Bad Love (47 page)

“I really
like
this place,” he said. “Despite all the queer art. Nice, crisp, cruel, L.A. ambience. Much better than that little yuppie log cabin of yours. And
cliff
side — talk about perfect. Not to mention your little friend’s
truck —
unbelievable. Couldn’t have set it up better myself.”

He winked. “Almost makes you believe in God, doesn’t it? Fate, karma, predestination, collective unconscious — choose your dogma . . . do you have any idea what I’m talking about?”

“Delmar Parker,” I said.

The dead boy’s name blotted out his smile.

“I’m talking about consonance,” he said. “Making it
right
.”

“But Delmar has something to do with it, doesn’t he? Something beyond bad love.”

He uncrossed his legs. The gun made a small arc. “What do you know about bad love, you pretentious yuppie prick?”

The gun arm was board rigid. Then it began vibrating. He looked at it for just a second. Laughed, as if trying to erase his outburst.

Scratch, bump. The dog was throwing himself hard against the glass.

Coburg snickered. “Little
pit
puppy. Maybe after it’s over I’ll take him home with me.”

Smiling but sweating. The rosy cheeks deep with color.

Trying to keep my face neutral, I strained to hear sounds from the bedrooms. Nothing.

“So you think you know about bad love,” said Coburg.

“Meredith told me about it,” I said.

His brow tightened and mottled.

The dog kept scraping. The old-man whining sound filtered through the glass. Coburg gave a disgusted look.

“You don’t know anything,” he said.

“So tell me.”

“Shut your mouth.” The gun arm shot forward again.

I didn’t move.

He said, “You don’t know a
tenth
of it. Don’t flatter yourself with empathy,
fuck
your empathy.”

The dog bumped some more. Coburg’s eyes flattened.

“Maybe I’ll just shoot it . . . skin it and gut it . . . how good can a shrink’s dog be, anyway? How many shrinks does it take to change a lightbulb? None. They’re all dead.”

He laughed a bit more. Wiped sweat from his nose. I concentrated on the gun arm. It remained firmly in place, as if cut off from the rest of him.

“Do you know what
my
sin was?” he said. “The great transgression that bought me a ticket to hell?”

Ticket to hell
. Meredith had called the school the same thing.

I shook my head. My armpits were aching, my fingers turning numb.

He said, “Enuresis. When I was a kid I used to piss my bed.” He laughed.

“They treated me as if I
liked
it,” he said. “Mumsy and Evil Stepdaddy. As if I liked clammy sheets and that litter-box smell. They were
convinced
I was doing it on purpose, so they beat me. So I got more nervous and pissed gallons. So then what did they do?”

Looking at me, waiting.

“They beat you some more.”

“Bingo.
And
washed my dick with lye soap and all sorts of other wonderful stuff.”

Still smiling, but his cheeks were scarlet. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his shoulders hunched under the designer sweatshirt.

My first thought, seeing those rosy cheeks, had been:
a beautiful baby
.

“So I started to do other things,” he said. “Really naughty things. Could anyone blame me? Being tortured for something that I had no control over?”

I shook my head again. For a split second I felt my agreement meant something to him. Then a distracted look came into his eyes. The gun arm pushed forward and the black-metal barrel edged closer to my heart.

“What’s the current lowdown on enuresis, anyway?” he said. “Do you pricks still tell parents it’s a mental disease?”

“It’s genetic,” I said. “Related to sleep patterns. Generally it goes away by itself.”

“You don’t treat it anymore?”

“Sometimes behavior therapy is used.”

“
You
ever treat kids for it?”

“When they want to be treated.”

“Sure,” he grinned. “You’re a real humanitarian.” The grin died. “So what were you doing making speeches — paying homage to
Hitler
?”

“I—”

“Shut up.” The gun jabbed my chest. “That was rhetorical, don’t speak unless you’re spoken to . . . sleep patterns, huh? You quacks weren’t saying that back when I was getting beaten with a strap. You had all sorts of other voodoo theories back then — one of your fellow quacks told Mumsy and Evil that I was screwed up sexually. Another said I was seriously depressed and needed to be hospitalized. And one genius told them I was doing it because I was angry about their marriage. Which was true. But I wasn’t
pissing
because of it.
That
one they bought. Evil really got into expressing
his
anger. Big financial man, spiffy dresser — he had a whole collection of fancy belts. Lizard, alligator, calfskin, all with nice sharp buckles. One day I went to school with an especially nice collection of welts on my arm. A teacher started asking questions and the next thing I knew I was on a plane with dear old Mumsy to sunny California. Go west, little bad boy.”

He let his free hand drop to his lap. His eyes looked tired and his shoulders rounded.

The dog was still throwing himself against the glass.

Coburg stared straight at me.

I said, “How old were you when they put you in the school?”

The gun jabbed again, forcing me backward against the couch. All at once his face was up against mine, breathing licorice. I could see dried mucus in his nostrils. He spat. His saliva was cold and thick as it oozed down the side of my face.

“I’m not
there
, yet,” he said, between barely moving lips. “Why don’t you shut up and let me
tell
it?”

Breathing hard and fast. I made myself look into his eyes, feeling the gun without seeing it. My pulse thundered in my ears. The spit continued its downward trail. Reaching my chin. Dripping onto my shirt.

He looked repulsed, struck out, slapping me and wiping me simultaneously. Wiped his hand on the seat cushion.

“They didn’t
put
me there right away. They put me in another dungeon first. Right across the street — can you believe that, two hellholes on the same street — what was it, zoned H1 for hell? A real shithole run by a nincompoop alkie, but expensive as hell, so, of course, Mumsy thought it was good, the woman was always such an
arriviste
.”

I tried to look like a fascinated student . . . still no sounds from the bedrooms.

Coburg said, “A nincompoop. Not even a challenge. A book of matches and some notebook paper.” Smile.

Firesetters and truants . . 
. Bancroft hadn’t said the fire was at
his
school.

“Poor Mumsy was
stymied
, out on the next plane, the poor thing. This wonderful look of
hopelessness
on her face — and she such an educated woman. Crying as we waited for our taxi — I thought I’d finally scored a point. Then
he
walked over. From across the street. This
goatish
thing in a black suit and cheap shoes. Taking Mummy’s hand, telling her he’d heard what had happened, tsk-tsking and letting her cry some more about her bad little boy. Then telling her
his
school could handle those kinds of things. Guaranteed. All the while tousling my hair — twelve years old and he was tousling my fucking hair. His hand stank of cabbage and bay rum.”

The gun hand wavered a bit . . . not enough.

Scratch, bump.

“Mummy was
thrilled —
she knew him from his magazine articles. A famous man willing to tame her wild child.” His free hand fluttered. “The cab came and she sent it off empty.”

The gun withdrew far enough for me to see its black snout, dark against his white knuckles.

Two hellholes on the same street. De Bosch exploiting Bancroft’s failures. An alumnus of both schools, coming back years later, a tramp . . . the clean-cut face in front of me bore no street scars. But sometimes the wounds that healed weren’t the important ones.

“Across the street I went. Mummy signed some papers and left me alone with Hitler. He smiled at me and said, “Andrew, little Andrew. We have the same name, let’s be friends.’ Me saying, “Fuck you, old goat.’ He smiled again and patted my head. Took me down a long dark hall, shoved me into a cell, and locked it. I cried all night. When they let me out for lunch, I snuck into the kitchen and found matches.”

A wistful look came into his eyes.

“How thorough was I tonight? Did I leave anything standing at Casa del Shrinko?”

I remained silent.

The gun poked me. “
Did
I?”

“Not much.”

“Good. It’s a shoddy world, thoroughness is so rare a quality. You personify shoddiness. You were as easy to get to as a sardine in a can. All of you were — tell me, why are psychotherapists such a passive,
helpless
bunch? Why are you all such absolute
wimps — talking
about life rather than
doing
anything?”

I didn’t answer.

He said, “You really are, you know. Such an
unimpressive
group. Stripped of your jargon, you’re noth — if that dog of yours doesn’t shut up, I’m going to kill him — better yet, I’ll make
you
kill him. Make you
eat
him — we can grill him on that barbecue you’ve got out back. A nice little
hot
dog — that would be justice, wouldn’t it — making you confront your own cruelty? Give you a taste of
empathy
?”

“Why don’t we just let him go?” I said. “He’s not mine, just a stray I took in.”

“How kind of you.” Jab. My breastbone felt inflamed.

I said, “Why don’t we let my friend go, too? She hasn’t seen your faces.”

He smiled and settled back a bit.

“Shoddiness,” he said. “That’s the big problem. Phony science, false premises, false promises. You pretend to help people but you just mind-fuck them.”

He leaned forward. “How do you manage to live with yourself, knowing you’re a phony?”

Jab. “Answer me.”

“I’ve helped people.”

“How? With voodoo? With bad love?”

Trying to keep the whine out of
my
voice, I said, “I had nothing to do with de Bosch except for that symposium.”

“
Except
for?
Except
for! That’s like Eichmann saying he had nothing to do with Hitler
except
for getting those trains to the camps. That symposium was a public
love fest
, you asshole! You stood up there and canonized him! He tortured children and you
canonized
him!”

“I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, you and all the other good Germans.”

He spat at me again. The knuckles of his gun hand were tiny cauliflowers. Sweat popped at his hairline.

“That’s
it
?” he said. “That’s your
excuse —
“I didn’t
know
’?
Pathetic
. Just like all the others. For a bunch of supposedly educated people, you can’t even
plead
for yourselves effectively. No class.
Delmar
had more class in his little finger than the lot of you put together, and he was
retarded
. Not that it stopped them from bad-loving him day in and day out.”

He shook his head and flung sweat. I saw his index finger move up and down the trigger. The painful, hungry look on his face made my bowels churn. But then it was gone and he was smiling again.

“Retarded,” he said, as if enjoying the word. “Fourteen, but he was more like a seven-year-old. I was twelve, but I ended up being his big brother. He was the only one in the place who’d talk to me — beware the dangerous pyromaniac — Hitler warned them all against having anything to do with me. I was completely shunned except by Delmar. He couldn’t think clearly, but he had a heart of gold. Hitler took him in for the publicity — poor little Negro retardo helped by the great white doctor. When visitors came, he always had his hand on Delmar’s woolly little head. But Delmar was no great success. Delmar couldn’t remember rules or learn how to read and write. So when there were no visitors around, he kept bad-loving him, over and over. And when that didn’t work, they sent in the she-beast.”

“Myra Evans?”

“No, not her, you idiot. She was the
bitch
, I’m talking about the
beast —
Dr.
Daughter
. Kill-Me
Kate —
thank you, I already have.”

High-pitched laughter. The gun moved back some more and I stared into its single, black eye.

The dog began scratching again, but Coburg didn’t notice.

“When the
beast
finished with Delmar, he was drooling and crapping his pants and banging his head against the wall.”

“What did she do to him?”

“What did she
do
? She did a number on his
head
. And other parts of his body.”

“She molested him?”

His free hand touched his cheek and he arched his eyebrows.

“Such
shock
, the poor man is
shocked
! Yeah, she
molested
him, you idiot. In ways that
hurt
. He’d come back from sessions with her crying and
holding
himself. Crawl into bed, weeping. I had the room next door. I’d pick the lock and sneak him something to drink. When I asked him what the matter was, he wouldn’t tell me. Not for weeks. Then he finally did. I didn’t know much about sex, period, let alone ugly things. He pulled down his pants and showed me the marks. Dried blood all over his shorts.
That
was my introduction to the birds and the bees. It
altered
me, it altered me.”

His lips vibrated and he swallowed hard a couple of times. The gun arm like steel.

The glass door vibrated.

“So he took the truck,” I said. “To escape what she was doing to him.”

“
We
took it. I knew how to drive because Evil had a farm in Connecti — a summer place, lots of trucks and tractors. One of the farmhands taught me. Planning the break was hard because Delmar had trouble remembering details. We had a bunch of false starts. Finally we made it out, late at night, everyone asleep. Delmar was scared. I had to drag him.”