The black eyes hadn’t moved from mine. A vein in his neck pulsed. He smiled. Slouched. “Nice speech, bro. What’s that called? Constructive self-disclosure? Technique Number Fifty-five C?”
I shrugged. “Enough said.”
“Sorry,” he said in a small, hurried voice. “You’re a nice guy. Problem is, I’m not. So don’t waste your time.”
“You seem heavily invested in that,” I said.
“In what?”
“Being the quirky, obnoxious genius. My guess is that somewhere along the line you were taught to associate smarts with having an edge. But I’ve met some really bad people and you don’t qualify for that club.”
His face went scarlet. “I apologized, man. No need to twist the fucking knife.”
“No need for apologies, Eric. This is about you, not me. And yes, you’re right, that was constructive self-disclosure. I chose to expose part of myself in the hope it might spur you to get some help.”
He turned away from me. “This is bullshit. If Dad
hadn’t been a fucking old maid and freaked out, none of this would be happening.”
“That wouldn’t change the reality.”
“Give me a break.”
“Forget philosophy, Eric. Forget intro psych. Your reality is what you’re experiencing. Most people your age don’t have to endure what you’ve endured. Most aren’t concerned with guilt and expiation.”
His shoulders jerked as if I’d shaken him. “I. Was. Talking. Abstractly.”
“Were you?”
He seemed poised to leap from the chair. Settled back down. Laughed. “So you’ve met a lot of bad guys, have you?”
“More than I’d care to.”
“Killers?”
“Among others.”
“Serial killers?”
“That, too.”
Another laugh. “And you don’t think I’d qualify?”
“Let’s call it an educated guess, Eric. Though you’re right: I don’t really know you. I’m also guessing guilt’s more than an abstraction for you. Your father and your sister both told me how much time you spent with your mother during her illness. Taking the semester off—”
“So, now I get punished for it? Have to listen to all this fucking shit?”
“Being here’s not punishment.”
“It is if it’s against your will.”
“Could your father really have forced you?” I said.
He didn’t answer.
“It’s your choice,” I said. “Your volition. And since this is a one-shot deal, the best I can do is give you some advice and let you run with it.”
“My advice is forget it—don’t waste your midwestern time. I shouldn’t be here in the first place. I shouldn’t be horning in on Stacy’s therapy.”
“Stacy’s okay with it—”
“That’s what she says. That’s the way she always starts out, path of least resistance, everything’s fine. But, believe me, she’ll get pissed about it, it’s just a matter of time. Basically, she hates me. I’m a shadow in her life, the best thing that ever happened to her was my going away. Stanford’s the last place she should go, but with Dad leaning on her, she’ll comply once again—the path of least resistance. She’ll come up there, want to hang out with me, start hating me again.”
“She stops hating you when you’re apart?”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
“Sometimes absence makes the heart grow hollow.”
“Profound,” he said. “All this fucking profundity so early in the day.”
“You really think Stacy hates you.”
“Ah knows she duz. Not that I can do anything about it. Birth order’s birth order, she’ll just have to deal with being number two.”
“And you have to deal with being number one.”
“The burdens of primacy.” He peeled back a sleeve. “Oh man, left my watch back in my dorm room . . . Hopefully no one swiped it—I’ve really got to get back, take care of business. How much more time do we have?”
“Ten more minutes.”
He examined the room some more, saw the play corner, the bookcase stacked with board games. “Hey, let’s play Candy Land. See who gets to the top of that big rock-candy mountain first.”
“Nothing wrong,” I said, “with having a sweet life.”
He wheeled, gaped at me. I never saw the tears in his eyes but the frantic way he swiped at them told me they were there. “Everything’s a punch line with you— making your fucking point. Well, thanks for all the fucking insight, Doc.”