Crazy for Cornelia (34 page)

Marne snorted, sat back, and gave him her buzz-saw look. “I dunno. They’ve got a whole staff here for therapy.”

“She doesn’t need therapy,” Kevin said. “She’s aware. She’s kind.”

“She talks to electrical poles.”

“No, Marne. She just puts her heart into things.”

She stared at the ceiling, with a very Sebastian-like why-me look. “She could blow you off anytime, Kevin, like ‘excuse me,
time for my pablum, I’ll have my doctor call your doctor.’”

“That could happen, but—”

“But what?” Marne turned up her hands, genuinely baffled.

Kevin let his breath out. “But I feel like I’ve been praying for her all my life and didn’t even know it.”

He expected a snicker. Instead, Marne looked startled, then her eyes moistened. She took out a tissue.

“Kevin, that’s the dumbest thing you ever said.”

“I just need time,” he told her. “At work, they don’t know I’m in here yet, right?”

“All they know is you’re on sick leave for two weeks,” she said. “They won’t find out until the union gets the hospital bills.
Make it count, Kevin.”

“Okay.”

She got up to leave. “And put your pants on. Martyrs don’t wear jockey shorts.”

“I hear you.”

For his first escorted tour of the grounds, Kevin wore a hospital-issue down coat, puffy and white like the Pillsbury Doughboy.

He drew in the air, not minding the cold sting on his face. Against the roiling gray soup of winter sky, the Big Circle shone
with ice. In the distance, a thin black clump of reedy, denuded trees threw long shadows over the snow like a film noir setting.
Beyond the trees, he saw the electrified fence, a jarring note in the wintry postcard. And, behind the fence, he saw the road
that led to the parkway he’d driven up with Majik.

He looked around for her and, as always, became fascinated with the other patients. What is it about rich people’s faces,
he wondered, that made them look so undamaged no matter what happened, the confidence that they’d always be looked after somehow.

“Come here often?” She appeared suddenly.

A wine-colored scarf covered her to the chin, and her hands were stuck in the pockets of a simple black coat. Her cheeks
were flushed, her blond hair driven back by the wind over her small, perfect ears, the tip of her nose a little red from the
cold. He felt both cleansed and agitated when he saw her, like going through a washing machine and coming out happier.

He swallowed. “You look…”

“Fat?”

“Oh, no. Definitely in the top one percent of mental patients.”

No physical contact
, he had to remind himself.

They walked, side by side, as the patient body shuffled forward around the Big Circle like a giant, quivering Jell-O mold,
residents of three or four moderate-security wings clumping together.

A female aide walked ahead to pace them briskly, an impatient trail boss. While the wind lashed his face, Kevin sunned himself
in Cornelia’s company.

“I got your note,” she whispered, pulling out the pink napkin he had sent her, a scrawled note written with a stolen nurse’s
pen. “A girl on my wing sneaked it to me. How did you ever send it?”

“I gave it to a guy. He gave it to somebody else. An underground.”

She beamed, clutching the crumpled napkin as though it were the most precious gift anyone had ever given her. “Did you mean
what you said?”

“About you being a dance of light? No, that was for some other patient.”

She chuckled merrily, then leaned in and whispered, “Before you came, I was about to go AWOL. See that electrical fence?”

Kevin looked in the direction she pointed, to the malevolent wires strung close together eight feet high in the distance behind
the trees. The red and white “Danger. High Voltage” signs posted every few feet along the wires could be read from the Big
Circle.

“Please tell me you wouldn’t even touch it. That’s really dangerous.

“Not for an Electric Girl.” She gave him a wicked grin. “Tesla used to let a million volts of current flow over his suit and
hair until the electricity created a blue halo. As long as he kept the frequencies
high, it couldn’t hurt him. That fence is high frequency, too. It wouldn’t hurt you too badly. But you’re here now and I
don’t want to go anywhere. Kevin, how
did
you get in here?”

“I think the medical term is Code Green. I was wondering, if you’re not busy tonight, maybe we could have a date.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

The Sanctuary’s Retreat Club could be a hundred other executive dining rooms, Tucker thought, except that everybody jumped
up to answer pagers like dogs on a leash.

Medical degrees hardly intimidated him. He had never wanted to be a doctor, a glorified mechanic wrestling with body parts.
A doctor’s only real power was the life-or-death thing, which you could only use on one person at a time.

It was their third weekly visit, and Cornelia had greeted Chester with her usual sad disgust, and Tucker with sullen apathy.
It was time, Tucker decided, for dinner with the Sanctuary’s chief administrator, Dr. Burns, and Cornelia’s therapist, Dr.
Loblitz.

They sat at a corner table. Through a window, he looked at the bleak Westchester scrub outside. Dr. Burns was a celebrity
psychiatrist in his late fifties with a full head of gray hair and the lion’s face a Supreme Court justice should have. Dr.
Burns obviously didn’t know much about Cornelia’s case, but made plenty of soothing noises to Chester. Tucker suspected that
visions of a new “Lord I” and even a “Lord II” wing danced in Dr. Burns’s head, from his smart little nods whenever Chester
spoke.

He regarded Cornelia’s therapist, Dr. Loblitz. He knew the type. An intense young techno with curly black hair, Loblitz fought
to steer the conversation to nuts and bolts without stabbing his boss with his fork. Loblitz was doing all the work. And Tucker
knew that talking to Chester might be the hardest work the shrink had ever done. In this little world, Tucker sniffed out,
Dr. Loblitz wore the unmistakable mantle of rising star. Burns had all the patience in the world with Corny’s psychiatric
meter ticking at $3,500 a day. But Tucker sensed impatience in Dr. Loblitz, which created an opportunity. Tucker suspected
that the young doctor didn’t believe in coddling family members. Loblitz had his own agenda.

“You need to be aware,” Dr. Loblitz skated on the brink of lecturing Chester, “of the time-consuming nature of talking therapies.”

Chester dug in. “I just have the feeling that if I listen to Cornelia, try to reach her…”

“That’s admirable,” Dr. Burns cooed. “I wish all family members had the same desire.”

Loblitz pressed on. “Dr. Bushberg talked to Cornelia for how long?”

“A year,” Chester replied.

“I’ve talked to her now for several weeks, and I can tell you that her delusional system is intact. She’s angry, she’s confrontational,
and she’s not going to leave this hospital until we switch to a more aggressive treatment.” Loblitz held his course, Tucker
was pleased to see.

Chester looked at Tucker, pleading for help. Tucker held Dr. Loblitz’s eye.

“No,” Chester insisted. “Just try to reason with her.”

“Well, that’s a conservative strategy, sir.”
You rich idiot
.

Chester said. “She’s very precious to me.”

“And to us.” Dr. Burns gave Chester’s arm a manly squeeze.

Chester stood up, raising the two doctors like marionettes. While Chester and Dr. Burns shook hands, Tucker smiled and motioned
privately to Dr. Loblitz, telling him to stay put.

“Chester, give me a minute. I’ll be along.” He waited until Chester and Burns left the Retreat Club.

“Why don’t you call me Tucker,” he smiled at Dr. Loblitz. “And you’re….”

“Ken.” Loblitz appeared flattered at this intimacy with Tucker, a mogul no older than he was, whom he might have read about
in the
Wall Street Journal
.

“Well, Ken, that was definitely the right way to handle Chester Lord. We both care deeply about Cornelia’s recovery.”

Dr. Loblitz shrugged. “Cornelia presents nonspecific symptoms. But you can waste a lot of time trying to diagnose people.”

“I understand your specialty is shock treatments,” Tucker said.

Dr. Loblitz acted surprised, warming to Tucker’s interest in him. “Why, yes. A lot of us who trained more recently like shock.
We call it ECT, electroconvulsive therapy. It’s faster and cleaner than talking
therapy or even psychotropic drugs. There’s some memory loss, but memories are what disturb the patients. I just give them
a clean slate.”

“A clean slate,” Tucker nodded. “I like that. You know, Cornelia and I are getting married on February 14.”

Dr. Loblitz looked stunned, as though seeing Tucker for the first time.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Dr. Loblitz said. “I could
only
recommend her release if she undergoes electroconvulsive therapy.”

“So? I’m convinced.”

“Mr. Lord is her responsible party. He has to approve my treatment.”

“I know it’s a burden.” Tucker lifted his laptop onto the table. He opened it up and punched two keys.

“Mr. Lord isn’t a burden exactly,” Dr. Loblitz said tactfully.

“No, I mean your student loan,” Tucker told him.

“What?” Dr. Loblitz’s face reddened.

Tucker turned his laptop toward the psychiatrist. The screen flashed “LOBLITZ, KENNETH R.” on and off with the number $122,900.00”
in blazing red.

Tucker smiled broadly. “You haven’t made a payment on your student loan for six years.”

Loblitz wet his large lips. “I bet Chester Lord wouldn’t like whatever you’re suggesting.”

“All I’m suggesting is that you use your best skills to help Cornelia,” Tucker said solemnly. “I’m just afraid that Chester’s
irrational fears are getting in the way. You’re going to cure Cornelia sooner or later anyway. If you do it on my time line
to help me, I’m ready to pitch in and help you. Look. Here’s your bank account.”

Tucker tapped one key and “UNITED BANK OF WESTCHESTER” appeared on the screen with Loblitz’s checking account information
in clean lines. The last one read “Balance: $13,560.”

“And here’s your bank account with Cornelia on shock treatments.” Tucker tapped again and the last line changed to “Balance:
$250,560.”

“Oh my God,” Loblitz said, watching the screen.

“I’m only asking you to do what you know is right, Ken. If you
did
choose ECT, how long would the treatments take?”

“Probably two weeks.” Loblitz’s upper lip began to sweat. “But I can’t guarantee anything. Dr. Burns hates to rush people
out of here.”

“I’ll handle Chester. I watched you, and I know you can handle Burns.”

Tucker smiled winningly at Dr. Loblitz, who nodded in agreement. Their eyes met again. But their roles had changed dramatically.
Now they were brothers-in-arms tackling a mess created by older, obdurate superiors.

“There’s only one detail.” Tucker reached into his pocket and pulled out an ordinary-looking tie clip. He slipped it onto
Dr. Loblitz’s muted tie and smoothed it out. “I want you to wear this to your staff meeting when you talk to Burns.”

Loblitz looked confused. “What is it?”

“Just to keep a record, so we’ll know we’re on the same page. If you run into problems with Burns, we’ll listen to the tape
and I’ll help you solve them. That’s what I do, Ken, solve problems. Fair enough?”

Dr. Loblitz’s eyes let his jaw drop watching the screen where $250,560 blinked as though medieval magic occurred there. “I
can’t give you any guarantees.”

“I’m not asking for any.”

“I just give it my best shot?” Loblitz said. “That’s all?”

“Hey, you’re the doctor.”

On the Big Circle, Kevin shuffled in a desultory way with the other sheep from his wing, wearing his Poppin’ Fresh winter
coat.

Cornelia’s group had arrived without her. One of the female patients, a wild-eyed girl with straight hair cut sharply inward
at the chin like one long ingrown toenail, whispered to Kevin that Cornelia had two visitors.

“Her father and a hunk,” she whispered.

That would be Tucker, Kevin sulked. He kicked up a sparse layer of gray gravel on the Big Circle pathway. He measured his
life now in short moments with Cornelia Lord, and the long hours apart. Not seeing her brought a crushing disappointment.

Soon their exercise period was over and the aides called out, “Vanderbilt II!”

Kevin hung his head on the winding path back to his wing. They
passed the vast stone building where the Sanctuary’s administrative staff worked. Kevin imagined that it looked like a European
prison. Maybe the Tower of London looked like that.

On their route was the parking lot where the senior staff kept their cars.

Kevin always studied this display of expensive metalwork, marveling at how the designers created little fantasies for the
buyers. There were substantial-looking Mercedes 600 and BMW 740 sedans, those slab-sided Autobahn cruisers reeking of power,
their taillights notched in like stylish lapels. He wondered what psychiatrists thought, streaking down the parkway in those
Teutonic big rigs. He admired the curvier Jaguar sedans from England, lacquered in royal-looking maroons and deep greens,
their front grilles a little fussy with serrated chrome. A silvery Porsche 911 looked racy but oddly bulbous, like a potato
car made of liquid mercury.

Walking with his herd around the lot now, he heard the soft throbbing of the big Mercedes limousine before he saw it. The
wisp of exhaust from its pipe formed a cloud in the cold. The charcoal gray limousine had been stretched, with even bigger
slabs and blackened windows added to the body. Twenty-five feet long with dark windows, it looked like Darth Vader’s car.

Too late, Kevin saw the driver leaning on the front fender closest to him with his arms folded. He wore a familiar gray flannel
chauffeur suit and had taken off his cap, so Kevin recognized him instantly.

He was Mike, Chester Lord’s driver. And Tucker Fisk’s.

Their eyes met. Even from fifty feet, Kevin could see Mike squint to figure out who Kevin was. He didn’t have to read lips
to see Mike’s beefy mouth, seared like a steak from the cold, form the words, “Son of a bitch.”