Loving Time

fifty-one

As Jason watched Special Agent Daveys chew on what was left of the ice in his third glass of water, nine clocks began to chime the half hour. Eight-thirty. Emma was not going to take this well. On his return from the office, just as she was regaling him with the happy story of her final call-back and offer of the role for which she’d come East, Special Agent Daveys of the FBI had shown up without warning for a home visit.

Standing in the hallway angular as a heron, Daveys said he was thirsty and politely requested a glass of water, preferably from a bottle that hadn’t been opened. Emma brought him a fresh bottle of Evian and disappeared. Then, unembarrassed at the prospect of being a nuisance, he asked for lots of ice. Jason went into the kitchen for the ice bucket and found Emma in there sulking. He had promised her he wouldn’t be long, and now the minutes were adding up.

For an hour and a half, Daveys had been chewing thoughtfully on cube after cube of ice as he asked about Jason’s history at the Centre, his knowledge of Clara Treadwell, his involvement with the Cowles investigation, Harold Dickey, the inpatient wards, the staff at the Centre, the condom with the scalpel that had pierced Clara’s hand, the used condom in the appointment book, and a dozen other things Jason didn’t want to talk about.

“Do you get paid for being a supervisor?” Daveys asked abruptly.

“No,” Jason said. He stared gloomily at the empty water bottle, dying for Daveys to go so he could have a real drink.

“You work for nothing?” the agent said as if he didn’t believe it.

“It’s considered an honor to be asked.”

“How does it work?”

“Oh, supervisors follow residents through their first psychoanalytic cases—look over their shoulders, comment on what they’ve said and done with their patients in sessions, illuminate the process for them. It takes a lot of time, several hours a week.”

“So you teach them how to do it.”

“That’s about it.”

“You lead them, as it were.” Daveys pinched his hawk nose.

“We’re supposed to show them the way,” Jason conceded.

“And you can lead them astray.”

Jason coughed. “We try not to, of course.”

“But when they’re led astray, who would you say is responsible?”

Jason shook his head. “What case are we talking about, er, Special Agent?”

“Call me Steve. I’m just trying to get the lay of the land. How often do supervisors have affairs with their residents?”

“I can’t answer that question. I don’t know. It’s unprofessional at best. It’s a big no-no.” Jason felt the clocks ticking like time bombs.

“What happened to the condoms Dr. Treadwell found?”

“I don’t know what happened to the first one. The police have the second one.”

Daveys’s eyebrows shot up. “The police?”

“As far as I know.”

“Dr. Frank, I hear you’re very tight with the NYPD.”

“I’ve worked on a few cases with them,” Jason replied modestly.

Daveys regarded the empty Evian bottle thoughtfully.

“You having cross-agency problems?” Jason asked with a smile.

Daveys’s thin lips came together. “I grew up in Boston, Doctor. My father was a cop. My little brother is a cop. I don’t have agency problems, or any other kind. We all do our jobs and try not to get in each other’s way.”

“I thought homicides were supposed to be handled locally.”

“We’re always available to help out when we’re asked.” Finally Daveys put down his empty glass and rose. “You should have some of that water,” he said in parting. “Flushes the kidneys, don’t you know.”

As Jason closed the front door on the kidney-flushing federal agent, Emma emerged from the kitchen with a bottle of champagne. She looked a little miffed as she moved a clock and some books on the coffee table to make a place for the glasses. “Well, how did it go?”

Jason brushed his hand over the face of a round clock, set in the top of a marble obelisk on a side table. He noticed it was fast and frowned.

“I guess you’re not in a celebrating mood anymore.” Emma put the bottle down and curled up in a corner of the sofa, nestling into her big white sweater, resigned to a change of plan.

“Yes. I’m in the mood. I’m thrilled and excited for you. Really.”

“You don’t look thrilled and excited.”

Jason pasted on an enthusiastic smile. “Well, I am. I’m proud, I’m impressed. I know you’ll be great. I have only one bit of advice to give you.”

“Oh, yeah, what’s that?” She eyed the bottle of champagne hopefully.

“Don’t drool.”

“Don’t drool. That’s it?”

“That’s it.” He saw that counsel wasn’t enough. She wanted the toast, too. He lifted the bottle and unwrapped the foil, trying—at least for a few minutes—to push back the tidal wave of Clara Treadwell that was swallowing up his life.

“What kind of advice is that?” Emma demanded, disappointed that he didn’t have room for her even now.

Trouble brewed in her eyes. She was angry about Daveys’s visit. Jason could just imagine her sitting in the kitchen stewing about how she was always relegated to the background of his life. How she never had the support of a loving husband to cheer her on when she needed it. Which always seemed to be at the most inconvenient of times—like now, when an FBI agent happened to show up out of the blue to spoil her party.

On the other hand, maybe Emma hadn’t been grumping around the kitchen counting her grievances. Maybe she was really scared because she got the part in her play and hadn’t thought she would. What if she had only used the audition as an excuse to reconsider the rotten marriage that gave her stability and the rotten husband who loved her? An ironic smile played around Jason’s mouth as he began grappling with the champagne cork. There was nothing in the world like the unforeseen consequences of answered prayers.

In a splash of foam, the cork jumped out of the bottle. Jason grabbed a glass to catch it.

“Congratulations, darling. To your great success. As long as you don’t spit too much, they’ll love you.”

“You’d probably rather have a beer,” Emma murmured, clinking glasses. “Maybe you’ll get what you want, too, my love. I hope someday you’ll know what it is.”

“Touché.” He sat on the sofa next to her, thinking he’d rather have a gin.

“So, what did the masked man want?” she asked, not exactly sipping like a lady.

“Take a guess.”

“This is nice champagne. We may need another bottle.” She paused to drink the last of the glass down and pour another. “Well, he was FBI, right?”

“Hmmm. What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know. The slab face, lipless mouth, colorless hair. Gray suit … Evian, and lots of ice—give me a break.” She poured Jason some more champagne, too. “Or maybe it was the cute little snub-nosed .38 strapped to his ankle. He sure wasn’t a cop.”

“You noticed.”

“How could I miss it? He crossed his legs when he sat down. Has the FBI come to offer you a job, too?”

Jason laughed. “You’re funny. Is that why you’re a star?”

“No, I’m a star because I’m brilliant and utterly fearless. FBI. Snub-nosed .38. Am I right?”

“Probably right. I don’t know about the gun. I have a brilliant and utterly fearless wife.”

“How’s it feel to be visited by the FBI?”

“Feels great, except for the sinking feeling right …” He pointed to his nether regions. “Feel this.”

“Ha, ha.”

“Really, it’s bad. I need attention.”

“Yeah, well, who doesn’t? Now tell the truth, Doctor. Did Clara Treadwell kill her lover? Did the President of the United States send his private army to get the goods on the great Dr. Treadwell so he could quietly kick her off his commission before she becomes a major liability? Or are the feds here to cover up some secret plot to liberate the insane? That would be right up your alley.”

“Now where would you get a fool idea like that, my dear Watson? Are you sure you wouldn’t rather explore the implications of my …?”

Emma slapped his hand playfully, nicely flushed from the champagne. “Maybe later. First the story, Sherlock. You know, this is more fun than being the wife of a shrink. Why don’t you join the FBI? That’s the kind of secret stuff that’s fun. And if you worked for them, then I could have a private army looking after me.”

She got up a little shakily, tottered off to the kitchen to look for another bottle. “Well, did she kill him or not? Wait a minute, wait a minute. Don’t say anything until I get back.”

Which victim? Jason squeezed his eyes shut, allowing himself to enjoy the slight buzz from the champagne. A number of points struck him about Clara Treadwell from his close reading of the last pages of the Cowles file. Two years into the therapy, Ray’s girlfriend had begun pressing for marriage. From the descriptions of their discussions it was clear to Jason that Clara believed marriage was a heterosexual male creation designed to victimize and dominate women.

Clara had not yet been married at the time and did not want to succumb to the state of domination. But although she did not want to marry herself, her notes indicated that she interpreted Ray’s anxiety about marriage as heterosexual avoidance. She told Ray he was afraid to take his natural place in the heterosexual world. Jason saw this as a constant manipulation of Ray’s mental state as a counterpoint to Clara’s own. It made her a subtle dominatrix. It also contradicted her claim that morning that she had acted solely as a parrot to her supervisor’s ideas.

After nearly a year, according to Clara’s notes, Ray had agreed to marry his fiancée. When Clara and Harold discussed this in their supervisory sessions, Dickey applauded the patient’s decision. Nine months later, Ray Cowles was married and securely adjusted as a heterosexual. Since his marriage, he told Clara, he had not once engaged in any self-destructive activities. He and his wife had sex fairly regularly. The couple socialized in a predictable way. They had a staunch yuppie, upwardly mobile life. At this point Ray had raised the question of termination of his analysis.

Clara had told him she would think about it and then had a brief consultation with Dickey about it. Two things bothered Jason about this termination. It seemed clear to him that although apparently “cured” of his homosexuality, Ray was chronically depressed. His sessions with Clara were marked by long, arid silences. After he married, he produced no fantasies or free-associations about pleasure. He described his experiences at home and at work in gray, unemotional tones, expressing anhedonia and a low self-esteem. He said he was afraid he could never feel really loved or have any genuine satisfaction. He felt guilty and frequently had fantasies about dying. Cowles was an adjusted, stable, deeply unhappy homosexual, living the heterosexual life his analyst and her supervisor enjoyed together. Clara Treadwell and Harold Dickey had no intention of marrying each other but satisfied their own needs by getting Cowles married off.

Jason imagined that the consultation to terminate Ray’s therapy probably lasted two minutes. Clara was clearly bored with him—he was no longer a lively and poetic patient. In the last months, unable to engage with him, she had made up crossword puzzles, thought of other things, drifted off during his treatment sessions. Her notes commented frequently that this was because Ray wasn’t saying anything anymore. He was finished. He no longer had anything to say. On these grounds, Dickey, too, recommended termination. So, after four years with Harold and Clara, Ray Cowles was released to his own recognizance.

Jason found the notes regarding their last session particularly poignant. When Ray had asked if he was ever going to see his analyst again, Clara had responded by asking him what his fantasies on the subject were. Here Cowles finally produced a pleasurable fantasy. He said he imagined Clara as a kind of fairy godmother he could visit every Christmas. They could exchange Christmas cards, maybe even presents. Or they could have coffee on their birthdays and meet yearly like the couple in the play Same Time Next Year, only he and Clara would be friends, not lovers. Clara squelched this by remarking that termination was termination. She asked him to analyze his fantasy of reunions with her.

“Why do I have to do that?” he wanted to know. “It’s so rejecting,” he said.

“Termination is termination,” Clara insisted, and refused to allow the fantasy to stand. She was treating him like a rejected lover and at the same time telling him that was not the case. Ultimately, to please her, Ray came to the conclusion that he “was proud” to be able to leave someone in his permanent past. And on that note, the treatment ended.

Would that Ray Cowles had left Clara behind in his permanent past. If he had, he might now be alive and well and living with the man he loved.

Clara wrote up the case as the unqualified success of the conversion of neurotic homosexual to well-integrated heterosexual. Ray Cowles’s being nonimpulsive for a long period meant to Clara and Dickey that his superego had developed as a result of his Oedipal conflicts being resolved under their guidance.

Jason brooded about this as he prayed there was no more champagne to give him a headache later. Clearly Clara had organized her treatment of Ray Cowles around the firm beliefs of her mentor and supervisor, Harold Dickey. Jason knew at that time the concept of homosexual acts as impulses that were voluntary and governable was still widely held, in spite of the change in psychiatry in the definition of homosexuality as a perversion. The official change was written in stone in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders Fourth Edition (DSM-IV), the textbook used by psychiatrists throughout the country, but old biases die hard, and clearly Dickey had clung to outdated convictions. Jason’s diagnosis of the Cowles case was that it was a bad analysis. Clara had been supervised by a professor in the department with whom she was having an affair. The fact that the patient survived for more than fourteen years was offset by the fact that he died almost immediately after renewing contact with her. Clara had had a six-minute conversation with Ray just before he died. Could what Clara said to the man have triggered his last destructive act? And if she had said something, surely, Dickey could not have been responsible for that. Clara was claiming that a former nurse had murdered Dickey in revenge for being fired. She’d insisted that Dickey’s death was not related to Ray’s. Jason couldn’t help wondering about that.

Emma returned with another frosty bottle. “Look what I found.”

Jason groaned. There went his evening’s work. Still, Emma’s eyes were less stormy now. The neckline of her sweater had slipped down over a bare shoulder. She was smiling, and tipsy, happy to have Jason to herself. Clever girl. He resigned himself to marital bliss.