He sighed, wiped his brow again, though it was dry. “Who knows better than we therapists that human beings persist in their annoying habit of being unpredictable? Those of us who can’t deal with that should study physics, I suppose.”
His wife’s head made a sharp quarter-turn.
“Not that I’m blaming her, of course,” he said. “She was a sweet, well-meaning woman. Suffered more than anyone should. It’s just one of those unfortunate… things.” Shrug. “After enough years in practice, one learns to accommodate to tragedy. One definitely learns.”
He reached for Ursula’s arm. She allowed him to touch her for a moment, then moved away and walked quickly up the limestone steps. Her high heels clattered and her long legs seemed too decorative for top speed. She looked sexy and awkward at the same time. At the front door she placed her palms flat upon the Chaucer carving and stood there, as if the wood had healing powers.
“She’s soft,” said Gabney, very quietly. “Too caring.”
“Didn’t know that was a fault.”
He smiled. “Give yourself a few more years.” Then: “So, are you taking responsibility for the emotional well- being of this family?”
“Just Melissa.”
He nodded. “She’s certainly vulnerable. Please don’t hesitate to consult with us if there’s anything we can do.”
“Would it be possible to review Mrs. Ramp’s chart?”
“Her chart? I suppose so, but why?”
“Same answer as before, I guess. Trying to make sense out of it.”
Professorial smile. “Her chart won’t help you with that. There’s nothing… juicy in it. Which is to say we avoid the typical anecdotal pitfalls- compulsively detailed descriptions of the patient’s every twitch and blink, those lovely Oedipal recollections and dream sequences movie writers are so fond of. My research has shown that that kind of thing has little to do with therapeutic outcome. Typically, the doctor scrawls in order to feel he’s being useful, never bothers to actually go back and read any of it, and when he does, none of it’s useful. So we’ve developed a method of record-keeping that’s highly objective. Behavior-based symptomology. Objectively defined goals.”
“What about records of the group sessions?”
“We don’t keep those. Because we don’t conceptualize the groups as therapy- unstructured group sessions have very little direct treatment value. Two patients presenting identical symptoms may have arrived at their pathology along totally different pathways. Each has developed a unique pattern of faulty learning. Once the patient has changed, it may be appropriate for him to talk to others who’ve experienced progress. If for no other reason than as a social reinforcer.”
“Socializing as a reward for doing well?”
“Exactly. But we keep the discussion on a positive track. Don’t take notes or do anything else to make it seem too clinical.”
Remembering what Ursula said about Gina’s planning to talk about Melissa in group, I said, “Do you discourage their talking about their problems?”
“I’d prefer to see it as reinforcing positivity.”
“Guess you’ll be facing a challenge now. Helping the others deal with what happened to Gina.”
Keeping his eyes on me, he reached into his pocket and brought out a packet of chewing gum. Unwrapping two pieces, he stuck them together and got to work on them.
“If you want to read her chart,” he said, “I’d be happy to make you a copy.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“Where shall I send it?”
“Your wife has my address.”
“Ah.” Glancing at Ursula again. She’d moved away from the door, was coming slowly down the steps.
“So,” he said, “the daughter’s sleeping?”
I nodded.
“How’s the husband doing?”
“He hasn’t come home yet. Any psychological insights on him?”
He moved his head to one side, shifting into the sunlight, and his white hair became a nimbus. “Seems a pleasant enough fellow. Somewhat on the passive side. They haven’t been married long, so he’s a Johnny-come- lately, in terms of the pathology.”
“Was he involved in the treatment?”
“As involved as he could be. He followed through on the little that was expected of him. Excuse me.”
Turning his back on me, he walked briskly toward the steps and took his wife’s hand as she descended. Tried to put his arm around her shoulder but was too short to pull it off. Grasping her waist instead, he ushered her toward the Saab. Holding the passenger door open for her, he helped her in. His turn to drive. Then he walked over to me and offered his soft hand.
We shook.
“We came to help,” he said, “but it doesn’t seem as if there’s much for us to do right at this moment. Please let us know if that changes. And good luck to the child. She’ll certainly need it.”
Madeleine’s directions were precise. I found the Tankard without any trouble.
Southwestern stretch of Cathcart Boulevard, just below the San Labrador city limits. Same mix of pricey shops and service establishments, lots of self-conscious mission architecture. The pistachio trees ended at the Pasadena border and were replaced by jacarandas in full bloom. The median was beautifully littered with purple blossoms.
I parked, spotting other non-Labradoran features: a cocktail lounge at the end of the block. Two liquor stores- one billing itself as a wine merchant, the other a PURVEYOR OF FINE SPIRITS. Window banners announcing premium French and California varietals on special.
The Tankard and Blade was a modest-looking establishment. Two stories, maybe a thousand square feet, set on a quarter-acre lot that was mostly parking space. Coarse-troweled white stucco, brown crossbeams, leaded windows, and mock-thatch roofing. A chain blocked the lot. Ramp’s Mercedes was on the other side, parked toward the rear, confirming my powers of deduction. (Where the hell was the deerstalker hat and calabash?) A couple of other cars sat farther back: twenty-year-old brown Chevrolet Monte Carlo with a white vinyl top peeling at the seams, and a red Toyota Celica.
The front door was panes of bubbly colored glass set into distressed oak. A hand-printed cardboard sign hanging from the knob said SUNDAY BRUNCH CANCELED. THANK YOU.
I knocked, got no answer. Pretended I had a right to intrude and rapped until my knuckles grew sore.
Finally the door opened and an irritated-looking woman stood there, keys in hand.
Mid-forties, five five, 135. Figure in the hourglass mode, made ostentatious by what she had on: Empire- waisted, bodice-topped, puffed long-sleeve maxi-dress with a square neckline low enough to display a swelling hand’s-breadth of freckled cleavage. Above the waist the dress was white cotton; below, wine-and-brown paisley print. Platinum hair drawn back and tied with a wine-colored ribbon. A black velvet choker centered with an imitation coral cameo encircled her neck.
Someone’s idea of Ye Olde Serving Wench.
Her features were good: high cheekbones, firm square chin, full crimson-glossed lips, small uptilted nose, wide brown eyes framed by too-dark, too-thick, too-long lashes. Hoops the size of drink coasters hung from her ears.
Protected by barroom light or booze-softened consciousness, she would have been a knockout. Morning assaulted her beauty, pouncing upon overly pancaked skin, worry seams, a loosening around the jowls, pouches of despair tugging her mouth into a frown.
She was regarding me as if I were the taxman.
“I’d like to see Mr. Ramp.”
She back-rapped the sign with crimson nails. “Can’t you read?” She flinched as if asserting herself hurt.
