Beyond Eden (20 page)

A student bumped against her and absently apologized. Lindsay said, her voice as cold as the air just beyond the library doors, “You're an old man, Dr. Gruska. I don't like you. I didn't like you when I was a senior and forced to take your class. I think Freud is full of shit and I think you're contemptible to remind me of a time that was very painful for me.”

He didn't move. He smiled and Lindsay felt sick to her stomach. “I know it is painful, my sweet girl. Sometimes we must suffer pain to be cured of our illnesses. Come with me, Lindsay. Come with me now.”

He held out his hand to her. She stared down at his hand, then back to his face.

She wanted to strike him. She wanted to pound him into pulp. He was soft; he was old. She could grind him down easily. She wanted to run. She could taste her fear, raw and nasty in her mouth. She continued to look at him, hoping he couldn't see the fear, hoping he didn't know how scared she was. “Perhaps you can become a behavioral
scientist and try to intimidate rats. Good-bye, sir.” She was out of the library and skipping quickly down the wide stairs.

He called her name out twice before she was lost in a congested mass of students.

 

“What's the matter, Eden? Dammit, talk to me.”

Taylor took her upper arms in his hands and lightly shook her. “Something happened today. Don't you know I can see every emotion that streaks through you? Talk to me.”

He'd caught her so soon after the run-in with Dr. Gruska. Just two hours, and she still felt threatened, wanting to hunker down in the corner of her living room and come to grips with what had happened. Deep inside her, pressing against the fear, was her elation at how she'd responded to Gruska. She'd faced him down. Still, there was all the darkness, the pounding emptiness. She wanted no one to see her like this, but here he was.

“No, don't shake your head at me. It's been four days since I met you but I can tell something is very wrong.” He frowned, released her, and said easily, changing his tone, his expression, his approach, “Can I brew you a cup of tea?”

“Yes, I'd like that.”

He'd verified a very useful fact, he thought as he put on her red potbellied kettle to boil. She responded to lightness, to matter-of-fact calm. Threats made her draw away even more. A raised voice sent her scurrying away, at least her mind, her attention.

“What kind of tea? Good old Lipton?”

“Yes, fine.”

“Lemon? Milk?”

“Just lemon.”

Two words at a time, he thought a few minutes later as he poured the boiling water over the tea bag. Go easy, very easy, and slowly. What the devil had happened?

He carried her tea into the living room, Lindsay trailing behind him. He set it down on the coffee table, scooting aside several of her novels to clear a space. One book fell onto the floor, but she didn't seem to notice.

He sat down in one of the easy chairs opposite her and said nothing.

Lindsay sipped the tea. She looked at him over the rim of her cup. He wasn't pushing now. He wasn't doing anything.

She was immensely reassured, she could handle things now, and said, “I was at Columbia today, at the library. I was going to look up some articles for a friend of mine. I ran into this professor I'd had in my senior year, four years ago. I didn't ever like him, in fact I wanted to drop his course, but I couldn't because I needed it to graduate. My degree is in psychology. Anyway, he wanted to see me, like a date or something. I told him off, that's all, and then I left, well, very quickly.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you leave very quickly? You'd told him off, what else was there to do? Why did you have to run away?”

“I didn't want him to see that I was afraid of him. No! I didn't mean that exactly—He's a jerk and a pompous, arrogant creep. Maybe I should have punched his ticket.”

“So why didn't you?”

“I wanted to be reasonable, to stand up to him, to handle him like an adult should.”

“Were you alone?”

“Oh, no. It was in the Columbia library. There were tons of students around.”

“You weren't alone and you also know karate. I bet you could take him with one arm. You wouldn't even need any help. Why are you afraid of him?”

“It's not that—it's his mind, the way he thinks, what he's found out, what he now knows, what he threatens with his words.”

That was about as clear as a fog bank, Taylor thought.

Lindsay was appalled at what had come out of her mouth, all because of Taylor and the way he was and that he'd showed up here before she could get a good hold on herself again. She smiled now, a social smile, all bland and empty. “It's the middle of the day. Why are you here? Don't you have people to guard and computers to fix?”

“Yeah,” he said easily, sitting back. “Actually I was on my way downtown to Wall Street to a brokerage house. They've got screws loose in their computer brain and called me to fix it. I thought about you and that's why I came.”

Truth be told, he'd gotten this feeling that something was wrong. It wasn't unusual; he wasn't psychic, for God's sake, but sometimes, rarely, he'd just get these feelings, nibbling feelings, that wouldn't go away. When he was much younger, he'd forced himself to ignore them. But not after an old woman had gotten mugged on his very street corner. He listened now, and even if the feeling turned out to be nothing at all, he still listened and still acted. This time his feeling had been right on the button. It was just that Eden wasn't going to say anything more. She didn't trust him. Well, it
hadn't been all that long. It would take time. With her, he was fully prepared to be patient. But he could also be cunning as hell.

“Well, I'm fine now, really. Thank you, Taylor. This professor—”

“No problem.”

“Thank you for making the tea. It's wonderful.”

“I'm glad you like it. I don't like any sugar in mine either. Just real hot and strong. No bark shavings. What's his name?”

“Gruska—no, no, that is, no, forget it, all right?”

“Sure, no problem. I've got to go now. Are we still on for tonight?”

She nodded, feeling like a fool, but he seemed not to notice that she'd spit out the name. Still, after Taylor had left, she fastened all the locks on her front door.

 

Taylor left the Wayfarer Insurance Company on Water Street at four o'clock, the problem diagnosed and fixed. The problem wasn't uncommon, but it was still a pain in the butt. The mail server was incorrectly configured on the insurance company's end. Since in this case the clients' end was also misconfigured, all the e-mail was being sent out into the ether. He'd gotten it straightened out in record time—lucky for both him and the insurance company. Taylor had come off as a genius, which was a nice feeling. He was good, but luck was never to be discounted. It was a good thing too that over the past four years he'd developed a network of computer friends across the country, and when each discovered something not run across before, the information was duly shared.

Mr. Phiffe, vice-president of operations, at least
seventy, white-haired, an aristocrat of insurance, was appalled when Taylor presented his bill.

“Five thousand dollars! But you fixed the problem in ten minutes, Jackson told me so.”

“Yes. I also told Jackson what my fixed charge would be up front, regardless of the time I spent here.”

“But he didn't think it would take just ten minutes.”

Taylor smiled. “Mr. Phiffe, you hired me to fix your problem. You are back in business, and in record time, I might add.”

Phiffe smiled slowly. “You're right, of course. It was just a shock. One gets what one pays for, eh? I pay for expertise and I get it. Time isn't the issue.” He buzzed his secretary. Taylor shook hands with him and picked up his check on the way out.

Taylor's next stop was Columbia. Dr. Gruska was a professor of psychology and he was in the Adams Building, second floor, room 223. He asked the woman in administration what Dr. Gruska's psychological roots were, so to speak. “Give him a chandelier and he'd swing by his Oedipus complex,” she'd said, and laughed. “The thing is, though, he hasn't got a mother. Just this old curmudgeon father who's run his life. Funny how moms always get blamed, isn't it?”

Taylor agreed that it was.

The day was blistering cold. It was very nearly dark now and getting colder by the minute. He really wasn't expecting Gruska to be in his office and it was with some surprise that his knock was answered with a full-voiced call.

“Come!”

He went in, gently closed the door behind him,
and surveyed the man who terrified Eden. Harmless-looking gent, tweedy, smoked a pipe, slender, long narrow face, and had a long nose that was now twitching at the sight of him, a complete stranger, fifties, rather pallid complexion, out-of-shape. Yeah, Eden could have taken him to the floor with only one arm.

“What can I do for you? It's late. I was just getting ready to leave.”

“Just a minute of your time, Dr. Gruska.” Taylor stuck out his gloved hand. “My name's Oliver Winston, Dr. Winston, psychoanalyst. I've heard a lot about you and wanted to meet you. I'm in town visiting friends and family. A Dr. Graham in my hometown of Columbus said to look you up if I had a chance. He said you were the tops.”

Dr. Gruska glowed. Taylor was motioned quickly to a chair facing the good doctor.

“Ah, Dr. Graham. Er, which Dr. Graham?”

“Joseph Graham of Columbus.”

“Ah, yes, Joe. Nice, solid fellow. Good background. How is he?”

“The arthritis is getting worse, but otherwise he's fine. As I said, he speaks of you with high praise.”

“I assume that you are embroiled in our very survival, Dr. Winston?”

Taylor had no idea what he was talking about, but he knew enough from Gruska's body language and voice tone to nod with great sincerity. “Yes, indeed. I don't know what to do about it.”

Taylor watched, fascinated, the myriad shifting expressions on Gruska's face. Rage, surprise, pleasure, more rage, more pleasure, conspiracy. He sat forward, his hands clasped in front of him. His pipe sent up lazy smoke into the air, its scent pleasant, like a pine forest.

Gruska's voice was warm, low, intense. “Ah, my dear fellow, then you're suffering as I am suffering, as all of us are suffering. The idea of boiling everything down to chemicals! It's preposterous! Certainly those ridiculous MD's who pretend to understand the human mind can, in a very few cases, administer their drugs and make the patient function.”

Taylor made an assenting noise and fanned his hands in despair.

“No doubt your friend sent you to see me because he knew I'd understand and sympathize. I will remain a psychoanalyst despite all the opposition, all the absurdities that abound and proliferate now, for what we have is the truth, and this truth explains what makes all of humanity behave in the ways we behave.”

Again Taylor looked struck by Gruska's fluency, his tone and manner. He said slowly, feeling his way, “I have found that women in particular are so well-explained by Freud.”

“Oh, my, yes, not to say that any of us worship like disciples at any one man's feet, but Freud pointed out the basic truths for us to build upon, which we have done superbly. And women, they are the most easily understood, the more easily explained, for the way they think leads them to act in very bizarre ways, and all of it is tied to overpowering and dictated subconscious intuition, and then cognition. Children know and adults suppress, particularly women. It's true, ah yes.”

It sounded like hash to Taylor, but he nodded, saying, “I have this one patient, a rather young woman, who's terrified of men. She will not confide in me though I've tried and tried to gain her trust. I have tried to take her back to those formative
years, but she resists, she refuses to allow hypnotism, which would unblock her. I ask, Dr. Gruska, what do you think I should do?”

Dr. Gruska paused, pondered, ran his long fingers up and down his pipe stem. He looked uncertain. He looked pleased to be asked.

Taylor quickly rose, fanning his hands in front of him in apology. “Oh, goodness. It's dark outside and I've kept you far too long. Forgive me, Dr. Gruska, but listening to you, hearing the depth of your feelings and knowledge, well—”

“Sit down, Dr. Winston, sit down! You can't go yet.”

Taylor sat, relieved.

“This young woman, is she beautiful?”

“Very.”

“Does she seem outwardly well-adjusted?”

“Yes, until a man gets close to her.”

“Is she one of those bitch professional women or a gentle, traditional, unencumbered woman?”

“Professional, unmarried, but not a bitch.”

“Ah, yes, classic, for the most part, certainly close enough to the paradigm. I would probe gently, Doctor, ask her about her teenage years—not her childhood, avoid that for the time being. Ask her about the sexual urges she suppressed, the guilt she felt when she experienced these urges. Get her to admit to masturbation, have her relive the feelings she experienced when she masturbated. Find out how she masturbated, that's very important—manual stimulation or using devices, such as dildos. It is possible that she seduced a relative—even a father—when she was eighteen or so, and now has closed it away deep in her mind. She has rewritten the event, so to speak, to ease her guilt, to justify
what she did then and to justify why she is as she is now.”

“My God,” Taylor said, and meant it. “Your advice is much more than I had ever expected, Dr. Gruska. Have you had, perhaps, a similar patient?”

“Oh, I've seen many girls like the one you describe. All that suppressed guilt and sexual tension, waiting to be released, demanding to be released, but they can't allow it, because to allow it would mean to admit these feelings. There is one girl in particular who desperately needs this release, who needs my help to gain this release, but there is still the lack of trust, her fear of herself and these feelings, her blindness to her own needs—Ah, well, it is late, isn't it? My dear fellow, I am delighted you dropped by. By all means give my regards to Joe. I hope his arthritis gets better.” Gruska rose and extended his hand. Taylor obligingly took it and gave it a healthy shake.