Burying Ben (11 page)

Chapter Ten

I spend the weekend beating
m
yself up for being
a lousy therapist, a failure as a wife, and a disappoint
m
ent as a daughter, consorting with the ene
m
y when I should have been happily
m
arried and having children.

My
m
other calls and invites
m
e for Saturday night country line dancing, the highlight of the week at her apart
m
ent co
m
plex. But I can’t face her, o
v
er eager and
expecta
n
t,
g
rilling
m
e
for signs that my life is a
g
ain filled with never ending prospects for a fabulous futur
e
.

If she’s heard about Ben, she gives no indication.
S
i
nce
m
y father
’
s death, she has stopped reading newspapers and watching tele
v
i
sion
ne
ws because it is too
d
epressing. She is, once again, the per
p
etual opti
m
ist of her youth, see
m
ingly unchastened by the fact
that her sunny outlook was to bla
m
e for hooking up with
m
y father in the expectation that their life
together would be bursting with utopian possibilities. She
m
ade our penury seem
like an
adventure in si
m
ple living, and blessed my father
’
s crappy
m
enial jobs for giving us an ethical life, free from corporate greed.

W
here he saw evil, s
h
e saw a wounded spirit. Where he saw conspiracies, she saw a network of well inte
n
tioned, but ill-info
r
m
ed actors. As for my own truncated social life, she calls it a ti
m
e for healing, during which
m
y true life
’
s co
m
panion is searching for
m
e as hard as I am
looking for him.
W
ork is only so
m
ething to
f
ill the ti
m
e be
f
ore he
m
akes his appeara
n
ce.

I wake up at six on Monday, shower, and put on a black suit to
m
atch
m
y mood. My house feels like a prison. Eddie and Ben have been dogging
m
e for two days, tra
m
ping through
m
y
m
i
nd in a never-ending loop of
i
m
ages. Ben, alone and desperate, staring at his gun. Eddie, drunk,
driving off the road into a ditch, the sound of his head cracking the windshield. Ben, terrified, cold
m
e
tal against his skin, tears pooling in his eyes, thoughts racing — yes, no, yes, no — un
t
il the final yes and the sudden spray of blood and tissue.

I leave the house and head
for the police depart
m
ent as soon as I’m dressed. No coffee, no juice.

I find Eddie in the report-writing room with Manny.

“
W
hat’s up, Doc
?
” He
w
aves his cigar in t
h
e air like a carrot.
“How’s things in the nuthouse? You know
m
y boy,
Mañana
.”

“
Manuelo
,” Manny says in a soft voice.
He stands up and shakes
m
y hand. “Nice to see you again.”

“Sorry to
interrupt.”

“Don’t worry about
d
i
sturbing us.
Mañana
has got to learn to
m
ulti-task.
This isn’t college, college boy, where you get to do
one thing at a ti
m
e. This here is po-leese work.”

“You weren’t at the debriefing,” I say.

Eddie’s eyes narrow just slightly. “Hey
Mañana
, run over to t
h
e cafeteria, get
m
e a donut and coffee. And get the Doc so
m
ething
too.”

I decline. He shoves a five-dollar bill in Man
n
y’s hand.

“Go out the door, turn right, walk up the
stairs, turn left, and go through the big double doors
m
arked c-a-f-e-t-e-r-i-a.” He s
p
ells slowly and robotically. Manny’s mouth is drawn into a thin line,
his lips locked together. A g
r
owing ruddiness splotches his coffee colored co
m
plexion.

“So, Doc, what can I do you for
?
”

“I was concerned when you didn’t show
up at the debriefing.”

He shrugs, tilts back in the chair and puts his feet
on the desk.

“Why didn’t you co
m
e?
It was
m
andatory.”

“Mental
m
asturbation is for the kids.
I don’t need you or anyone else picking through the turds in
m
y head. I got
m
y own doctor, Doctor Jack Daniels.” He pats his chest as though he has a bottle underneath his unifo
r
m. “I’ve done this job for years with
o
ut t
a
lking a
b
out it. As
f
ar
as I’m
concerned, that debriefing crap is just a big circle jerk
w
here everybody cries, says their feelings and
l
eaves feeling
w
orse than when they started. Too bad choir practice has gone
out of style. A bottle of booze, so
m
e buddies in the parking lot and you get it all
off your chest.
D
one. Finished. Kaput.”

“So
m
ebody said you’ve been on a binge.”

He drops his feet to the floor, sits up
in his chair and wheels around to face
m
e. “Cops gossip
m
ore than girls.
W
hat I do on
m
y own ti
m
e is my own bu
s
iness. Period. You saw
m
e
at the funeral.
W
as I drunk?
Maybe you noticed I was the only one there with enough respect to
w
ear
m
y unifor
m
.”

He sh
a
kes his head. “Stupid fucking kid. It was du
m
b to do hi
m
self, like everything else
he did. He would have got over it, found another
job.
Nothing
ever stays that bad.”

“Sounds like you
m
ay be speaking
f
rom
experience.”

He stands up, his finger pointing at
my chest. “Listen to
m
e
, Florence Nightingale. You can shove your
m
a
il order Ph.D. right up your ass. Ben Go
m
ez was never going to be a cop. Never. The fact t
h
at he ate his gun over so
m
e dipshit thing proves
m
y point.” The door opens and Manny co
m
es through holding a paper sack and a cup of coff
e
e.

Eddie spins around. “Out. You don
’
t co
m
e in until I tell
y
ou to co
m
e in.”

The door closes. He turns back to
m
e, his finger still pointing.

“
W
hat do you
m
ean proves your point?
W
hat point
?
” I ask.

“Get over it, Doc. You can’t fix it. Not now. You had your chance. And you can
’
t fix
m
e, so don
’
t try.“

He
m
oves towards the door and opens it. “Heads up,
Mañana
. Ti
m
e to hit the
s
t
r
eets.”

He tu
r
ns toward me, backlit by the light in
the hallway and bows slightly. “
Hasta lu
m
bago
, Doc. Have a nice day.”

Chapter Eleven

Gary Morse, thin as he was in graduate school, is leaning on the door to his office wearing his old cordur
o
y jacket and holding an
u
nlit
p
i
pe, his
once long
b
l
ack hair almost entirely silvered.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Dot.” His
deep baritone voice is a bal
m
. “How you doing
?
”

“Not too bad.”

“The gang’s all here getting coffee and settling down. I thought I’d walk in with you.” It is like him
to know exactly what I need.

Gary and I and the other therapists in
our building
m
eet once a
m
onth in the staff room
to present cases to each other for
peer consultation. Everyone knows about Ben. They must – it
’
s been headline news,
including
the
fact that, according to h
i
s fa
t
her-
i
n-law, he had been seeing
m
e, the depart
m
e
nt’s n
e
w psychologist.

T
here is a slight syncopation in the conversation as
w
e walk in.
E
veryone l
o
oks at
m
e, and when I look back, they turn their heads, pretending to be looking els
e
where. So
m
eone hands
m
e a cup of coffee. So
m
eone else gives
m
e a hug. They are restrai
n
ed in their curiosi
t
y. They want details, but are too polite to ask directly. I’d probably feel the s
a
m
e if our situations were reversed. I join the charade, pretending not to
n
o
tice how ea
g
er they are to learn what I have done wrong. I watch as they silently
m
easure their co
m
petency against
m
i
ne, the so-called expert in police psychology.

Gary walks upstairs to my office after the
m
eeting.
W
e walk out to a
b
r
eezeway that overlooks a s
m
all garden. “You were
pretty quiet in there.”

“I didn’t have anything to say.”

He bangs his pipe against his shoe. Flakes
of ash drift over our
f
eet. He re
f
ills the pipe, ta
m
ping tobacco into the bowl with a nicotine stained finger. T
h
e fragrant aro
m
a of burning tobacco settles on us like
m
i
st.

“Look, Dot,” he says, “I don’t know the p
a
rticulars of what happened. If you want to tell
m
e, I’m here to listen. And if you don’t w
a
nt to talk, that’s fine
too.
I’ve
been
in
this business as long as you have.
W
hen a
client com
m
its suicide, the therapist suffers. I know you
m
ust be going over and over it in your
m
i
nd. I would be. Just don
’
t be too hard on yourself. We’ve all
m
ade
m
i
stakes, big
m
i
s
t
akes. Myself included. Join the crowd.”

“Have you ever had a patient kill hi
m
self
?
”

He shakes his head no.

“Then let
m
e tell you.
S
o
m
e
m
istakes are worse than others.”

He takes a long draw on his pipe, exhaling the s
m
oke with a soft whistle. He looks hurt.

“I’m
sorry. I know you’re only trying to help. I apprec
i
ate it. Can we change the subject
?
”

“Sure.” He hesitates. “So what did you
do this
w
eekend beside beat yourself up?”

“Nothing much.”

“Seeing an
y
one?”

“You sound like
m
y
m
o
t
her. No, I’m not
seeing anyone. All the decent
m
en want wo
m
en
way
younger
than
m
e.”

“Not all of the
m
. Janice and I are the
sa
m
e age.” He takes another draw on his pipe. “I know you. You have pretty high s
t
andards,
m
aybe too high when it co
m
es to
m
en
?
”

“I have two standards,
vertical and breathing. And no
therapists. I’m
through with
m
en
who’d rather talk about a
relationship than have one.”

Mark and I had spent
m
onths in therapy. All the ti
m
e he was secretly
seeing Melinda, displacing his guilt onto
m
e while I struggled to understand what I had done to
m
ake him
so distant. I was trying to patch things up. He was trying to let
m
e down easy.

“One
m
ore thing,” I add. “Whoever he is, he should be turned on by cellulite.”

Gary
m
akes a face and gives
m
e a gentle
punch
o
n
m
y ar
m
.
“
A
s a
m
atter of fact, I have an idea for you. Janice and I are re
m
odeling our house. We like the contractor a lot. He
’
s easy going, responsible and plenty s
m
art. I have no idea if he
likes cellulite. His na
m
e is Frank and he
’
s single. Interested
?
”

“
W
ait ‘til t
h
e dust s
e
ttle
s
.”

“
W
hen will that hap
p
e
n
?”

“Your guess is as good as
m
i
ne.”

Chapter Twelve

Fran’s Coffee Shop is a favorite with Kenil
w
orth
cops.
Fran
her
s
elf is a legend. I’ve been asked by the cops so
m
any t
i
mes if I’ve
e
a
ten th
e
r
e, t
h
at I
f
eel like I’m
f
ailing
s
o
m
e basic rite of passage.

This is one failure I can fix.

Fran is behind the counter turning e
n
or
m
ous h
a
mburgers on a griddle using a sheet rock trowel as a spatula. Onions and gar
l
ic sizzle in a pool of cooking oil. Her face is flushed and her hair curls da
m
ply over her ears.

She sets a bowl of soup in front of
m
e. “Start with this, hon. I’ll get your dinner order in a
m
i
nute.”

She
m
oves quickly for a large wo
m
an, orchestrating conversations bet
w
een patrons and shouting at a s
m
all troupe of developmentally disabled
m
en wo
r
king in t
h
e kitchen. At the rate they move, I suspect she
e
m
ploys
them
m
ore
as
an
a
c
t of charity than efficiency.

Police
m
e
morabilia and plastic flowers dec
o
rate the wall over the griddle. In the center is a s
m
all shrine to Fran’s husband, B
.
G., a Kenilworth cop who was killed fifteen years ago responding to a do
m
estic violence call. There are spots of grease and to
m
ato sauce everywhere but on B.G.
’
s photo.

Three young Kenilworth cops are eating at the counter. One of them
looks
up.
“
W
hat
’
s up, Doc
?
” he says, grinning, as though
he had invented the joke. They laugh and si
m
ultaneously tilt their heads to their shoulder mics. They
’
r
e on their feet and out the door in a
m
i
nute, leaving their h
a
lf-eaten
m
eals on the counter.

“Poor kids never have ti
m
e to eat, let alone digest.” Fran wipes her hands on her apron. “You
m
ust be the depart
m
ent doctor I’ve been hearing about. I’ve been wanting to
m
eet you, but I know you’ve been busy. Tragic about that Go
m
ez boy.” She hands me a
m
enu.
“
W
h
a
t’ll you have
?
”

I order the
m
eatloaf. It arrives from the
kitchen, big as a place
m
at, covered with gravy and surrounded by potatoes. Fran asks t
w
ice if I want a se
c
ond helping and when I refuse, she
s
ets a
p
i
ece
o
f
pie and a cup of c
o
ffee in front of me.

“Mind if I join yo
u
?” She calls so
m
eone to co
m
e out of the back and tend to the counter. “I gotta get off these feet.”

She
p
ours herself a coffee and squeezes
he
r bulky body
onto the st
o
ol next to me. I look down at her feet.
H
er ankles are swollen. Ropey purple veins twine around her thick calves.

“Things settled down yet
?
” she asks.

I want to t
e
ll h
e
r th
a
t t
h
ings have s
e
ttled down so
m
u
ch it’s like Ben never existed.
Out of the roo
m
, out of
m
i
nd. No one talks about hi
m
, much less mentions his na
m
e. It’s only been a
m
o
nth, but as
f
ar as I kno
w
, no one else’s heart aches at his
m
e
m
ory. No
one else wakes up in the
m
i
ddle of the night thinking about him
and feeling sick at the sto
m
ach.