He felt Wally Moon’s hand softly on his shoulder. ‘You just need rest, Daniel. There’s a sweathouse outside and a cold shower. The lamps and kerosene are on the closet shelf. Come over if there’s anything you want. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need.’
Daniel gathered himself and said, ‘Thank you.’ He tried to smile. ‘What is this, some halfway house for fools?’
‘No. Simply a place to rest.’
When Wally had left, Daniel brought in the bowling bag with the Diamond zipped inside. He laid down beside it on the bed. He tried to think about what he was doing or could do or should, but it whirled away like water down a drain and in moments he was asleep.
THE THERAPEUTIC JOURNAL OF JENNIFER RAINE APRIL 5?
I numbed and dumbed it through the day, nibbled my mush, nodded through my half-hour with the Doc. He said I looked pensive and withdrawn. I told him Mia was sick. That’s when he chose to make his stunning-insight move, so contrived and dramatic you could tell he’d been saving it till I was weak: ‘Jenny, do you know that in Italian “mia” means “me”?’
I sank my fangs in Doctor Putney’s vanity and let it drip: ‘Doc, didn’t it ever cross your feeble mind that Mia is the acronym for Missing in Action? I named her after her father. It was a great marriage, Doc. We were both Soldiers of Fortune – the only man-wife team in the world – but his ’chute didn’t open on a jump over Borneo. No need to even look for his body in the jungle, but since there’s no body, he’s officially MIA. You get it, or you want pictures? How about some pictures of my pussy, Doc? Some mental spread shots?’ Cause this distressed little damsel do declare she don’t know what scares you worse, her mind or her cunt.’
I’ll say this for the Doc, he had the class to say, ‘I don’t know either.’
Ain’t that the truth. He suggested we take a week off to consider whether there was any point in trying to continue working together. He thought I might have better luck with a female Jungian.
Personally, I think I’m healing, and I’m doing it against a run of bad luck. What did that crazy gambler in Oakland always say? ‘Your luck’s bound to change if your chips hold out.’ And I might be digging for the last handful, but I’m still digging. Or as my new loverboy, the Dharma Joker, says on his radio show, ‘Dig it all, and when it’s all dug up, little darling, put it on the line.’ He didn’t actually say that yet, but he could the next time.
I didn’t tell the Doctor about Clyde. I promised Clyde I wouldn’t, and I’ve learned how strong it makes me to honor promises. I don’t feel Clyde will mess with other women, but he might, and her suffering will be marked on my soul. But I don’t feel guilty about my silence. I’ve learned about guilt. It’s an abscessed truth, rotting with denial. And I need every truth I can get if I want to get well. I need the responsibility for my silence and for what I say. I want the consequences of my judgment.
Maybe I shouldn’t have hidden Mia. I don’t know. She could feel my fear from under the bed, and since she has such a powerful imagination, that might have been worse. She cried most of the day, but is sleeping now. I’ll talk to her about it in the morning.
As we’d arranged, I met Clyde after therapy, under the big oak on the side lawn. It was difficult to make him tell me how he’d gotten into the women’s wing. He trembled the whole time, mumbled, wouldn’t look at me. I looked at him with revulsion, and sorrow, and pity, and love, and helplessness, until the feelings whirled and blurred together and I had to freeze myself to concentrate on making him tell me how he’d got in. He gave me ten dollars, two crumpled, clammy fives – he said it was all he had but he could try to steal some from the other men when they were asleep. Touched, touched almost to tears again, I told him ten was enough, and enough was plenty.
Clyde started snuffling then, spreading his arms out in misery as if I might hold him. When I stepped back, he dropped to his knees like a broken pilgrim, a doom-struck suitor of my violated affections. I thanked him for his help, repeated my promise not to tell, and turned and walked away, hating him for taking what can only be given, loathing his damaged, presumptuous greed, and loving him because his shame was greater than my forgiveness.
The moment I turned from Clyde and started walking away, the lightning scar at the base of my spine started burning like dry ice. I can still feel it as I write this, but it’s more like a numb warmth now. I feel an intense desire to open, to be known – I suppose it’s some sort of balancing response to Clyde. No wonder I’m locked up.
But Mia and me won’t be shut-ins much longer. I told her what we have to do before I sang her to sleep, and promised to wake her when it was time. Promises to keep and miles to go before we sleep, miles before we’re gone. Everything’s packed in a tight bundle, except this journal and the radio. I’m going to change the journal to a notebook. We’ll need the radio to beam in on the DJ. I’ve been running the dial from one end to the other, but either the DJ’s not sending or I’m not receiving. I need directions to the grave.
I’m leaving the Doc a note on my pillow: ‘Gone dancing with the DJ. Don’t wait up.’
