Yesterday, after viewing Stacy’s pain as we walked along the beach, I’d decided not to call Judy, wondering about entanglements between the Manitows and the Dosses, something that went beyond Mommy and Me, country-club tennis, Laura Ashley bedrooms. Now my curiosity took off in a whole new direction.
Her Eric, my Allison, then Stacy and Becky…
Becky having trouble in school—tutored by Joanne, then dropping back down to D’s when Joanne could no longer see her … Was Bob’s anger a reaction to perceived rejection?
Becky getting too skinny, entering therapy, trying to play therapist with Stacy, then cooling off.
Eric dumping Allison. Yet another rejection?
Bob Manitow smarting at his daughter’s broken heart? No, it had to be more than that. And his resentment of the Dosses’ problems wasn’t shared by his wife. Judy had referred Stacy to me because she cared about the girl…. Just another case of male impatience versus female empathy? Or had Bob’s empathy been trashed by his inability to rouse Joanne from what he saw as “nothing more than depression”? Sometimes physicians get angry at psychosomatic illness … or maybe this physician was just having a really bad day.
I thought of something else: Stacy’s tale of how Bob had stared with distaste as Richard and Joanne groped each other in the pool.
A prudish man, offended? Perhaps his resentment at having to confront the Dosses’ tribulations was emotional prudishness. I’d seen that most often in those running from their own despair, what a professor of mine had called baloney fleeing the slicer.
No sense speculating, the Manitows weren’t the issue; I’d allowed Bob Manitow’s anger to take me too far afield. Still, his reaction had been so intense—so out of proportion—that I had trouble letting go of it, and as I waited for Eric my thoughts kept drifting back to Judy.
Pencil-thin Judy in her chambers. Impeccable office, impeccable occupant. Tanned, tight-skinned, strong-boned good looks. Hanging her robe on a walnut valet, revealing the body-hugging St. John Knits suit underneath.
The room perpetually ready for a photo shoot: polished furniture, fresh flowers in crystal vases, soft lights, gelid convexities. No hint that the fury and tedium of Superior Court waited just beyond the door.
Those family photos. Two lithe blond girls with that same strong-boned beauty. Thin, very thin. Dad in the background … Had any of them smiled for the camera? I couldn’t remember, was pretty sure Bob hadn’t.
Stick-mom and a pair of stick-daughters, Becky carrying it too far. Did Judy’s attention to detail manifest as pressure upon her kids to look, sound, act, be faultless? Had the Dosses and their problems somehow become enmeshed with their neighbors?
Maybe I was indulging myself in speculation because the family was far less unpleasant than the file I’d taken from the deli. Geometry.
Finally, the red light flashed.
Richard and Stacy at the side door. Eric between them. Richard in his usual black shirt and slacks, the little silver phone in one hand. Looking a bit haggard. Stacy’s hair was loose and she wore a sleeveless white dress and white flats. I thought of a little girl in church.
Eric gave a disgusted look. His father and his sister had spoken about him in a way that connoted a huge presence. But when it came to physical stature, Doss DNA hadn’t faltered. He was no taller than Richard, and a good ten pounds lighter. A dejected slump bowed his back. Small hands, small feet.
A frail-looking boy with enormous black eyes, a delicate nose, and a soft, curling mouth. Rounder face than Stacy’s, but that same leprechaun cast. Copper skin, black hair clipped so short the curls had diminished to fuzz. His chambray shirt was oversize, and it bagged over the sagging waistband of dirt-stained baggy khakis wrinkled to used-Kleenex consistency. The cuffs accor-dioned atop running shoes encrusted with gray dried mud. Skimpy beard stubble dotted his chin and cheeks.
He looked everywhere but at me, his fingers flexed against his thighs. Delicate hands. Blackened, cracked nails, as if he’d been clawing in the dirt. His father hadn’t tried to clean him up. Or maybe he’d tried and Eric had resisted.
I said, “Eric? Dr. Delaware,” and extended my hand. He ignored the gesture, stared at the ground. The fingers kept flexing.