“Not a gambler? Oh, well, there’s no reason I should be ashamed, it’s all chemistry–that was my point, wasn’t it? Bipolar affective disorder. Your basic, garden variety manic-depressive maniac. You tell people you’re manic and they say, oh yeah, I’m feeling really manic, too. And you say, no, no, no, this is different. This is real, my little pretties.”
“Are you on lithium?”
Nod. “Unless the work piles up and I need the extra push. I finally found a psychiatrist who knew what the hell he was doing. All the others were ignorant assholes like Dr. Botch. Analyzing me, blaming me. Botch nearly convinced me I did want to fuck Daddy. He totally convinced me I was bad.”
“With bad love?”
She stood suddenly and snatched up her purse. She was six feet tall, with a tiny waist, narrow hips, and long legs under a charcoal-colored silk miniskirt. The skirt had ridden up, revealing sleek thigh. If she realized it, she didn’t choose to fix it.
“He’s worried I’m leaving.” She laughed. “Mellow out, son. Just going to pee.”
She made an abrupt about-face and sashayed toward the rear of the restaurant.
A few moments later, I got up and verified that the restrooms were back there, and the only exit a grimy gray door with a bar across it marked EMERGENCY.
She returned a few minutes later, hair fluffed, eyes puffy but freshly shadowed. Sitting down, she nudged my shin with a toe and gave a weak smile.
Waving for the waitress, she got a refill and drank half the cup, taking long, silent swallows.
Looking ready to choke. My therapeutic impulse was to pat her hand. I resisted it.
“Bad love,” she said softly. “Little rooms. Little locked cells.
Bare bulbs-or sometimes he’d just light a candle. Candles we made in crafts. Beautiful candles–actually they were ugly pieces of shit, with this really disgusting scent. Nothing in the cell but two chairs.
He’d sit opposite you, your knees almost touching. Nothing between you. Then he’d stare at you for a long time.
A long time. Then he’d start talking in this low, relaxed voice–like it was just a chat, like it was just two people having a nice, civil conversation.
And at first you’d think you were getting away easy, he’d sound so pleasant.
Smiling, playing with that stupid little beard or his puka shells.”
She said, “Shit,” and drank coffee.
“What did he talk about?”
“He’d start off lecturing about human nature. How everyone had good parts of their character and bad parts and the difference between the successful people and the unsuccessful people was which part you used.
And that we kids were there because we were using too much bad part and not enough good part.
Because we’d gotten warped somehow–damaged was the way he put it-from wanting to sleep with our mommies and our daddies. But how everyone else at the school was now doing great. Everyone except you, young lady, is controlling their impulses and learning to use the good part.
They are going to be okay. They deserve good love and are going to have happy lives.”
She closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. Funneled her lips into a pinhole and blew air out through it.
“Then he’d stop. To let it all sink in. And stare some more. And get even closer. His breath always stank of cabbage. .. the room was so small the smell filled it–he filled it. He wasn’t a big man, but in there he was huge.
You felt like an ant, about to be crushed–like the room was running out of air and you were going to strangle. .. the way he stared–his eyes were like drills. And the look–when you got the bad love. After the soft talk was through. This hatred–letting you know you were scum.
” You,’ he’d say. And then he’d repeat it. You, you, you.” And then it would start–you were the only one who wasn’t doing good. You couldn’t control your impulses, you weren’t trying–you were acting just like an animal. A dirty, filthy animal–a vermin animal. That was a favorite of his. Vermin animals–in his creepy Inspector Clouseau accent. Vermeen aneemals. Then he’d start calling you other names. Fool, idiot, weakling, moron, savage, excrement. No curse words, just one insult after another, sometimes in French. Saying them so quietly you could barely hear them. But you had to hear them because there was nothing else to hear in that room. Just the wax dripping, sometimes a plumbing pipe would rumble, but mostly it was silent. You had to listen.”