You recognize its presence within me? my father said.
Hm, Albert said. Most people want to live in a state of suspension, a balance between concealing and divulging, because it’s when we’re out of balance that we experience … problems.
My father nodded and said, That seems—
Plausible? Albert said, hacking out a laugh.
Yes, plausible, my father said.
Thus, we conceal this and divulge that, constantly trying to find the right balance. The whole of Western culture is built on secrets. What’s the church but a pharmacy selling the sickness around back and the cure out front? What a relief the thief feels when he finally confesses the crime! We need to conceal first so that later we might divulge, do you see? Who was Dorian Gray but a man who merely delayed the inevitable confession? We crave confession—and we crave everyone else’s secrets, too. Surely in your line of work you know this to be true. What’s a novelist but a man who turns loose his private thoughts in a public arena?
I suppose that’s one interpretation, my father said.
Or is a novelist a man intent on throwing a blanket over his most private thoughts? All right, a different profession, then: psychiatry. I have spent a mint on psychiatric care for my children. Who knows what they’ve told those hacks? The girls swear it’s life-altering. They’ve even suggested that I try it. Can you imagine me—me?—on a couch, divulging my secrets to some little man in glasses with a notebook in his lap? I’m too old to excise my essential nature. I am the shape of those unspeakable things I’ve done, and I do not, at this late stage, have any desire to change that shape. I’ve explained my reasoning. My obligation is to remain static. My obligation to my grandson.
I understand, my father said.
I imagine you are familiar with the practice of psychiatry.
I am.
Has it changed your life? Albert said.
Come on. That’s how children talk, my father said. At best—at best—it allows you to admit your own secrets to yourself.
So you’re on speaking terms with your secrets.
I have them around for poker every Thursday.
Hm, Albert said. You confess those secrets to your psychiatrist?
My father’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Psychologist. No. Not all.
Not a terribly effective therapy, I’d say.
He’s not there for gossip, my father said.
Does it do the job, though? Does it protect you from the fears that keep you from crossing the street alone? What about the elevators? Does it protect you from those?
My father finally picked up his drink.
Even if I didn’t see you out there, Albert said, gesturing toward the window, cowering at the street corner like some mental patient who’s afraid winged lions are about to swoop down from the sky, I’d know. Your deformity is obvious.
None of us live in a state of grace, Albert.
You’ll get no argument from me there. Come on, now, have another drink. Have I offended you in some way? Certainly you don’t think your phobias are some sort of secret. God, man, you practically wear them on a sign around your neck. You’re a wreck of a human being, Erwin.
And I can’t argue with that, my father said.
I’m no different, Albert said. At least you might get better. I’ll only get worse. My condition will turn me into a drooling idiot. Which leads me to my proposal. I would like to chart its progression. In exchange for your help, I think we can make productive use of my condition. I believe I might be able to help you with whatever dreadful thing has made you into … this.
By all means, don’t spare my feelings, my father said.
Whatever transgression you’ve locked up within yourself, it’s turned you into a creeping bug of a man. What if I could help you shake it loose? Give it a shove and see what happens to it in the light of day?
You’re a charmer, Albert. But what if there’s no mystery? Maybe there’s nothing more than good old child abuse at the root of my problems.
No, Albert said in a tone without menace. No, it’s not that. You’re suffering for your own actions. You’ve done something terrible.
My father did not answer him.
Have you ever considered what it would be like to speak that shameful secret aloud to another person?
I don’t need the sales pitch, my father said. What is it you want me to do?
I’d prefer that this be an equitable arrangement.
I’ll consider your offer. But tell me what you want me to do for you.
I’d like you to administer a test. Once a week.
To chart the progression of the disease, my father said.
Correct.
Your daughters can’t do it?
I don’t want my family involved. They’d either be feeding me the answers or weeping uncontrollably. They wouldn’t be able to help themselves. I need an impartial judge. And, frankly, you don’t seem like you have any trouble keeping things to yourself. Your—whatever you call them. Phobias. Neuroses. They’re all the evidence I need. In return, as payment, I’d like to suggest that as my memory fails, I might serve as your confessor. At a time of your choosing, you can speak your secrets to me, in whatever detail you like. And you’ll be assured that I’ll have forgotten them by the time you’ve gotten home.
It’s a novel
