'I'm a psychologist-'
'I know who you are. Eric's on his way over to see you.'
'How's he doing physically?'
'He's doing fine. It was your idea to have me check him out, wasn't it?' Each word sounded as if it had been dragged over broken glass. No mistaking the accusatory tone.
I said, 'I thought it would be a good idea, seeing what he's gone through.'
'What exactly is he supposed to have gone through?'
'Beyond the long-term effects of losing his mom, his behavior was unusual, according to his father. Disappearing without explanation, refusing to talk-'
'He talks fine,' said Manitow. 'He just talked to me. Told me this whole thing was bullshit, and I heartily concur. He's a college student, for God's sake. They leave home and do all kinds of crazy things-didn't you?'
'His roommate was concerned enough to-'
'So the kid decided not to be perfect, for once. Of all people, I thought you'd evaluate the source before getting sucked into all this hysteria.'
'The source?'
'Richard,' he said. 'Everything in Richard's life is one big goddamn production. The whole family's like that- nothing's casual, everything's a big goddamn deal.'
'You're saying they overdramatize-'
'Don't do that,' he said. 'Don't bounce my words back to me like I'm on the couch. Hell yes, they over- dramatize. When they built that house of theirs, they should've included an amphitheater.'
'I'm sure you know them well,' I said, 'but given what happened to Joanne-'
'What happened to Joanne was hell for those poor kids. But the truth is, she was screwed up psychologically. Pure and simple. Not a damn thing wrong with her other than she chose to drop out of life and eat herself to death. She discarded her good sense. That's why she called that quack to finish the job. Nothing more than depression. I'm no shrink, and I could diagnose it. I told her to get psychiatric help, she refused. If Richard had listened to me in the first place and had her committed, they could've put her on a good tricyclic and she might be alive today and the kids could've been spared all the shit they went through.'
He wasn't talking loud but I found myself holding the phone away from my ear.
He said, 'Good luck with the kid. I've got to run.'
Click. His anger hung in the air, bitter as September smog.
Yesterday, after viewing Stacy's pain as we walked along the beach, I'd decided not to call Judy, wondering about entanglements between the Manitows and the Dosses, something that went beyond Mommy and Me, country-club tennis, Laura Ashley bedrooms. Now my curiosity took off in a whole new direction.
Her Eric, my Allison, then Stacy and Becky…
Becky having trouble in school-tutored by Joanne, then dropping back down to D's when Joanne could no longer see her… Was Bob's anger a reaction to perceived rejection?
Becky getting too skinny, entering therapy, trying to play therapist with Stacy, then cooling off.
Eric dumping Allison. Yet another rejection?
Bob Manitow smarting at his daughter's broken heart? No, it had to be more than that. And his resentment of the Dosses' problems wasn't shared by his wife. Judy had referred Stacy to me because she cared about the girl… Just another case of male impatience versus female empathy? Or had Bob's empathy been trashed by his inability to rouse Joanne from what he saw as 'nothing more than depression'? Sometimes physicians get angry at psychosomatic illness… or maybe this physician was just having a really bad day.
I thought of something else: Stacy's tale of how Bob had stared with distaste as Richard and Joanne groped each other in the pool.
A prudish man, offended? Perhaps his resentment at having to confront the Dosses' tribulations was emotional prudishness. I'd seen that most often in those running from their own despair, what a professor of mine had called baloney fleeing the slicer.
No sense speculating, the Manitows weren't the issue; I'd allowed Bob Manitow's anger to take me too far afield. Still, his reaction had been so intense-so out of proportion-that I had trouble letting go of it, and as I waited for Eric my thoughts kept drifting back to Judy.
Pencil-thin Judy in her chambers. Impeccable office, impeccable occupant. Tanned, tight-skinned, strong-boned good looks. Hanging her robe on a walnut valet, revealing the body-hugging St. John Knits suit underneath.
The room perpetually ready for a photo shoot: polished furniture, fresh flowers in crystal vases, soft lights, gelid convexities. No hint that the fury and tedium of Superior Court waited just beyond the door.
Those family photos. Two lithe blond girls with that same strong-boned beauty. Thin, very thin. Dad in the background… Had any of them smiled for the camera? I couldn't remember, was pretty sure Bob hadn't.
Stick-mom and a pair of stick-daughters, Becky carrying it too far. Did Judy's attention to detail manifest as pressure upon her kids to look, sound, act, be faultless? Had the Dosses and their problems somehow become enmeshed with their neighbors?
Maybe I was indulging myself in speculation because the family was far less unpleasant than the file I'd taken from the deli. Geometry.
Finally, the red light flashed.
Richard and Stacy at the side door. Eric between them. Richard in his usual black shirt and slacks, the little silver phone in one hand. Looking a bit haggard. Stacy's hair was loose and she wore a sleeveless white dress and white flats. I thought of a little girl in church.
Eric gave a disgusted look. His father and his sister had spoken about him in a way that connoted a huge presence. But when it came to physical stature, Doss DNA hadn't faltered. He was no taller than Richard, and a good ten pounds lighter. A dejected slump bowed his back. Small hands, small feet.
A frail-looking boy with enormous black eyes, a delicate nose, and a soft, curling mouth. Rounder face than Stacy's, but that same leprechaun cast. Copper skin, black hair clipped so short the curls had diminished to fuzz. His chambray shirt was oversize, and it bagged over the sagging waistband of dirt-stained baggy khakis wrinkled to used-Kleenex consistency. The cuffs accor-dioned atop running shoes encrusted with gray dried mud. Skimpy beard stubble dotted his chin and cheeks.
He looked everywhere but at me, his fingers flexed against his thighs. Delicate hands. Blackened, cracked nails, as if he'd been clawing in the dirt. His father hadn't tried to clean him up. Or maybe he'd tried and Eric had resisted.
I said, 'Eric? Dr. Delaware,' and extended my hand. He ignored the gesture, stared at the ground. The fingers kept flexing.
Good-looking kid. On a certain kind of sweet, convincing, college night, girls attracted to the brooding, sensitive type would be drawn to him.
Just as I began to retract my hand, he gripped it. His skin was cold, moist. Turning to his father, he grimaced, as if bracing for pain.
I said, 'Richard, you and Stacy can wait out here or walk around in the garden. Check back in an hour or so.'
'You don't need to talk to me?' said Richard.
'Later.'
His lips seemed on the verge of a retort-making a point-but he thought better of it. 'Okay then, how about we get coffee or something, Stace? We can make it into Westwood and back in an hour.'
'Sure, Daddy.'
I caught Stacy's eye. She gave a tiny nod, letting me know seeing her brother was okay. I nodded back, the two of them left, and I closed the door behind Eric and myself and said, 'This way.'
He followed me into the office, stood in the center of the room.
'Make yourself comfortable,' I said. 'Or at least as comfortable as you can be.'
He moved to the nearest chair and lowered himself slowly.
'I can understand your not wanting to be here, Eric. So if-'
'No, I want to be here.' A big man's voice flowed out of the cupid's mouth. Richard's baritone, even more incongruous. He flexed his neck. 'I deserve to be here. I'm rucked up.' He fingered a shirt button. 'That's absurd, isn't it?' he said. 'The way I just phrased that. The way we use 'fuck' as a pejorative. Supposedly the most
