saving lives. But our resources for salvation are medicines, knowledge, skill with a scalpel. In this instance, your life is perhaps someone’s cure. Can you make that sacrifice? And, if unwilling to do that, will you be able to live with yourself afterward? On the surface, at least, it is not all that complicated. The complicated part is, well, internal.”
“You’re suggesting…” Ricky started to speak, stammering slightly. He looked across the room and saw that the old analyst had sat back in his chair, so that a shadow from a table lamp’s light seemed to bisect his face. Dr. Lewis gestured with a hand that seemed clawlike, long, elongated fingers thinned by age.
“I am not suggesting anything. I am merely pointing out that doing precisely what this gentleman has requested is a viable alternative. People sacrifice themselves so that others may live all the time. Soldiers in combat. Firemen in a burning building. Policemen on city streets. Is your life so sweet and so productive and so important that we can automatically assume it is more valuable than the life it might cost?”
Ricky shifted in his chair, as if the soft upholstery had grown wooden beneath him. “I can’t believe…,” he started, then he stopped.
Dr. Lewis looked at him and lifted his shoulders. “I am sorry. Of course you have not considered this consciously. But I wonder if you have not asked yourself these same questions in your unconscious, which is what prompted you to find me.”
“I came for help,” Ricky said perhaps far too swiftly. “I need help playing this game.”
“Really? Perhaps on one level. Perhaps, on another, you came for something else. Permission? Benediction?”
“I need to probe the era in my past where Rumplestiltskin’s mother was my patient. I need you to help me do that, because I have blocked that segment of my life. It’s like it’s just out of reach, just beyond my touch. I need you to help me steer through it. I know I can identify the patient who is connected to Rumplestiltskin, but I need assistance, and I believe that the patient who connects me to this man was someone I was seeing at the same time that I was in treatment with you, when you were my training analyst. I must have mentioned this person to you during our sessions together. So what I need is a sounding board. Someone to bounce those old memories off of. I’m sure I can talk the name out of my unconscious.”
Dr. Lewis nodded again. “Not an unreasonable request, and clearly an intelligent approach. ’s approach. Talk is a cure, not action. Do I sound cruel, Ricky? I guess that I have become irascible and outrageous in my old age. Of course, I will help. But, it seems to me, as we dissect, it would be wise to look at the present, as well, because eventually you will need to find answers both in your past and in your present. Perhaps, too, in your future. Can you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
Now it was Dr. Lewis’s turn to grin unpleasantly. “There is a classic analyst’s response. A football player or a lawyer or a modern businessman would say ‘Damn straight, I can!’ But we analysts always hedge our bets, do we not. Certainty is something we are uncomfortable with, no?” He took a deep breath and shifted about for a moment. “The problem is, this fellow who wants your head on a platter does not seem quite as indecisive or uncertain about things, does he?”
Ricky answered swiftly: “No. He seems to have everything well planned and thought out in advance. I have the sensation that he’s anticipated every single move I’ve made, almost as if he’d charted them all out beforehand.”
“I am sure he has.”
Ricky nodded to the truth of this observation. Dr. Lewis continued with his questions.
“He is, you would say, psychologically astute?”
“That’s my impression.”
Dr. Lewis nodded. “In some games, that is the essence of play. Football, perhaps. Certainly chess.”
“You’re suggesting…”
“To win a game of chess, you must plan further ahead than your opponent. That single move beyond the scope of what he has envisioned is what creates checkmate and defines victory. I think you should be doing the same.”
“How do I…”
Dr. Lewis rose. “That is what we should figure out over a modest dinner, and the remainder of the evening.” He smiled again, with a just slightly wry twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, you are assuming one great factor.”
“What is that?” Ricky asked.
“Well, it seems quite obvious that this fellow Rumplestiltskin has spent months, probably years, planning everything that has happened to you. It is a revenge that takes many items into consideration, and as you quite accurately point out, he has anticipated virtually every move you have made.”
“Yes. All true.”
“I wonder, then,” Dr. Lewis said slowly, “why you assume and why you believe that he has not already enlisted me, perhaps through threats or outside pressure of some other sort, to help him achieve his desire. Maybe he paid me off somehow. Why, Ricky, do you presume I am on your side in all this?”
Then with a sweeping gesture for Ricky to accompany him instead of answering the question, the old analyst slowly led the way into the kitchen, limping slightly as he traveled forward.
Two places had been set at an antique two-board table in the center of the kitchen. A jug of ice water and some sliced wheat bread in a wicker hamper graced the center of the table. Dr. Lewis crossed the room and lifted a casserole from the oven, placed it on a trivet, then took a modest salad out of the refrigerator. He hummed slightly as he finished setting the table. Ricky recognized a few strains of Mozart.
“Have a seat, Ricky. The concoction that stands before us is chicken. Please help yourself.”
Ricky hesitated. He reached out and poured himself a tall glass of water, then gulped at it like a man who had just crossed some desert. The drink barely quenched his sudden thirst.
“Has he?” he demanded abruptly. Ricky could hardly recognize his own voice. It seemed high-pitched and shrill.
“Has he what?”
“Has Rumplestiltskin approached you? Are you a part of this?”
Dr. Lewis sat down, carefully spreading a napkin on his lap, then helping himself to a generous portion of casserole and salad before replying. “Let me ask you this, Ricky,” he said slowly. “What difference would it make?”
Ricky stammered his reply: “All the difference in the world. I need to know I can trust you.”
Dr. Lewis nodded. “Really? Trust, I think, in this world is overrated. Regardless, what have I done, so far, to relinquish the trust you have in me that brought you here in the first place?”
“Nothing.”
“Then you should eat. The casserole is made by my housekeeper, and I assure you it is quite good, although not as good, alas, as that my wife used to make before she passed away. And you appear pale, Ricky, as if you have not been taking care of yourself.”
“I need to know. Has Rumplestiltskin enlisted you?”
Dr. Lewis shook his head, but this wasn’t a negative reply to Ricky’s question, more a comment on the situation. “Ricky, it seems to me that what you need is knowledge. Information. Understanding. Nothing you have described, so far, about what this man has done is designed to mislead you. When has he lied? Well, perhaps the attorney whose office was not where it was supposed to be, but that seems like a pretty simple and necessary deception. In reality, everything he has done so far is designed to lead you to him. At least it could be construed that way. He gives you clues. He sends an attractive young woman to assist you. Do you think he truly wants you to be unable to determine who he is?”
“Are you helping him?”
“I am trying to help you, Ricky. Helping you might be helping him, as well. It is a
