Wolfman - Art Bourgeau (19 page)

His words had an effect. She understood at least some
of his anger, but she needed a moment to regain control. "What
happens here between us is not clinical. You can’t progress by
denying it. Life isn't a series of small compartments. Sometimes they
spill over, sometimes it’s messy. That's what .we’re here to deal
with. Now tell me how you felt."

"
There's nothing to talk about."

God, like Adam and Charles to her. "Yes, there
is. You're angry you're trying to shut me out. This is not something
that happened fifteen or twenty years ago, this is fresh, and we are
going to talk about it." She paused, needing to get her own
emotions under control. "Now once again, what did you feel when
I told you I couldn't see you?"

The way she said it, the tone, had the crack of a
whip in it.

He gripped the arm of the chair. White showed around
the center of his eyes. His heart was pounding. It wasn’t Margaret
in front of him, it was his mother sitting there. "That you were
a whore . . . satisfied!"

"
Why?" she asked, although it didn't
surprise her. What he was saying fitted with his earlier remarks
about women. Two categories — madonnas and whores. No middle ground
where most real women lived . . .

Mother was still in front of him, smoking, that
knowing look on her face. "No . . . that's not right, I didn’t
mean that."

"I think you did. What makes me a whore . . .
that you saw me with another patient . . . that I was rejecting you .
. . or that I had the capacity to care about more than one person?"

He looked at the couch again. "You enjoyed it .
. ." he blurted out, thinking how his mother wallowed in the
excitement of it, hating her for it, wanting to be part of it.

"And I betrayed you by enjoying it," she
said. "Would you have felt differently if the patient you saw me
with was another woman instead of a man?"

"I don’t know. How should I know?" It was
less a challenge than a cry for help, for an ally.

Margaret sensed this and moved to reassure him. "What
you felt is normal. What happens here, the feelings we share and
explore, it’s natural to feel jealousy or anger or both at the
sight of me with another patient. There’s nothing wrong with that.
All I wanted you to do was to express those feelings. Being angry
doesn’t make me think less of you. On the other hand, I have a full
practice. There are others who have a claim on me and my help. That's
why I couldn’t allow you to interrupt, and intrude on one of those
patients’ time."

He turned and looked at her. His mother wasn’t
there. How could he even have thought that? It was Margaret, and she
looked tired. Wrong to think badly of her. Margaret was beautiful,
the way her hair caught the light, the way it lay on her shoulders,
her only jewelry the wide gold hoop earrings he'd seen her wear
before. Her blouse was open at the throat. He let his eyes travel
down to her breasts. His own nipples began to tingle as he looked at
the outline of her breasts under her blouse. He knew how he would
touch them. Gently, softly, stroking them, letting the warm good
feeling take her over . . . He thought about her husband. Even though
she’d never talked about him, he was sure she had one. He thought
about what she felt when he made her do it . . . hoped it wasn't the
same as with his stepfather . . . that he was gentle and respectful.
Never mind, even if he was, Loring knew he hated him.

Through his thoughts he heard her say, "When you
came, there was something you wanted to talk to me about. What was
it?"

Her words drew him back to the present. "My
dream . . .I came to tell you about it." When she didn't speak,
he quickly added, "You always want to know about them."

"Yes, tell me about it."

"It was one of those dreams that was so real you
thought it was actually happening. You know how sometimes you have
nightmares like that. That's how this one was . . ."

What was the best way to tell it? "I have a
chair in my house, a club chair, and I dreamed I woke up in it . . .
I often take naps in it . . . but this time I didn't know how I got
there. When I looked down my hands were covered in blood. I stood up
and looked in a mirror. My face was covered with blood, but I wasn't
cut anywhere. No signs of violence. Nothing was out of place. Just
me, covered in blood." He waited.

"How many times have you had this dream?"

"Three. Once after that day in the fitting room,
and twice since then."

"Did anything out of the ordinary happen to you
during the last few days?"

He didn't answer immediately. He didn't want to tell
her about Wiladene forcing him to take Erin to the party. He knew
there was nothing wrong with it, still he didn't want her to know.
"Nothing except what happened between us," he finally said.

"Think back. What else did you do in the dream?
Did you walk around, go outside, shower. . . what?"

He shook his head. "No, that’s all. I just got
up and looked in the mirror."

"In the dream what were your feelings when you
saw yourself like that . . . covered with blood?"

"I don't know . . . I guess afraid . . . afraid
I'd done something wrong . . . the blood, I mean. Yes, that was it .
. . fear. I was more afraid than I can ever remember, and I kept
wondering what was happening to me."

"I don't think you need to worry. Was that the
only reason you came?"

He was silent for a moment. Should he tell what else?
About how he felt about her? "It was the dream . . . and to see
you."

There, he’d done it. He’d made the crossover.
He’d given himself to her.

Clinically, of course, it was transference. But
still, his admission touched her. She knew how hard it was for him to
make, a man who trusted so little.

"Thank you," she said, and he promptly took
it as a sign. He watched her draw on her cigarette and exhale. Her
movements pleased him. He could feel the burn of the smoke in his own
lungs.

"Now about your dream," she was saying, now
talking to him as an equal, a colleague. "Jung described man as
a symbol-making animal. The blood in your dream, being covered with
it, could mean several things. For instance, blood symbolizes family
unity. We are blood-related, as people like to say. Blood covering
you could mean that because of your sister's wedding you are being
drawn back into an unpleasant family situation, forced to be a part
of things you don't like . . . the way, for instance, you didn't like
what you saw when you opened my office door. The fear you described
came when you woke up in your dream and imagined some terrible deed
was done."

She paused again to draw on her cigarette, giving him
time for what she said to sink in.

When he said nothing, she went on. "Blood also
can symbolize conflict. A fight for control, against losing control.
Which can be very scary. The issue of control is one of the most
difficult a therapist deals with. Its counterpart is trust. For
therapy to work, a patient needs to trust the therapist enough to
give up some of that control. And as I've said, that can be
terrifying to some people."

He said nothing.

"You're my last patient today, so I have a
little extra time. I'd like to go back to the moment you opened the
office door and saw me with the other patient. Try now to tell me
everything you felt about it. Remember about trust. And that I’m
not your adversary. I care about you. I’m the person you can say
anything to."

"I can’t."

"Is it because I’m looking at you?" she
said. He started at her words. Her perception startled him. The blue
of her eyes told it all. She knew everything he was thinking. They
were transmitting feelings through the air.

"
Yes," he admitted.

"I want you to lie down on the couch. That way
we won't be facing each other, and it will relax you — "

"But I want to see you."

"This time it would be better if you didn't. I
want you to be able to clear your mind and let everything come out,
without distractions."

The soft voice was caressing, it was like she was
hypnotizing him. In her power, that's how she wants you. It
frightened him until it dawned on him that he didn't care. The idea
of giving up control, of her making the decisions, of him doing
whatever she wanted seemed suddenly appealing. He went over to the
couch and stretched out on it. Immediately his senses seemed
heightened. Through his clothes he imagined he could feel the man he
had seen on it, like sweat through the fabric.

Behind him he heard the rustle of Margaret's nylons
as she came near and sat down just out of sight. The sound of her
gave him goose bumps.

"Are you comfortable on the couch? Tell me how
you feel now?" she said softly.

He smiled. "Like the fucking Rose of Shannon,"
he heard himself say, and was astonished. He couldn't believe he had
said that word in front of her. But it felt delicious when he did.

"
Good," she said, and he was sure she meant
it, that she was smiling too. "Now start at the beginning and
tell me everything you felt."

"When I opened the door and saw you sitting
there . . . you looked guilty . . . like I'd just caught you doing. .
. something."

"
Doing what?"

He hesitated, then let go . . . "Going to bed
with him . . ."

"How did that make you feel?"

"I don’t know. . . angry, I guess . . .
ashamed . . . it's confusing. I mean, there was no reason for you to
do it. You didn’t have to, I didn’t mean to embarrass you . . ."
Speaking to his mother, but did he realize it at all?

"What about the man? What did you feel about
him?"

He shifted on the couch. "I didn’t like him. I
didn’t want him to do that with you," he said, seeing too
vividly that night.

"Tell me what you saw."

He felt something deep down inside him, a stab of
pain, and before he could stop himself he began to cry. He put his
hands to his face, partly to keep her from seeing him and partly to
block out the memory.

"Tell me," she repeated.

"I saw you with him," he said . . . saw his
mother sitting on the edge of the bed . . . "I got up to get a
drink of water and saw you on the couch with no clothes on. He was
behind you doing it . . ."

Margaret had no doubt he was describing, reliving,
the scene as a boy seeing his mother with a man. But which man? "Your
stepfather?" she said quietly. He didn’t deny it. "How
did you feel when you saw them?"

"Awful, I didn’t want him to do it. God, how I
hate him. I despise him. I wish he was dead," his voice rising.

And now he sat up on the couch, staring straight
ahead. "The best day of my life," he said, his voice low,
strong, "was the day Wolf bit him."

There seemed no fear in him now. Only in her.
 

CHAPTER 15

 
ERIN WAS just leaving the museum when her
phone rang and the receptionist downstairs announced that there was a
policeman to see her.

It startled her. She didn't even owe any parking
tickets. She looked at her watch. With the opening party for the
exhibit staring her in the face she didn’t have much time . . .

"All right, I'll be down."

In the lobby the receptionist pointed to a
dark-haired man in a trenchcoat. His hair had a bit of a widow's peak
in front, which with his dark complexion gave him, she thought, a
rakish look.

"Miss Fraser?" Mercanto showed her his
badge. "I’m with homicide. Don't get worried, it doesn’t
have anything to do with you. I understand you're an expert on the
Caribbean and this case seems to have a Caribbean connection, that's
all. It won't take long."

"I was just going out, but okay."

Mercanto was surprised at the way she looked — in
jeans with her hair pulled back and big schoolboy glasses. Not what
he expected a curator to look like. "Maybe we could get some
lunch."

"
I'm really pressed for time, but if you’ll
take a hot dog from the campus bus, we could talk and eat," she
said.

"Sounds good. Cops love hot dogs."

They started toward the museum’s entrance. "Do
they have chili?" he asked, holding the door for her.

"No, but they have sauerkraut and onions."

"Just as good."

Outside, she said, "How did you get my name?"

"From John at Mama Yolanda’s."

"Well, in my book, John's name is a pretty high
recommendation. Known him 1ong?"

"With a name like Natale Mercanto, yeah, I've
known John a long time. We're from the same neighborhood."

"You live near his restaurant . . . ?"

"My apartment’s around the corner. I usually
stop in once, twice a week."

As they walked toward Thirty-fourth where the bus was
always parked she wondered for a moment if Mercanto was married. The
way he mentioned his apartment made her think not.

The pace got to be too much for him, and sharp pain
filled his chest. He stopped for a second to lean against a building.