Academic certificates hung crookedly. National Merit Scholarship, Bank of America Award, General Studies Award, Science Achievement Award, valedictorian. Two curtained windows, doors to a private bathroom and a closet, a chrome-and-glass storage unit stuffed with paperbacks, spiral notebooks, three-ring binders, loose paper, a cheap Tijuana plaster statue of a bull. On a top shelf, a collection of gold plastic men proclaimed the joys of athletic accomplishment.
Double bed, its sheet tangled, wrinkled, half off the mattress. Behind the sleeping platform, stereo equipment, computers, printers. The floor was littered with wadded underwear, shirts, jeans, socks, a pair of dirty sneakers. Empty blue nylon backpack, food wrappers, Snapple bottles, crushed cans of Surge.
Eric sat near the headboard, Stacy was perched at the foot. Their backs to each other. She had on a yellow T-shirt over white capris. He wore black jeans and a black sweatshirt. Like father …
Both of them barefoot. Both of them red-eyed.
Eric slid one fingernail under another, flicked something. “Here it comes,” he said.
“Son,” said Joe Safer.
Eric’s upper lip curled. “Yes, Dad?”
Stacy shuddered and hugged herself. Raw cuticles on
her fingers. Her hair was unbound, wild and ragged, like her father’s.
Safer said, “Dr. Delaware was kind enough to come here at this hour. Your father would like you to talk to him.”
“Talk talk talk,” said Eric. “Hap-hap-ppy talk.”
Stacy shuddered again. She managed to look at me, aiming but pulling off scared.
“Eric,” said Safer, “I’m asking you to be courteous. Your father and I are both asking you.”
“How is Dad?” said Stacy. “Where is he? What’s he doing?”
“He’s downstairs resting, dear.”
“Does he want something to eat?”
“No, he’s fine, dear,” said Safer. “I made him a sandwich a while back.”
“Was it kosher?” said Eric.
Silence in the stale room.
Safer stroked his beard and smiled sadly.
“Nice kosher pickle,” said Eric. “Nize leetle piece of corned beef—”
Stacy said, “Stop it, Eric—”
“Nize little matzo ball—”
“Shut up, Eric!”
“Stop what? What the fuck am I doing?”
“You know what you’re doing. Stop being rude!”
They glared at each other. Stacy turned away first. Gave a small, furious wave, showed Eric her back. Stood up. “Enough of this, I’m out of here—I’m sorry, Dr. Delaware, I just can’t talk to you or anyone else right now. If I need you, I’ll call you—I really will, Mr. Safer.”
“Safer,” muttered Eric. “Dad’s writing him huge checks, and are any of us any safer?”
Stacy shouted, “You are so …”
“I’m what?”
Another dismissive wave. Stacy moved toward the door.
Eric said, “I’m what, smart-girl?”
Stacy kept going.
“Go ahead, leave, but don’t think you’re out of it,” Eric called after her. “We’re never really out of our misery unless we put ourselves out of it.”
Stacy stopped. Another shudder took hold of her body. Her face convulsed and white foam bubbled at the corners of her mouth. Turning, she canted forward, tiny hands compressed into hard little fists. For a moment, I thought she’d charge him. Flushed, herself. The Doss flush.
“You!” she said. “You … are … evil.”
She ran out, I followed, caught up with her at the door to the last bedroom.
“No! Please! I know you want to help but…”
“Stacy—”
She rushed into the bedroom but left the door open. I walked in.
Smaller room than Eric’s. Pink and baby-blue paper, ribbons and leaves and flowers. White iron bed with brass accents, pink comforter, stuffed animals piled into an upholstered armchair. Clothes and books strewn about, but not the calculated entropy of Eric’s personal space.
She walked to a window, touched shuttered blinds. “This is so humiliating, you seeing us like this.”
“These are tough times,” I said. House calls. How much didn’t I know about thousands of other patients?
“There’s no excuse,” she said. “We’re just…”
She trailed off. Hunched her back like an old woman and tore at a cuticle.
“I’m here to help, Stacy.”
No answer. Then: “It’s secret, right? Whatever we talk about? Nothing changes that?”
“Nothing,” I said. Unless you’re planning to kill someone.
I waited for her to talk. She didn’t.
“What’s on your mind, Stacy?”
“He is.”