Mystery

retchen Stengel answered her phone after one ring. “I’m me, who are you?”

Her voice was low, hoarse. The tail-end of each word faded.

“This is Dr. Delaware returning your call.”

“Doc,” she said. “Been a while, huh?”

“What can I—”

“You do remember me.”

“I do.”

“Been told I’m hard to forget,” she said.

I waited.

“All those years ago, huh, Doc?” Coughing. “Not exactly good times.”

“No one likes visits from the police.”

“The unspoken message: especially a pimp.”

I said, “My messages tend to be spoken. What can I do for you, Gretchen?”

She barked laughter, slid into a coughing fit, caught her breath with a sharp intake of air. “Now that we’re BFFs, may I call you Doctor?” Giggling.

I didn’t answer.

She said, “I can see you sitting there, with that stony shrink look.”

“Pure granite.”

“What—oh, ha, funny. Okay, sorry for being a wiseass. It’s just that I get that way when I’m dying.”

She coughed some more. “I don’t mean like some fucking comic bombing. Dying literally. As in the cells will soon go sleepy-bye.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Trust me, I’m sorrier than you. Springing it on you was a little naughty of me, huh? But there’s no easy way. Like when cops go tell families someone’s been murdered. Your gay buddy must love that, no?”

I didn’t answer.

She said, “I’ve been watching a lot of cop shows. Seeing it from the other side’s perspective has been educational.” Sigh. Throat clear. “Anyway, I’m on the way out. Kaput.”

“Would you like to come in to talk about it?”

“Not a chance,” she said. “There’s nothing to say. I lived what they call a high-risk life. Cleaned-and-sobered-up for seven years but kept dating Tommy Tobacco. My lungs never stopped bitching at me to quit, I didn’t, so they got pissed and cultivated a nice little bumper crop of tumors. I went through one course of chemo, asked the oncologist if there was a purpose to any of it and he was such a pussy, hemmed and hawed, that I got my answer. So I said, screw that noise, time to exit gracefully.”

There’s nothing to say.

She gasped. “Feels like I just ran the marathon. Not that I ever did that. Did anything healthy.” Laughter. “You’re a good shrink, I feel better already.” Inhalation. “Not.”

“What can I do for you, Gretchen?”

“Meaning why if I’m going to be snotty am I bugging you? It’s not about me. It’s my kid. One of the first things I did when I got out of rehab was find a nice anonymous sperm donor. Don’t ask why, I don’t know why, it just seemed like the thing to do. Kind of easy, I didn’t even need to lie about how big his cock was. Anyway, the result was Chad. So now I’ve got a six-year-old male BFF and I’m going to fuck up his life by bailing and I don’t know”—gasp—“what to do about it. So I figured, why not you? So what do you do with a six-year-old? Play therapy? Cognitive behavioral therapy? For sure not existential therapy, I mean Chad’s big angst is not enough TV.”

Ragged laughter. “Been reading psych books, too.”

“I’d be happy to help. Before I see Chad, you and I need to talk.”

“Why?”

“For me to take a history.”

“I can give you that right now.”

“It needs to be in person.”

“Why?”

“It’s the way I work, Gretchen.”

“Into control, huh?”

“If it doesn’t work for you, I’ll be happy to—”

“It works, it works fine,” she said. “When do we do this history?”

“Are you healthy enough to come to my office?”

“Mobility’s a day-to-day thing. But don’t worry, if I cancel, I’ll still pay you, I know you guys are big on that.”

“If you’re not too far, I could come to you.”

“Like a house call?” she said. “You’re punking me.”

“Where do you live?”

“B.H. adjacent, got a nice little condo on Willaman off Burton.”

“Close enough. What’s a good time?”

“Anytime. It’s not like I’m flying to Paris.”

I checked my book. “How about tomorrow at eleven?”

“House call,” she said. “You’re really going to do that.”

“Unless you have a problem with it.”

“My only problem is I’m going to be shutting my eyes forever, and who knows if Hell really exists,” she said. “Hey, does this mean you’re going to charge me for drive time, the way lawyers do? Nice way to pump up the hourly.”

“The hourly will be the same.”

Silence.

“Sorry,” she said. “That was assholishly ungrateful. I’ve never had much of a filter and cancer’s no mood enhancer.”

“Tomorrow at eleven,” I said.

“Besides no filter, I’m also a control freak who wants everything buttoned up to the max. What is the hourly?”

I told her.

“Not bad,” she said. “Back in the day, I had girls giving blow jobs for more than that.”

I said, “Free enterprise is a many-splendored thing.”

She laughed. “Maybe you’re not as stiff as I thought. Maybe this could work.”