misapplication of psychoanalysis—wild analy-

Lying on the Couch ^ 141

sis—is powerfully injurious, then we have no choice but to live by our words. We must get Seth's ex-patients back into a course of remedial psychotherapy."

"Easier said than done," warned Jacob. "No power on earth could persuade Seth to give out the names of his ex-patients."

"That won't be necessary," said Marshal. "Our preferred procedure, it seems to me, is to make a public appeal in the popular press to all his patients of the last several years, or at least all males." With a smile, Marshal added, "Let us assume that he handled females differently."

Smiles went through the audience at Marshal's double entendre. Though the rumors of Seth's sexual acting out with female patients had been known to the membership for years, it was a great relief finally to have it out in the open.

"Are we agreed, then," said John Weldon, pounding his gavel, "that we should attempt to offer remedial therapy to Seth's patients?"

"I so move," said Harvey.

After a unanimous vote, Weldon addressed Marshal, "Would you be willing to take responsibility for this move? Simply check in with the steering committee with your precise plans."

"Yes, of course, John," said Marshal, barely able to contain his joy and his wonder at how far his star had risen that night. "I'll also clear any of our actions with the International Analytic Association—I've got to talk to the secretary, Ray Wellington, about another matter this week."

EIGHT

our-thirty in the morning. Tiburon was dark except for one brightly lit house perched high on a promontory overlooking San Francisco Bay. The lights of the mighty Golden Gate were obscured by milky fog, but the delicate skyline lights of the city shimmered in the distance. Eight weary men hunched over a table and paid no attention to bridge, fog, or skyline; they had eyes only for the cards dealt them.

Len, hefty, red-faced, wearing broad yellow suspenders decorated with dice and playing cards, announced, "Last hand." It was dealer's choice and Len called for seven-card high-low: the first two cards down, four up, and the final one down. The pot was shared by two winners, the highest and the lowest hand.

Shelly, whose wife. Norma, was one of Carol's law partners, was the big loser that evening (and every evening, at least for the past five months), but he picked up his cards eagerly. He was a handsome, powerful man, with doleful eyes, irrepressible optimism, and a bad

Lying on the Couch ^^ ^ 4 3

back. Before looking at his first two cards, Shelly stood and adjusted the ice pack strapped around his waist. As a young man, he had toured as a tennis pro and even now, despite the pointed objections of some bulging intervertebral discs, still played almost every day.

He picked up the two cards, one atop the other. The ace of diamonds! Not bad. Slowly he slid the second card into view. The two of diamonds. An ace and deuce of diamonds! Perfect hole cards! Was it possible, after a run of such miserable cards? He put them down and a few seconds later couldn't resist looking at them again. Shelly didn't notice the other players watching him—that second, loving look was one of Shelly's many "tells"—tiny sloppy mannerisms that gave away his hand.

The next two up cards were just as good: a five and then a four of diamonds. Holy Christ! A miUion-dollar hand. Shelly almost burst into a chorus of "zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay, my oh my— what a wonderful day." One, two, four, and five of diamonds—a hand to die for! Finally his luck had turned. He knew it had to happen, if he just hung in there. And God knows he had hung in.

Three more cards coming, and all he needed for an ace-high flush was another diamond, or a three of diamonds for a straight flush— that would take the high half of the pot. Any low card—a three, six, even a seven—would take the low half of the pot. If he got both a diamond and a low card, he could win both high and low—the entire pot. This hand would make him healthier but not entirely whole; he was down twelve thou.

Usually, on the rare occasions he had a decent hand, most of the guys folded early. Bad luck! Or was it? That was where his "tells" did him in—the players dropped in droves when they picked up his excitement, his silently counting the pot, his guarding his cards more tightly, his betting more promptly than usual, his looking away from the bettor to encourage more betting, his pathetic attempts at camouflage by pretending to be studying the high hands when, in fact, he was going low.

But no one was folding this time! Everyone seemed fascinated with their hands (that was not unusual for the last hand—the guys loved to play so much that they characteristically drained the dregs of the last game). There should be a humungous pot.

To build himself as big a pot as possible. Shelly started betting on the third card. On the fourth card he bet a hundred (betting was a twenty-five-dollar limit on the first round, a hundred on the next

rounds, and two hundred on the last two) and was startled when Len raised. Len didn't show much on the table: two spades, a two and a king. The best Len could do was a king-high spade flush (the ace of spades was sitting in front of Harry).

Keep raising, Len, Shelly prayed. Please keep raising. God grant you your king-high flush! IfII suck hind titty to my ace-high diamond flush. He raised back and all seven players called. All seven— amazing! Shelly's heart beat faster. He was going to win a goddamn fortune. God, it was good being alive! God, he loved to play poker!

Shelly's fifth card was disappointing, a useless jack of hearts. Still, he had two more cards coming. Time to dope out this hand. Hastily he looked around the table and tried to figure the odds. Four diamonds in his hand and three more showing around the table. That meant seven of the thirteen diamonds were out. Six diamonds left. Great odds to get the flush. And then there was the low. Very few low cards on the table—plenty, plenty left in the deck, and he had two cards coming.

Shelly's head whirled—too complicated to figure out precisely, but the odds were fabulous. Way in his favor. To hell with figuring the odds—he was going all in on this hand no matter what. With seven players in the pot, he would get three and a half dollars back for every one invested. And a good chance of winning the whole pot— a seven to one return.

The next card was an ace of hearts. Shelly winced. A pair of aces was not much use. He started to worry. Everything rode on the last card. Still, only one diamond and only two low cards had turned up on the last round; his chances were still fabulous. He bet the max: two hundred. Len and Bill both raised. There was a three-raise limit, and Shelly raised back for the third raise. Six players called. Shelly studied the hands. Nobody showed much. Only two small pairs on the whole table. What the hell were they all betting on? Were there going to be some nasty little surprises.^ Shelly kept trying to sneak-count the pot. Gigantic! Probably over seven thou, and another big round of betting left.

The seventh and last card was dealt down. Shelly picked up his three down cards, shuffled them thoroughly, and then slowly squeezed them open. He had seen his father do it that way a thousand times. An ace of clubs! Shit! The worst card he could get. Starting off with four small diamonds and ending up with trip aces. They were nothing—worse than nothing because he probably couldn't

Lying on the Couch ^ 14 5

win and yet they were too good to fold. This hand was a fucking curse! He was trapped; he had to stay in! He checked, Len, Arnie, and Willy bet, raised, reraised, and reraised again. Ted and Harry dropped. Eight hundred to him. Should he cough it up? Five players in. No chance to win. Inconceivable that one of them wouldn't have three aces beat.

And yet. . . and yet. . . there were no high hands showing. Maybe, just maybe. Shelly thought, all the other four players were going for low! Len had a pair of threes showing; maybe he was trying to push through two pair or trip threes. He was known for that. No! Wake up, dreamer! Save the eight hundred. No chance to win with trip aces—there had to be hidden flushes or straights. Had to be. What the hell could they be betting on? How much was the pot? At least twelve thou, maybe more. He could go home to Norma a winner.