"Give up your home, give up San Francisco, give us up—me and Heather—and then start a practice in Boise, Idaho, on top of a dry cleaners?" Norma said. "Good thinking! That'll show him!"
Carol angrily flung a handful of kindling into the fire and watched the flames flare.
"I'm feeling worse," she said. "This whole evening is making me worse. You guys don't understand—you don't have a clue how serious I am. Especially you. Heather, you're calmly explaining the technicalities of divorce law and I've spent all day thinking about hit men. There are plenty of them out there. And how much money are we talking about? Twenty, twenty-five thousand? I've got it. I've got that much offshore and untraceable! I can't imagine money better spent. Would I like him dead? You bet!"
Heather and Norma were silent. They avoided eye contact with each other and with Carol, who studied their faces intently. "I shock you?"
Her friends shook their heads. They denied shock, but inwardly they grew concerned. It was too much for Heather, who stood, stretched, went into the kitchen for a few minutes, and returned with a pint of burgundy cherry ice cream and three forks. The others declined her offer, and she started on the ice cream, methodically picking out the cherries.
Carol suddenly grabbed a fork and pushed her way in. "Here, let me have some before it's too late. I hate when you do that, Heather. The cherries are the only good thing."
Norma went into the kitchen for more wine, pretending gaiety and hfting her glass. "To your hit man—I'll drink to that! I should've thought of that when Williams voted against my partnership."
"Or, if not murder," continued Norma, "how about a major beating? I have a Sicilian client who offers a special: tire-chain maulings for five thousand."
"Tire chains for five thou? Sounds attractive. You trust this guy?" Carol asked.
Norma caught Heather's stern glance.
"I saw that look," said Carol. "What's going on?"
"We need to keep our balance," said Heather. "Norma, I don't think you're helping by feeding Carol's anger, even by joking. If it is
5 8 ' ^ Lying on the Couch
a joke. Carol, think about timing. Anything illegal— anything —that might happen to Justin over the next few months has got to implicate you. Automatically. Your motives, your temper. ..."
"My what?"
"Well, put it this way," Heather continued, "your proclivity for impulsive behavior leaves you—"
Carol jerked her head and looked away.
"Carol, let's be objective. You have a short fuse: you know it, we know it, it's a matter of public record. Justin's attorney would have no difficulty demonstrating that in court."
Carol did not respond. Heather went on: "What I meant to say is that you'd be in an exposed position, and, if it came to any vigilante activity, you're highly vulnerable to disbarment."
A silence again. The base of the fire gave way and the logs tumbled noisily into new, sloppy positions. No one rose to stoke or add wood.
Norma gamely held up the Raggedy Andy. "Pins, anyone? Safe, legal pins?"
"Anyone know any good books on revenge?" asked Carol. "A hands-on how-to book?"
Head shaking by Heather and Norma. "Well," Carol said, "there's a market out there. Maybe I ought to write one—with personally tested recipes."
"That way the hit man's fee could be written off as a business expense," said Norma.
"I once read a biography of D. H. Lawrence," said Heather, "and I vaguely remember some macabre story about his widow, Frieda, who defied his last wishes and had him cremated, then stirred his ashes into a block of cement."
Carol nodded appreciatively. "The free spirit of Lawrence imprisoned forever in cement. Chapeau, Frieda! That's what I call revenge! Creative revenge!"
Heather looked at her watch. "Let's get practical, Carol, there are safe and legal ways to punish Justin. What does he love? What does he care about? That's got to be our starting place."
"Not very much," said Carol. "That's the problem with him. Oh, his comforts, his clothes—he loves his clothes. But I don't need your help in carving up his wardrobe. I've taken care of that, but I don't think it will affect him. He'll just go shopping with my money and a new lady who'll pick out a new wardrobe to her taste. I should've
done something else with his clothes, Hke send them to his worst enemy. Problem is, he's too much of a nerd to have enemies. Or give them to the next man in my life. If there is a next man. I've saved his favorite ties. And, if he had a boss, I'd sleep with the boss and give him the ties.
"What else does he love? Maybe his BMW. Not the kids—he's unbelievably indifferent to them. Denying him visiting privileges would be a favor, not a punishment. Naturally, I'll poison their minds against him—that goes without saying. But I don't think he'll notice. I could trump up some sex-abuse charges against him, but the children are too old to brainwash. Besides, that would make it impossible for him to take care of them and give me time off."
"What else.^" asked Norma. "There's got to be something."
"Not much! This is a big-time self-centered man. Oh, there's his racquetball—two, three times a week. I thought of sawing his racquets halfway through, but he keeps them in the gym. He could have met the woman in the gym, maybe one of the aerobics class leaders. And with all that exercise, he's still a pig. I think it's the beer—oh yes, he loves his beer."
"People?" asked Norma. "There's got to be people!"
"About fifty percent of his conversation is to sit around and complain—what's that Yiddish term you use. Norma?"
''Kvetchr
"Yeah, sit around and kvetch about his lack of friends. He has no intimates, except of course the dim sum girl. She's the best bet for getting to him."
"If she's as bad as you imagine," said Heather, "it might be best to do nothing, to let them get completely enmeshed. It'll be No Exit —they'll make their own personal hell."
"You still don't understand. Heather. I don't just want him to be miserable: that's not revenge. / ivant him to know it's my doing.''''
"So," said Norma, "we've established the first step: find out who she is."
Carol nodded. "Right! And next I'll find a way to get him through her. Bite the head off and the tail will die. Heather, you got a good private eye you've used in divorce cases?"
"Easy: Bat Thomas. He's great—he'll tail Justin and identify her in twenty-four hours."
"And Bat's cute, too," Norma added. "Maybe offer you some sexual affirmation—no extra charge."
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"Twenty-four hours?" responded Carol. "He could get the name in one hour if he were good enough to bug the couch of Justin's shrink. Justin probably talks about her all the time."
"Justin's shrink. Justin's shrink," said Norma. "You know, it's curious how we've neglected Justin's shrink. How long did you say Justin's seen him?"
"Five years!"
"Five years at three times a week," Norma continued. "Let's see . . . with vacations, that's about a hundred forty hours a year—multiply by five, that's about seven hundred hours total."
"Seven hundred hours!" exclaimed Heather. "What on earth have they been talking about for seven hundred hours?"
"I can guess," said Norma, "what they've been discussing lately."
In the last few minutes, in an effort to conceal her irritation with Heather and Norma, Carol had slumped so deeply into the cowl of her sweater that only her eyes were visible. As so often before, she felt more alone than ever. This came as no surprise—many times friends traveled part of the way with her, many times they had promised loyalty; yet, in the end, they always misunderstood.
It was the mention of Justin's shrink that caught her attention. Now, like a tortoise emerging from its shell, she slowly extended her head. "What do you mean? What have they been discussing?"
"The great exodus, of course. What else?" said Norma. "You seem surprised, Carol."
"No! I mean yes. I know Justin had to have been discussing me with his shrink. Funny how
I manage to forget that. Maybe I have to forget. Creepy to think of being continually bugged, of Justin reporting to his shrink on every conversation with me. But of course! Of course! Those two planned every step of this together. I told you! I told you before that Justin could never have walked out on his own."
"He ever tell you what he talks about?" asked Norma.
"Never! Lash advised him not to tell me, said I was too controlling and he needed his private sanctum where I wasn't permitted to enter. I stopped asking long ago. But you know there was a time two or three years ago when he was down on his shrink and bad-mouthed him for a couple of weeks. He said that Lash was so off base that he was urging a marital separation. At the time, I don't know why—maybe 'cause Justin's so obviously pathetic—I thought Lash was on my side, maybe trying to show Justin that, if he were
Lying on the Couch r^^ ^ ^
away from me, he'd realize how much he really gets from me. But now I see everything differently. Shit, I've had a mole in my home for years!"
"Five years," said Heather. "That's a long time. I don't know a soul who's stayed in therapy for so long. Why five years?"
"You don't know much about the therapy industry," replied Carol. "Some of the shrinks will keep you coming in perpetuity. And, oh yeah, I didn't tell you that's five years with this therapist. There were others before him. Justin's always had problems: indecisive, obsessive, has to check everything twenty times. We leave the house and he goes back and forth to the door to see if he locked it. By the time he gets back to the car, he forgets if he checked and out he goes again. Dumb shit! Can you imagine an accountant like that? It's a joke. He was dependent on pills—couldn't sleep without them, fly without them, meet an auditor without them."
"Still?" asked Heather.
"He's gone from pill addict to shrink addict. Lash is his nipple. Can't get enough of him. Even at three times a week, he can't get through the week without phoning Lash. Someone criticizes him at work, five minutes later he's whining about it on the phone to his shrink. Sickening."
"It's sickening also," said Heather, "to think of medical exploitation of that kind of dependency. Great for the shrink's bank account. What motivation does he have for helping a patient function on his own? Is there a malpractice angle?"
"Heather, you're not listening. I told you that the industry considers five years as normal. Some analyses go on for eight, nine years, four or five times a week. And have you ever tried to get one of these guys to testify against another? It's a closed shop."
"You know," said Norma, "I think we're making headway." She picked up a second doll, placed it next to the other on the mantel, and wrapped some twine around both. "They're Siamese twins. Get one, we get the other. Hurt the doc, we hurt Justin."
"Not quite," said Carol, her long neck now fully emerged from her cowl, her voice steely and impatient. "Hurting Lash alone wouldn't do anything. It might even bring them closer together. No, the real target is the relationship: I destroy that, and I'll get to Justin."
"You ever met Lash, Carol?" asked Heather.
"No. Several times Justin told me he wanted me to come in for a
6 i -- Lying on the Couch
couples session, but I've had it with shrinks. Once, about a year ago, curiosity got the better of me, though, and I went to one of his lectures. Arrogant blimp. I remember thinking how I'd like to set off a bomb under his couch or put my fist right into that sanctimonious face. It would settle some scores. Old ones and new ones."
As Heather and Norma brainstormed about how to nail a shrink, Carol grew still. She stared at the fire, thinking of Dr. Ernest Lash, her cheeks glistening and reflecting the glow of the eucalyptus embers. And then it came to her. A door opened in her mind; an idea, a stupendous idea, swiveled into view. Carol knew exactly what she had to do! She rose, took the dolls from the mantel, and tossed them onto the fire. The delicate twine binding them together flared briefly, then became an incandescent thread before falling into ash. The dolls seeped smoke, turned dark with heat, and soon burst into flame. Carol stoked the ashes and then announced, "Thank you, my friends. I know my way now. Let's see how Justin does with his shrink out of business. Conference adjourned, ladies."
Heather and Norma didn't budge.
"Trust me," said Carol, closing the fire screen. "Better not to know more. If you don't know, you'll never have to perjure yourselves."
THREE
rnest entered Printers Inc. bookstore in Palo Alto and glanced at the poster on the door.
DR. ERNEST LASH
Assoc. Clin. Prof, of Psychiatry, U. ofCal. San Francisco Speaking on his new book:
BEREAVEMENT: FACTS, FADS, AND FALLACIES Feb. 19. 8 - 9 PM - followed by book signing
Ernest glanced at the list of speakers from the previous week. Impressive! He was traveling in good company: Alice Walker, Amy Tan, James Hillman, David Lodge. David Lodge —from England.> How had they snared him}
As he strolled in, Ernest wondered whether the customers milling
^4 ' ^ Lying on the Couch
about in the store recognized him as the evening's speaker. He introduced himself to Susan, the owner, and accepted her offer of a cup of coffee from the bookstore cafe. Heading toward the reading room, Ernest scanned the new titles for his favorite writers. Most stores allowed speakers to choose a free book for their efforts. Ah, a new book by Paul Auster!
Within minutes, his bookstore blues descended. Books everywhere, shrieking for attention on large display tables, shamelessly exhibiting their iridescent green and magenta jackets, heaped on the floor patiently awaiting shelving, spilling off tables, splashing onto the floor. Against the far wall of the store, great mounds of failed books glumly awaited return to their maker. Next to them stood unopened cartons of bright young volumes eager for their moment in the sun.
Ernest's heart went out to his little baby. What chance did it have in this ocean of books, one frail little spirit, swimming for its life?
He turned into the reading room, where fifteen rows of metal chairs had been unfolded. Here his Bereavement: Facts, Fads, and Fallacies was prominently displayed; several stacks, perhaps a total of sixty books, awaited signing and purchase next to the podium. Fine. Fine. But what about his book's future? What about two or three months hence? Perhaps one or two copies filed inconspicuously under L in the psychology or the self-help section. Six months hence? Vanished! "Available only on special order; should arrive in three to four weeks."
Ernest understood that no store had room enough to display all books, even those of great merit. At least, he could understand it for other writer's books. But surely it was not reasonable that his book should have to die—not the book he had worked on for three years, not his exquisitely honed sentences and the graceful manner by which he took readers by the hand and led them gently through some of the darkest realms of life. Next year, ten years hence, there would be widows and widowers, plenty of them, who would need his book. The truths he wrote would be as profound and as fresh then as now.
"Do not confuse value and permanence—that way lies nihilism," Ernest murmured as he tried to shake off his blues. He invoked his familiar catechisms: "Everything fades," he reminded himself. "That's the nature of experience. Nothing persists. Permanence is an illusion, and one day the solar system will lie in ruins." Ah yes, that
Lying on the Couch ^ 65
felt better! And better yet when Ernest invoked Sisyphus: a book fades? Well then, write a fresh book! And then yet another and another.
Though there were still fifteen minutes left, the seats were beginning to fill. Ernest settled down in the last row to scan his notes and to check whether he had placed them back in the proper order after his reading in Berkeley the previous week. A woman carrying a cup of coffee sat down a couple of seats away. Some force caused Ernest to look up, and when he did he saw that she was gazing at him.
He checked her out and liked what he saw: a large-eyed handsome woman, about forty, with long blond hair, heavy dan
gling silver earrings, a silver serpent necklace, black net stockings, and a burnt orange angora sweater valiantly trying to contain commanding breasts. Those breasts! Ernest's pulse quickened; he had to rip his eyes away from them.
Her gaze was intense. Ernest rarely thought of Ruth, his wife who had died six years before in an auto accident, but he remembered with gratitude one gift she had given him. Once, in their early days, before they had stopped touching and loving each other, Ruth had revealed to him the woman's ultimate secret: how to capture a man. "Such a simple matter," she had said. "One has only to look into a man's eyes and hold his gaze for a few extra seconds. That's all!" Ruth's secret had proven accurate: time and again he had identified women trying to pick him up. This woman passed that test. He looked up again. She was still staring. Absolutely no doubt about it—this woman was coming on to him! And at a most opportune time: his relationship with the current woman in his life was quickly unraveling, and Ernest was ravenously horny. All atwitter, he sucked in his belly and boldly gazed back.
"Dr. Lash?" She leaned toward him and extended her hand. He clasped it.
"My name is Nan Swensen." She held his hand two or three seconds longer than expected.
"Ernest Lash." Ernest tried to modulate his voice. His heart pounded. He loved the sexual chase but hated the first stage—the ritual, the risk. How he envied Nan Swensen's bearing: her absolute command, absolute self-confidence. How lucky such women are, he thought. No necessity to speak, no fumbling for cute opening lines, no awkward invitations for drinks, dance, or conversation. All they have to do is let their beauty do the talking.
66 ^ Lying on the Couch
"I know who you are," she said. "The question is, do you know who / am?"
"Should I?"
"I'll be shattered if you don't."