The Double Bind (19 page)

Likewise, there was no Social Security number in existence for Pamela’s little brother, which would make complete sense if what she had told Laurel was true: Pamela’s brother had been born before Social Security existed, and—if he had died in 1939 as she insisted—he would have died before he would have been assigned one for the purpose of declaring his income.

Of course, for this very reason the site also couldn’t confirm for her that Buchanan had passed away six and a half decades earlier.

Consequently, the jubilation she had experienced in the carrel at the library all but evaporated. David was not the sort who was ever going to whisper, “I told you so,” but Laurel was feeling silly and small. She still believed that Bobbie Crocker was Pamela’s brother, but she understood when she verbalized that notion that she sounded as delusional as a good many of her clients. She knew there was more she could do with Bobbie’s Social Security number, and she would, but they had already missed their movie and so she agreed to David’s entreaties that they shut down his computer and leave.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

W
ITH A COUPLE OF FINGERS,
Whit could hoist his Bianchi road bike up and over the wheelbarrow in the old Victorian’s crowded carriage barn, as well as the other tenants’ detritus: skis and snowboards and skateboards and boots and his own second bicycle, plus the cardboard computer cartons packed with books and clothes and hot plates and mugs. Vaguely aware that Talia was somewhere behind him in the driveway skimming her mail, he lifted his bike in precisely this fashion now as he put it away for the night. It was early Friday evening, and the last of the sun had just disappeared behind the Adirondacks across the lake. It was still light out, but it wouldn’t be soon, and the air was moist with the coming dark. He wasn’t sure whether he was lifting his bike with two fingers now to demonstrate how light the frame was—which, in his mind, was an indication of his prowess as a rider and the sophistication of his bicycle—or because this little maneuver would strike the girl as a casual indication of his brute strength. As inherently contradictory as these motivations were, he guessed the reason was a combination of both. Though he was not interested in Talia, he was in her roommate: This meant that the laws of hormonal transitivity invariably led him to gravitate toward her now. The truth was, he thought about Laurel often when he wasn’t focused on classes and labs, despite his awareness that she was involved with some other guy. She seemed lonely and kind and the possessor of a secret that almost made him ache when he saw her.

Quickly, he locked the bicycle to the jack post. When he emerged from the barn, Talia was seated on the house’s front steps. It was clear that she hadn’t had the slightest interest in how he had put his bike away or noticed the ease with which he had handled the frame.

He decided that he hadn’t ridden far enough or hard enough to smell especially repugnant, and so he joined her on the steps. He was nonplussed to see she was reading a brochure about paintball. He presumed she had received it as part of a bulk mailing.

“Junk mail, I see,” he said.

She looked over at him and seemed momentarily perplexed. Then, understanding what he was referring to, she said—her voice dramatically defensive—“I
ordered
this. I
requested
this. Be careful, young man.”

“You ordered a brochure about paintball? Whatever for?”

“Oh, you weenie cyclists in your tight little shorts are all the same.”

“Has my manhood just been insulted?” He smiled as he asked this, but a part of him wondered always just how seriously Talia meant half the things that she said.

“I just call them as I see them.”

“Really. Why do you need a brochure about paintball? Please don’t tell me you’re actually going to take your church kids there someday this fall.”

“Tomorrow.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope.”

“Really?”

“Which word didn’t you understand? We’re meeting at the church and leaving around nine o’clock. Want to come?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You could ride in the church van. Seats seventeen. And there’s no better way to vomit up breakfast than an hour-long drive in a church van.”

“And no better way to wind up on the front page of a newspaper. ‘Church van’ is Latin for ‘tragic accident involving children and well-meaning grown-ups.’ You could look it up. It’s part of the first-year curriculum at the med school: biochemistry. Embryology. Church vans.”

“Laurel will be there.” She looked down at the glossy piece of paper in her hands. He had a feeling she’d looked away because she wasn’t able to keep a straight face when she told him this tidbit. He wondered if his interest in Laurel was that obvious.

“What exactly do you do when you play paintball?” he asked. “I have this vision of a lot of paunchy, poorly socialized guys in camouflage pants running around the woods shooting blobs of paint at each other.”

“That sounds pretty accurate. But there are teams. And a referee.”

“A referee?”

“Uh-huh.”

He had little desire to spend the day with the high school kids in her church youth group. But there wasn’t anything else he had planned for Saturday until early in the evening, when he was meeting his aunt and uncle for dinner. They’d come to Vermont to see the foliage, which—much to their disappointment—was still a few days away from its colorful, almost hallucinatory peak.

“What time will you get back?” he asked.

“No later than four or four-thirty.”

He reached over for the brochure and scrutinized the map of the field. He couldn’t imagine himself doing this. But, then, he couldn’t imagine Laurel doing it, either.

“We’re going to spend most of our time there,” she said, pointing at a series of waving, topographic lines. “That’s Calamity Ridge. There’s a fuel dump we’re going to capture.”

Something about the words
fuel dump
made it all seem less abstract to him. “Doesn’t any of this make you uncomfortable in light of Iraq?”

Talia turned and stared squarely at him. “I have three friends from school in the Guard, all of whom have been to Iraq or are there right this second. One spent a month in Tikrit. If you come with us tomorrow, you will meet two kids who have older siblings in the Guard, one of whom was in Fallujah. I am neither an oblivious chick who hasn’t a clue about what’s going down in the Middle East, nor a sociopathic neocon who gets off on playing war. Okay? This is a game. And in my opinion, it’s a heck of a lot more wholesome than their PlayStation games—than
your
PlayStation games, for all I know—about snipers and terrorists, if only because they’re running around outside in the fresh air instead of sitting around inside their stuffy rooms hunched over their game consoles. The kids
want
to do this. Some do, anyway. They view it like capture the flag or touch football. I view it as a way to build teamwork and show them that there are adults out there—and, I know it pains you to admit this, Whit, but you are an adult in their eyes—who care about them. Who feel like hanging around with them. So, to answer your incredibly agenda-rich little inquiry: No, it does not make me uncomfortable. Okay?”

He nodded, slightly shell-shocked. He had a PlayStation. He told himself that he still played it on occasion to blow off steam. Reduce stress. He told himself it was…medicinal.

“You in?”

He nodded again. He sensed instantly after her little diatribe that he didn’t dare say no.

O
NE NIGHT
in early August, Whit had gone dancing with Laurel and Talia and two of their friends from UVM—a nice-enough guy named Dennis and a girl named Eva. They were a pack, or what Talia liked to refer to as a herd. It was a Thursday night and they met their friends at a club on Main Street a little past ten. Whit was still getting to know Talia and Laurel, and so he was flattered when they knocked on his door and absconded with him. He felt considerably younger than his housemates across the hall then, because he had only finished college three months earlier and was going to be a student for the next couple of years. Consequently, Talia and Laurel were not merely older women: They were older women with jobs. Granted, they both worked in fields that allowed them to dress essentially as they had when they had been students, but they still had a weekly paycheck—something he didn’t.

The club wasn’t especially crowded because the area colleges weren’t yet back in session, and so it might have been one of those evenings that grew awkward quickly. But it didn’t, largely because they were a gang. He danced with Laurel and he danced with Talia and he even danced for a few minutes with Eva. She worked in the marketing department of a large shopping mall just outside of Burlington, and was the only one in the group who actually had that urban chic look down.

He was already attracted to Laurel and savoring their opportunities to talk when the band was between sets. His sense, even at the time, was that he was far more interested in dancing than she was. Still, she was having fun. He could tell.

It was on the way home, however, that he understood precisely why he was falling for her. Talia and Dennis were going to stay at the club for the last set, but Eva and Laurel were ready to go. They had more rigid hours than Talia and actually had to get up in the morning. And so the three of them left about midnight and started walking home, planning to drop off Eva first before he and Laurel continued up into the hill section of the city where they lived.

They had gone three blocks when they saw the transient. He was sitting on a red plastic milk crate, slumped against a brick wall, enveloped by a black raincoat with the sleeves cut away. He was in the shadows, and so they smelled him before they saw him. His face was long, though much of it was hidden behind a thick nest of beard, and his hair hung in twisted, dirty ropes down the sides of his head. He was bald on top, and his skull there was dotted with sores. Whit guessed he was fifty-five or sixty, but Laurel would tell him later that he was probably no more than forty-five. Eva noticed him before Whit and Laurel did, and she took Whit’s arm and started to lead them across the street and away from the man. Whit wasn’t aware of what she was doing, and so he allowed himself to be led. But then he inhaled the stench and turned and saw the fellow. He was awake and whispering to himself. He wasn’t shouting, but his low mumbling, once they were aware of it, might have been even more disconcerting.

Laurel went right to him. She squatted before him and got his attention. Asked him his name and told him hers. She certainly didn’t pull him completely from his own planet back to theirs, but while Whit and Eva had stood unmoving and mute, fearful, Laurel was taking his hand in hers—and Whit understood clearly that taking the soiled hand of a transient was both an act of mercy and of bravery—and leading him to his feet. Laurel told them that they should go on ahead, but they didn’t. They went with her as she escorted the man to the shelter. There were beds left because it was summer and the homeless can endure a lot longer outside, and with the night manager’s help she got him showered and fed, and then she convinced him to sleep inside that night. It took her about an hour to get him settled. The fellow didn’t talk to the rest of them. He really didn’t say a whole lot to Laurel. But he stopped his murmuring and his eyes no longer darted like the orbs in a pinball machine. They locked on to Laurel’s, and it was clear he felt safe around her. Whatever conspiracies were after him, whatever delusions had led him to the street, momentarily were checked.

When Laurel rejoined Eva and Whit, she apologized for costing them an hour of sleep, and the three of them resumed their walk up the hill. Whit was shaken both by the stink and the utter hopelessness of the fellow Laurel had brought in from the street and by his first view of the inside of the shelter. But after four years there, plus her time as a volunteer, Laurel, he saw, had thought nothing of it.

And he, in turn, was left not merely smitten. He was awed.

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

L
AUREL KNEW SHE
hadn’t been much of a date Friday night—either at the restaurant or back at David’s apartment—because she had felt the clock ticking on the time she had with Bobbie Crocker’s photographs. The lawyer’s call had made her uncomfortable. She wanted to be printing the negatives, especially since she had decided that she would spend at least part of Sunday in Bartlett. Consequently, she and David never quite warmed up to each other, and Saturday morning she went home well before breakfast so she could change her clothes and start work in the UVM darkroom. When she had kissed David good-bye in bed, he hadn’t even tried to hide his frustration with her.

“Why are you suddenly so consumed by this? At this point, what does it matter who Bobbie Crocker really was? Why do you care?” he asked her, his face still half-buried in his pillow. Sometimes on Saturday mornings they would have breakfast in bed and then go for a walk before he left to pick up his children. Other times he would go get his girls and then meet her at some predetermined activity far from the sheets where, hours earlier, they had made love.

“Why must you use that word?”

“Consumed? Because you are. Two of your three meals yesterday were with people who knew Bobbie Crocker, and last night you broke our date—”

“I did not break our date!”

“You upended our date, so you could spend time researching a man who may or may not have once been his photo editor. Now you’re leaving to spend a beautiful autumn Saturday in a darkroom. And why are you doing that? So you can spend tomorrow—no doubt, a beautiful autumn Sunday—with people you’ve never met, talking about two dead men who may or may not even have known each other.”

“I don’t know how long I’m going to have these pictures! I told you, Pamela Marshfield has started to bring in the lawyers. For all we know, any day now I’m going to have to turn them over to her!”

He pulled the sheet over his head and wrapped it tightly around his face. She could tell it was meant as a silly, boyish gesture to de-escalate their disagreement before it could become a serious squabble, but they had been so short with each other since the night before that she actually took offense. She had already left the bedroom when he called out, “What did you decide about taking Marissa’s picture? What should I tell her?”

She was lifting her small backpack off the floor by the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. “I said it’s fine,” she reminded him, aware that she sounded short. But hadn’t they been through this on Friday night? She adored Marissa, and she thought it would be fun to take the girl’s picture. She’d told David that.

“I mean when? She’s going to want to know when.”

Laurel knew there was something she was supposed to be doing one day that week. Monday, maybe. Or Tuesday. A part of her even thought she had something scheduled for that day. She was no longer sure, or—at the moment, anyway—she couldn’t remember. Finally, she suggested, “Monday afternoon, maybe, around four-thirty? Let me check. Maybe I could leave BEDS a little early. I’ll let you know. But if I can’t do it on Monday, we can always do it next Saturday. Okay?” After she’d spoken, she realized instantly that she was hoping he would shout back that Saturday would be fine. Although she knew she would enjoy taking Marissa’s headshots, she was feeling the overwhelming weight of Bobbie Crocker’s photos. And there were just so many other people with whom she needed to speak.

She waited a moment for a response, but didn’t get one. Sometimes, she thought, David seemed to believe that his age alone gave him the privilege of judgment. Lately, whenever they weren’t in bed, she had felt more like another of his daughters than his girlfriend—and a stepdaughter at that. She got the advice, but not the attention. She wondered if she had sounded testy, but then decided she really didn’t have the time that morning to deconstruct everything that she and David had said to each other and left.

When she got home, her apartment smelled musty, and so she opened the window to the small balcony on which she and Talia would sometimes sit and read in the summer. It didn’t have much of a view, but it offered morning sun and there was a glorious maple tree just beside it. Talia’s bedroom door was still shut tight, which didn’t surprise Laurel because it was barely past seven. But she saw her roommate had left a Post-it note for her with the information that there was a message she should listen to on the answering machine. When Laurel pressed the button, she heard an unfamiliar male voice.

“Good afternoon. My name is Terrance J. Leckbruge. I’m a lawyer with Ruger and Oates. Our firm represents Pamela Marshfield. I love your state. My wife and I have a little cottage not far from you up in Underhill, and I’ll actually be there tomorrow and Sunday. It’s just before three o’clock on Friday, and I’m leaving for the day—sorry to call you at the start of a weekend. Please ring my cell when you get in or my place in Vermont tomorrow morning,” he said with a soft southern accent, and then left what sounded to Laurel like a small phone book worth of numbers. In addition to his cell phone and his cottage in Vermont, he had provided an office number and another one for his regular home—both of which had a Manhattan area code.

She had felt herself physically tense when he’d said the word
Underhill,
and she considered erasing the message and going about her day as if she’d never heard it. Moreover, it was so early that she really didn’t need to return his call for hours. But she couldn’t resist knowing precisely how Pamela Marshfield was going to try to bully her for the pictures. And so before she had even changed into clean clothes or sat down with a bowl of yogurt and a banana, she decided she would ring him back. She imagined there was at least a chance she would pull him from bed.

A woman answered, wide awake, and Laurel thought her voice was nothing like the genteel-sounding attorney to whom she was married. She actually had an accent reminiscent of some of Laurel’s neighbors on Long Island. Quickly, the social worker introduced herself and explained that she was looking for a lawyer named Leckbruge. Terrance Leckbruge. The woman asked her politely if she knew what time it was, and Laurel said she would only be home for a moment and that her father had been an attorney.

“When lawyers call me,” said Laurel, “I call them back as soon as I can.” This was actually a complete fabrication: The only times lawyers—other than her father—had ever called her had been in the year after she nearly was raped, and usually she procrastinated as long as possible before calling them back. She hated rehashing the incident, but she seemed to have done so endlessly in those months. A moment later, she heard a screen door whine open and then clap shut.

“So, Laurel, pleasure to speak with you,” said Leckbruge, his voice the reassuring drawl that she had heard a moment before on the answering machine. “You’re an early riser, too? How are you doing on this glorious day?”

“I’m doing okay, thanks. What’s up?”

“Let’s see now, what’s up? Well, I had a very nice, very cordial conversation the other day with one of your Burlington attorneys who represents BEDS. Woman named Chris Fricke. I have to tell you, I am mightily impressed with the work you all do at that shelter. You’re an inspiration,” he said, and then he took a sip of his coffee just loud enough for Laurel to hear it in the pause.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I don’t know all the details about this gentleman—your Mr. Crocker—but it appears to me as if your group really was his saving grace.”

“We found him a home. It’s what we do.”

“You’re modest. Trust me: The work you do is infinitely more important than the work I do.”

“That’s nice of you to say.”

“I mean it,” said Leckbruge, and Laurel had the distinct sense that he did. “I was wondering if we might have coffee together while I’m in Vermont. You could come to our place out here in Underhill. It’s not flashy, but it’s nice. Used to be, of all things, a giant sugarhouse. Woodsy on three sides, but I have a stellar view of Mount Mansfield to the east. The dirt road will beat the dickens out of your car during mud season. But it’s fine the rest of the year. I am presuming you have a car. True?”

“I do,” she said. “But I’m not coming to Underhill.”

She spoke with such unmistakable finality that for a moment he was silent. Eventually, Leckbruge said, “Well, then. Should I read anything particular into your…firmness?”

“Nothing I care to discuss.” An image: the fingernails on the thinner of her two assailants. He had just wrapped his hands underneath the handlebars of her mountain bike as he lifted it—lifted her—off the dirt road, so the nails were facing the sky. There were black lines of grime beneath the tips. Her stomach already was queasy from the way she had been lurched up and into the air, as she heard once again that appallingly stupid joke. Liqueur Snatch. Meanwhile, the one who would prove to be the real bodybuilder was calling her a cunt, roaring the word at her through the mouth hole of his wool mask.

“Very well, very well,” Leckbruge was saying. “Shall we meet in Burlington? Would that be possible?”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“The photographs that were in the possession of your late client. But I’ll bet you knew that.”

“I have nothing to say. I’m sorry. And even if I did, my sense is I should only be talking to Chris Fricke—as should you.”

“Burlington has a lot of eccentric little coffee bars. I love them all, especially one near that theater. The Flynn. Has a hot chocolate that’s downright indecent. And I also know of a gloriously idiosyncratic wine bar. How ’bout we meet at five o’clock? Your choice: coffee or wine.”

She thought she heard stirring behind Talia’s closed door. Suddenly, she had a vague notion that she and her roommate had some outstanding business together—a nagging sense that the two of them were supposed to do something that very day. Perhaps something as simple as shopping. But Laurel didn’t believe that was it.

As much as she enjoyed Talia—as much as she loved Talia; the woman had been more of a big sister to her than her real sibling for years now—she realized that she had to be gone by the time her friend emerged from her bedroom. She needed to get to the darkroom. She
had
to get to the darkroom. Which meant that she couldn’t possibly linger over this phone call. And so, much to her own surprise, she agreed to meet Leckbruge at a wine bar in Burlington at five, if only so she could get off the phone and out of the house. Then, without showering or changing her clothes or even grabbing a piece of fruit for breakfast, she silently raced down the stairs and out the old Victorian’s front door.

W
HERE ONCE HAD SAT
the ash heaps and the billboard of Dr. T. J. Eckleburg—the optometrist whose looming, roadside ad had eyes that were massive, vacant, godlike, and cold—there was now a corporate business park. The buildings were all four and five stories, antiseptic blocks of tinted glass surrounded by parking lots that were dotted with islands of small, stunted trees. There was one fountain, an uninteresting spigot that fanned water into an umbrella near the building that housed a cell phone company. Laurel recognized the complex instantly from the photographs Bobbie had taken, because she had seen it from the highway. That meant that somewhere in the ground beneath one of the buildings was some small remnant of George Wilson’s gas station. A tiny shard of glass, maybe. A trace of the cement that once had supported the gas pump. In addition, there was probably a relic or scrap from the coffee shop managed that awful, steaming summer of 1922 by a young Greek named Michaelis—the principal witness at the inquest that followed Myrtle Wilson’s death.

Had Laurel not known Bobbie’s real identity, she might have puzzled over why the photographer had bothered to snap pictures of an office park on Long Island. It was profoundly far afield from the musicians and actors and news stories that seemed to be his primary subject matter. She might have thought it was possible that toward the end of his career he had been reduced to shooting office parks for real estate ads—and, based on the age of some of the vehicles in the lot, she guessed these were taken in the late 1970s—but she knew just enough area history to understand what he was actually doing. He was chronicling the location where his mother had accidentally run over her husband’s lover and then fled the scene.

She paused for a moment, staring at the images of the office park as they bathed in the chemical trays. How hard must it have been for him when he learned the truth about his parents? How old was he? Certainly, everyone discovers things about their mothers and fathers that make them a little uncomfortable, that leave them a little wobbly. Laurel had read enough psychology to know the importance of accepting one’s parents’ inadequacies, and how we use them unconsciously as a part of our adolescent separation from them. Individuation. Growth. It was, alas, a part of growing up. But it was one thing—in her case, for example—to realize that her otherwise hardworking, disciplined, profoundly giving father gorged on occasion like a Roman emperor. It was quite another to learn that both of your parents were adulterers, and your mother had slammed into a woman while driving her lover’s car and left the victim to bleed to death on the side of the road.

She wondered: Was it when Bobbie learned of his parents’ reprehensible cowardice and selfishness—Daisy driving on as Myrtle died, and then Tom telling George Wilson who owned the yellow car so Gatsby would absorb the despairing man’s wrath—that he changed his last name?

She didn’t know a lot about schizophrenia, but she knew a bit from her master’s in social work and from her years at BEDS. You couldn’t work with the homeless and not pick up something. She found it revealing that Bobbie was sixteen when he ran away from home, since schizophrenia often begins to manifest itself between adolescence and young adulthood, and on occasion there is one traumatic, precipitating event. A term came to her that they used on occasion at BEDS: the double bind. The expression had a clinical origin, referring to Gregory Bateson’s theory that a particular brand of bad parenting could inadvertently spawn schizophrenia. Essentially, it meant consistently offering a child a series of contradictory messages: telling him you loved him while turning away in disgust. Telling him he needed to go to sleep when it was clear you merely wanted him out of your hair. Asking him to kiss you good night and then telling him he has offensively bad breath. Over a long period of time, Bateson hypothesized, a child would realize that he couldn’t possibly win in the real world, and as a coping mechanism would develop an unreal world of his own. The double-bind theory had not been completely discredited, but Laurel knew these days that most clinicians viewed nature—brain chemicals—as a much more significant determinant than nurture in whether a person became schizophrenic. Nevertheless, at the shelter they used the expression in much the same way that they would a term like
catch-22.