“And how does one learn to believe something?”
“One talks for a while with a good psychotherapist.”
“Oh God, a shrink?”
“There’s good ones and bad ones. Like private eyes. I can put you in touch with some good ones.”
“Former clients?”
“No, Suze knows a lot about that stuff. She’s a guidance person and takes it seriously.”
“Is that the answer, a damned shrink? Everything that happens some psychiatrist is in on it. Every time some kid gets an F the shrink’s got to have his two cents’ worth.”
“You ever try it?”
“No.”
“Harv?”
“No. He wanted me to, see if they could find out why I was frigid. But he didn’t want to go too. Said there was nothing wrong with him. Didn’t want some goddamned headshrinker prying around in his business trying to convince him he was sick.”
“Doesn’t have to be a psychiatrist, you know. Could be a good social worker. You ought to talk with Suze about it. But Harv’s got the wrong language again, just like frigid. Doesn’t help to talk about ’wrong‘ with a big W. You got a problem. They can help. Sometimes.”
“What about all these people they commit to asylums for no reason and how in murder cases they can’t agree on anything. One side gets a shrink to say he’s crazy and the other side gets one to say he’s sane.”
“Okay, psychiatry boasts as many turkeys as any other business, maybe more. But the kinds of things you’re talking about aren’t relevant. Those things come from asking psychiatrists to do what they aren’t equipped to do. Good ones know that, I think. Good ones know that what they can do is help people work out problems. I don’t think they are very good at curing schizophrenia or deciding whether someone is legally sane. That’s bullshit. But they might be quite useful in helping you get over defining yourself in your husband’s terms, or helping your husband get over defining himself in Cotton Mather’s terms.”
“Cotton Mather?”
“Yeah, you know, the old Puritan ethic.”
“Oh, that Cotton Mather. You do read the books, don’t you?”
“I got a lotta time,” I said. The timer buzzed and I twirled out a strand of spaghetti and tried it. “Al dente,” I said. “His brother Sam used to play for the Red Sox.” The spaghetti was done, I turned it into a colander, emptied the pan, shook the colander to drain the spaghetti, turned it back into the pan, added a little butter and some Parmesean cheese and tossed it.
“You made that up.”
“What?”
“About Al Dente’s brother.”
“Nope, truth. Sam Dente used to play with the Sox about thirty years ago. Infielder. Left-handed batter.” The spaghetti sauce was bubbling. I poured it into a big gravy boat and put two big heaps of spaghetti on two plates. I poured the salad dressing over the salad, tossed it and set everything on the kitchen counter. “Silverware in the drawer there,” I said. I got some Gallo Burgundy in a half-gallon bottle and two wine glasses out of the cupboard.
We sat at the counter and ate and drank. “Did you make the spaghetti sauce?” she said.
“Yeah. A secret recipe I got off the back of the tomato paste can.”
“And the salad dressing? Is there honey in it?”
“Yep. Got that from my mother.”
She shook her head. “Fighter, lover, gourmet cook? Amazing.”
“Nope. I’ll take the fighter, lover, but the gourmet cook is a sexist remark.”
“Why?”
“If you’d cooked this no one would say you were a gourmet cook. It’s because I’m a man. A man who cooks and is interested in it is called a gourmet. A woman is called a housewife. Now eat the goddamned spaghetti.” I said. She did. Me too.
Chapter 23
I slept on the couch. A triumph once more of virtue over tumescence. I was up and showered and away before Pam Shepard woke up. At 10:00 A.M. I was having coffee with King Powers’ man Macey in the Holiday Inn in Hyannis.
“Care for some fruit?” Macey said.
“No thanks. The coffee will do. When can you deliver the guns?”
“Tomorrow maybe, day after for sure.”
“What you got?”
“M2 carbines, in perfect condition, one hundred rounds apiece.”
“How many?”
