We call it ‘transference,’ the phenomenon that occurs when a witness believes he or she can recall a face, and then, failing to do so, describes the features of the artist. In such cases, the witness does not intend to deceit and rarely recognizes what he/she has done. It's an unconscious process, but when it occurs the witness must be considered unreliable. Even if Kate were now to revise her description of the shooter, her memory has been contaminated. Any drawings made with her must now be held suspect.
After some serious drinking in Waldo's, I return to my room, tape the drawing to the mirror above the desk, sit before it, and gaze at the two images of myself.
Not a bad self-portrait, I think. In retrospect, I'm not surprised Kate couldn't recall the shooter. My wish that she could was founded more in hope than in belief.
Except… there's another possibility, one so abhorrent and painful I can barely bring myself to consider it.
I step over to the closet and retrieve the locked briefcase I keep hidden at the bottom of my garment bag. It's here I've secreted the folder I came upon last spring in he attic of my mother's house in L.A. when, following her death, my sister and I cleaned it out.
The folder contains various documents concerning my father: a copy of his will; papers having to do with the sale of our old house on Demington Drive; personal letters; family photographs; the incomplete draft of a professional paper he'd been working on at the time of his death; an agenda book showing his professional appointments that final year; and the strange photograph of Barbara Fulraine bearing the signature Studio Fesse.
It doesn't take me long to find what I'm looking for, a formal studio photograph of Dad taken but a few months before he leapt to his death. It appeared, along with similar photos of other local shrinks, in a Fetschrift published by the Calista Psychoanalytic Institute to honor Dad's mentor and training analyst, the much-loved and admired Dr. Isadore Mendoza, who'd studied with and been analyzed by Dr. V. D. Nadel, who in turn had studied with and been analyzed by Sigmund Freud himself.
I take the photo over to the mirror, tape it beside my drawing, resume my seat, then study the three images together.
Sensitive eyes, prominent cheekbones, slightly sunken cheeks: no question there's a strong resemblance. When Dad took the plunge he was forty-three, five years older than I am now.
A kind man's face, the face of a man who listens to you, cares about you, cares about your feelings – the face of a man who can help you uncover and comprehend your truth.
Yes, Dad and I, father and son, definitely look alike. The resemblance, I've been told, is striking. People have mentioned it to me all my life.
So… was Kate's description a classic transference reaction, as I would like to think, or was it, as I would hate to believe, an uncannily accurate description of the man she saw in a black raincoat and fedora departing the Flamingo Court just seconds after Barbara Fulraine and Tom Jessup were shot?
Tonight, lying in bed, I reread Dad's unfinished draft case history, the same document I copied for Mace:
D R A F T 'THE DREAM OF THE BROKEN HORSES'
by Thomas Rubin, M.D.
INTRODUCTORY NOTE: The following case study is of necessity incomplete due to the death by homicide of the patient while undergoing psychoanalysis. Nevertheless, I believe it to be of special interest on account of the nature of the patient's neurosis, including a debilitating recurrent dream; difficult resistance, transference and countertransference issues; and the possibility that these issues, being still unresolved, contributed to the tragic end of the patient's life.
Although for this reason one might conclude that the analysis was a failure, I hope it will be viewed in a different light: an example of the limitations of traditional therapeutic practice and an inspiration to those in our profession who, out of a desire to alleviate human suffering, are willing to plough new ground even when doing so creates risk.
THE ANALYSAND: Mrs. F, a white divorced female in her mid-thirties of high social and financial standing, well-educated and in excellent physical health, the mother of three children, the youngest of whom was abducted and, it is believed, murdered five years prior to the commencement of treatment. Mrs. F could be fairly described as possessing great beauty and personal allure, qualities for which she was well-known in her community. She came across as extremely poised and self-possessed, yet stated: “All the people who envy me would pity me if they knew how screwed up I am.”
PRESENTING SYMPTOMS: Mrs. F, self-referred, described herself as deeply unhappy (“I see myself as a tragic figure”); suffering from erotomania (“I think I might be a nymphomaniac”); ego disturbed (“sometimes I feel like I don't know who I am”); perverted (“I have these kinky fantasies, which I guess is all right… except I try to live them out”); in spiritual pain (“I feel wounded in my sex”); and possessed by a terrifying enigmatic recurring dream (“it haunts my days, ruins my nights”). Mrs. F, summing up: “So, doctor, I'm one sick babe, right?”
FAMILY HISTORY: Mrs. F had unusual parents. She described her father as ‘drop-dead handsome, a lady- killer. Women would take one look at him then go weak in the knees.’ Her father, Jack, was a racehorse trainer and self-described racetrack character and tout. People around the track called him ‘Blackjack’ on account of his dark complexion and dashing good looks. Mrs. F described him as charming, easygoing, a philanderer, and ‘a man's man in that men instantly liked him and usually continued to like him even when they found out he was making it with their wives.’
Mrs. F's mother was also a member of the gambling demimonde, an expert poker player and racetrack handicapper. Mrs. F described her as ‘pale and beautiful, a glacial ice goddess type.’ According to Mrs. F, her mother, unlike her father, was respected but not well liked. Mrs. F described her as tough, aloof, and extremely strict. Whenever she caught Mrs. F in a fib, she would slap her hard across the face, telling her ‘You're acting like your father's child’ and/or ‘You want to know why you're a liar? Because you're from a bad seed.’
Mrs. F's parents fought constantly and were divorced when she was seven. After that, she lived with her mother while seeing her father two weekends a month until, two years later, he relocated to another part of the country. Although her parents moved in the same racetrack circle, during that two-year period they rarely spoke and could barely bring themselves to be civil. Mrs. F recalled her mother constantly referring to her father as ‘that bastard,’ ‘that son of a bitch,’ etc. And although her father did not speak poorly of her mother, he would ask after her in such a way as to suggest barely concealed contempt.
A couple of years after Mrs. F's father left town, he stopped sending child-support payments. Nevertheless, Mrs. F's mother made enormous sacrifices to keep Mrs. F in the exclusive private girls' day school in which she was enrolled. In return, her mother required her to maintain top grades, excel in sports, and participate in extracurricular activities and student government. As Mrs. F put it': “She turned me into a supreme competitor. I was to compete in every possible field with the goal of achieving total victory in each. Nothing less would be tolerated. Even the slightest failure was punished.” Beside such punishments as slaps and grounding, Mrs. F's mother's favorite disciplinary method was to withhold affection. “If she wasn't happy with me, she'd go glacial. Then she'd act like I was this object of revulsion, too disgusting even to be acknowledged.”
Mrs. F believes her mother's sole objective those years was to groom her to make what her mother would term ‘a magnificent marriage.’ Later, when Mrs. F married into one of the wealthiest, most socially prominent families in her city, her mother changed her tack. The morning of her wedding day, she whispered into Mrs. F's ear: ‘I know you're marrying for money and position and in my eyes that makes you a whore.’
Mrs. F stated that throughout her school years she loathed her mother while adoring the memory of her absent father, spending hours recalling their wonderful times together. Most of those memories centered around horses. Her father had taught her to ride, first putting her on a horse when she was three years old. “He was a wonderful teacher, kind, helpful, always calm. ‘You'll be a great horsewoman,’ he'd tell me. ‘Maybe the first girl jock to win a major derby.’ When I was five, he gave me my first horse, a filly with a white-tipped tail whom I named
