Bad Love

clammy sheets and that litter-box smell. They were convinced I was doing it on purpose, so they beat me. So I got more nervous and pissed gallons. So then what did they do?'

Looking at me, waiting.

'They beat you some more.'

'Bingo. And washed my dick with lye soap and all sorts of other wonderful stuff.'

Still smiling, but his cheeks were scarlet. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his shoulders hunched under the designer sweatshirt.

My first thought, seeing those rosy cheeks, had been: a beautiful baby.

'So I started to do other things,' he said. 'Really naughty things. Could anyone blame me? Being tortured for something that I had no control over?'

I shook my head again. For a split second I felt my agreement meant something to him. Then a distracted look came into his eyes. The gun arm pushed forward and the black-metal barrel edged closer to my heart.

'What's the current lowdown on enuresis, anyway?' he said. 'Do you pricks still tell parents it's a mental disease?'

'It's genetic,' I said. 'Related to sleep patterns. Generally it goes away by itself.'

'You don't treat it anymore?'

'Sometimes behavior therapy is used.'

'You ever treat kids for it?'

'When they want to be treated.'

'Sure,' he grinned. 'You're a real humanitarian.' The grin died. 'So what were you doing making speeches- paying homage to Hitler?'

'I-'

'Shut up.' The gun jabbed my chest. 'That was rhetorical, don't speak unless you're spoken to… sleep patterns, huh? You quacks weren't saying that back when I was getting beaten with a strap. You had all sorts of other voodoo theories back then- one of your fellow quacks told Mumsy and Evil that I was screwed up sexually. Another said I was seriously depressed and needed to be hospitalized. And one genius told them I was doing it because I was angry about their marriage. Which was true. But I wasn't pissing because of it. That one they bought. Evil really got into expressing his anger. Big financial man, spiffy dresser- he had a whole collection of fancy belts. Lizard, alligator, calfskin, all with nice sharp buckles. One day I went to school with an especially nice collection of welts on my arm. A teacher started asking questions and the next thing I knew I was on a plane with dear old Mumsy to sunny California. Go west, little bad boy.'

He let his free hand drop to his lap. His eyes looked tired and his shoulders rounded.

The dog was still throwing himself against the glass.

Coburg stared straight at me.

I said, 'How old were you when they put you in the school?'

The gun jabbed again, forcing me backward against the couch. All at once his face was up against mine, breathing licorice. I could see dried mucus in his nostrils. He spat. His saliva was cold and thick as it oozed down the side of my face.

'I'm not there, yet,' he said, between barely moving lips. 'Why don't you shut up and let me tell it?'

Breathing hard and fast. I made myself look into his eyes, feeling the gun without seeing it. My pulse thundered in my ears. The spit continued its downward trail. Reaching my chin. Dripping onto my shirt.

He looked repulsed, struck out, slapping me and wiping me simultaneously. Wiped his hand on the seat cushion.

'They didn't put me there right away. They put me in another dungeon first. Right across the street- can you believe that, two hellholes on the same street- what was it, zoned H1 for hell? A real shithole run by a nincompoop alkie, but expensive as hell, so, of course, Mumsy thought it was good, the woman was always such an arriviste.'

I tried to look like a fascinated student… still no sounds from the bedrooms.

Coburg said, 'A nincompoop. Not even a challenge. A book of matches and some notebook paper.' Smile.

Firesetters and truants… Bancroft hadn't said the fire was at his school.

'Poor Mumsy was stymied, out on the next plane, the poor thing. This wonderful look of hopelessness on her face- and she such an educated woman. Crying as we waited for our taxi- I thought I'd finally scored a point. Then he walked over. From across the street. This goatish thing in a black suit and cheap shoes. Taking Mummy's hand, telling her he'd heard what had happened, tsk-tsking and letting her cry some more about her bad little boy. Then telling her his school could handle those kinds of things. Guaranteed. All the while tousling my hair- twelve years old and he was tousling my fucking hair. His hand stank of cabbage and bay rum.'

The gun hand wavered a bit… not enough.

Scratch, bump.

'Mummy was thrilled-she knew him from his magazine articles. A famous man willing to tame her wild child.' His free hand fluttered. 'The cab came and she sent it off empty.'

The gun withdrew far enough for me to see its black snout, dark against his white knuckles.

Two hellholes on the same street. De Bosch exploiting Bancroft's failures. An alumnus of both schools, coming back years later, a tramp… the clean-cut face in front of me bore no street scars. But sometimes the wounds that healed weren't the important ones.

'Across the street I went. Mummy signed some papers and left me alone with Hitler. He smiled at me and said, 'Andrew, little Andrew. We have the same name, let's be friends.' Me saying, 'Fuck you, old goat.' He smiled again and patted my head. Took me down a long dark hall, shoved me into a cell, and locked it. I cried all night. When they let me out for lunch, I snuck into the kitchen and found matches.'

A wistful look came into his eyes.

'How thorough was I tonight? Did I leave anything standing at Casa del Shrinko?'

I remained silent.

The gun poked me. 'Did I?'

'Not much.'

'Good. It's a shoddy world, thoroughness is so rare a quality. You personify shoddiness. You were as easy to get to as a sardine in a can. All of you were- tell me, why are psychotherapists such a passive, helpless bunch? Why are you all such absolute wimps- talking about life rather than doing anything?'

I didn't answer.

He said, 'You really are, you know. Such an unimpressive group. Stripped of your jargon, you're noth- if that dog of yours doesn't shut up, I'm going to kill him- better yet, I'll make you kill him. Make you eat him- we can grill him on that barbecue you've got out back. A nice little hot dog- that would be justice, wouldn't it- making you confront your own cruelty? Give you a taste of empathy?'

'Why don't we just let him go?' I said. 'He's not mine, just a stray I took in.'

'How kind of you.' Jab. My breastbone felt inflamed.

I said, 'Why don't we let my friend go, too? She hasn't seen your faces.'

He smiled and settled back a bit.

'Shoddiness,' he said. 'That's the big problem. Phony science, false premises, false promises. You pretend to help people but you just mind-fuck them.'

He leaned forward. 'How do you manage to live with yourself, knowing you're a phony?'

Jab. 'Answer me.'

'I've helped people.'

'How? With voodoo? With bad love?'

Trying to keep the whine out of my voice, I said, 'I had nothing to do with de Bosch