Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil (72 page)

Our argument—the first of many, but in a real sense, the only important one—lasted until dawn and ended with her packing a bag to move out. First we watched the tape. Diane read the study, I re-read it, we watched the tape again. Since she subsequently attacked the finding in many public forums, her reaction is no secret. She believed Phil’s study was corrupted by the pediatrician doing unorthodox, albeit harmless, things in the examinations. She complained—irrelevantly, I thought—that routine examinations are never conducted without a parent being present. And she asserted his graduate students merely imitated our techniques without any imagination, using the dolls right away despite the absence of preliminary indications of abuse.

“It’s bullshit,” she said to me at three o’clock in the morning. “You know it’s bullshit. We would’ve stopped the interviews after the first round of questions. I would never have gone to dolls, not without some symptoms of emotional upset. It’s just got nothing to do with the real world. He set out to prove kids are unreliable because that’s what he wants to believe.”

By then, I believed more talk was hopeless, but I spoke anyway. “We can’t guarantee the performance of all therapists. You might not have fallen into this trap. But there are lots of mediocre or poorly trained professionals—”

“How do you know that? And what does it mean, anyway? Of course incompetent people can fuck up any procedure. Jesus Christ, a surgeon can kill somebody doing an appendectomy. What the fuck does that prove?”

Our disagreement boiled down to this: Diane believed our work was under siege by a culture unwilling to take responsibility for its neglect; that even if a small number of child abuse accusations by young children were wrongful, that was far preferable to returning to the old days when incest, beatings, and killings went on without any attempt to halt them, or treatment being available to abandoned children who have no resources. I replied that I had no intention of giving up our work with children we knew were abused, but to participate in interrogations that would be used in custody battles or criminal procedures, unless there was physical corroboration of abuse, was immoral. “I can’t be party to something that might put innocent people in jail or cost them their jobs or make them pariahs to their families and their communities,” I said.

“But that’s totally impractical,” Diane said, apparently still unable to absorb the fact that I was more than merely rattled by Phil’s study. “Under the law, we
have
to report all accusations to the police. We’d have to close the clinic. Beside, we’d lose our grants. And even if we can somehow hobble along without funding, we’ll have to turn away half our prospective patients without bothering to diagnose them. What about them? What about the kids who will slip through and end up crippled or worse? We can only be responsible for what we do. And I’m
sure
we haven’t hurt any innocent people.”

“How can you be sure?” I asked her. I was sitting on our bed with my legs crossed under me. She had just taken a bath, in a vain attempt to calm down, and looked tiny in a big white terry cloth robe and somewhat blind too, since her glasses were off. The robe opened slightly as she paced, arguing. I could see her white thighs and the shadow of her sex. I felt regret, but no remorse. I was tired; not because it was past three in the morning; I was tired of uncertainty.

“I’m sure!” She walked up to me. She was small, but from my position on the mattress she looked big. “Are you telling me, are you really saying to
me,
that you’re not sure? Do you think there’s any chance Grandpa Peterson was innocent?”

This was our real fight. I bowed my head and said it. “Yes.”

“No,” she said, pleading really. “You’re not serious.”

“Yes. I think this means there was a chance we were wrong. I’m not blaming you …”

“Of course you are!” She pushed her hair up on both sides, forming a curly pile on top. Her neck was white and her ears small, perfectly formed. “I can’t believe it. Fuck you, Rafe.” There were no tears now. She glared at me while holding her head. She cocked it at me. “Why?” she asked and let go of her hair. She looked utterly bewildered, shrinking in the robe. “Why do you want to destroy us?”

No logic can answer such a question. For Diane, there was no significant distinction between this intellectual disagreement and the harmony of our relations. I had apologized over and over for lying to her about the tape, but, in the end, that wasn’t what had hurt her. I was betraying her beliefs, her work, and worst of all, I had betrayed something she felt she had earned many times over: my faith in her.

“Don’t you see what these bastards are doing?” she yelled after I didn’t respond. “They don’t give a fuck about this so-called truth you’re always talking about! He’s just trying to make a name for himself.”

“His motives don’t matter,” I mumbled.

“What kind of shrink are you? ‘His motives don’t matter!’” she mocked me. “And your motives don’t matter either, huh? You’re punishing yourself, that’s what this is all about. You’re letting your father beat you up.”

“That’s specious,” I said with utter contempt.

“That’s specious?” Diane arched her back and squinted at the ceiling. She was breathing hard, as if running to catch up to the meaning of our fight. “You’re right,” she said softly in a panted whisper. “I’m just a second-rate shrink. You must be so tired of living with an inferior mind.” With her eyes still raised, she opened her robe. Her skin was pink from the bath, her nipples dark and hard, the black hairs of her pubis matted and damp. “This is what I’m good for.” She lowered her eyes to me. The grief I saw in the car was now rage. “You’re right. I wasn’t thinking.” She came over to the bed and grabbed my hair. She pulled my head to her fragrant belly and pushed it down to her sex. “You want to be your Daddy, don’t you? I’m supposed to die for your fucking principles.” She lifted my head and came close to my face, her mouth opening. I thought for a moment she was going to spit. “You’re right. I’m so stupid. I keep letting you get away with being the bad bad boy with his bad bad secrets. Well no more, Doctor. From now on, I’m gonna be the Mommy you deserve.” She released her grip. “You’re gonna feel sorry about me too. Very sorry.”

From there, if possible, things got uglier. Despite my desire to make this a full account of the complicated interrelationship between my life and my treatment of Gene Kenny, I don’t feel I need to go step by step through the degeneration of the longest sustained love affair of my life. The position I took was straightforward: the clinic would no longer participate in investigations or I could no longer work at the clinic. Nor would I help to rebut Phil’s study until I had a response I believed in; Diane’s criticisms were unconvincing or beside the point.

Yes, I agreed with her that Phil’s study was part of a deep need in America to deny the dysfunction and abuse inherent in our society, a culture that permits, in some ways encourages, the systematic destruction of family life among the poor, especially poor urban minorities. From the popularity of biochemical determinism to the widespread use of Ritalin (ninety percent of its prescriptions written for black male children), from the disproportionate attention paid by the media to legal maneuvers that use child abuse as a means of getting profitable clients off to the cynicism about taxation for social services, all symbolized to me, as they did to Diane, that middle-class America wants to believe it is entitled to live only for its own satisfactions, that altruism is not only useless, but actually immoral. She was right about the motivation for Phil’s study and the use it would be put to. But, for me, as it had been my whole life, ideology is not an answer to an issue of fact. If our techniques were flawed, nothing could justify continuing their use.

I don’t mean to disparage the good intentions in Diane’s position. Her defense of her own beliefs, her willingness to blind herself to the possibility of error, may well be the only way to function effectively in our society. My problem was that I wasn’t sure I wanted to function effectively anymore. Out of respect for her sincerity, I put up no resistance to her demand that I turn over management and all the assets of the clinic to her. My lawyer howled at my sudden impoverishment—the buildings and grounds were worth millions and they were all I had left of my inheritance. I knew, however, that Diane had no intention of cashing in: she was going to continue the fight and I felt, right or wrong, she deserved to be armed.

As to her perception of my motive, I have no satisfactory answer. Perhaps I was beating myself up, or acting out my parents’ drama, or one of the other psychological dysfunctions she taunted me with that night. Perhaps ideas had nothing to do with my leaving the clinic and ending our relationship. I am certainly aware of the basis for such a conclusion. I was not convinced.

In the tumultuous weeks of bitter argument that followed, I lost track of Gene. He called twice. I missed the first and forgot to return it. The second time he reached me.

“She’s dumped me,” he said with hardly any introduction. His voice was enervated. “She says there’s no one else, but I don’t believe it. She’s fucking some guy in Paris. But that’s the least of my worries.”

It was late April by then. In deference to Diane, I said publicly that I was taking a sabbatical, rather than talk about my real situation: not only did
I
wish to sever my connection to the clinic, as the new boss, Diane didn’t want me to continue in any capacity. I repeatedly refused to respond in the press to Phil’s study. Diane, cleverly I thought, went on the offensive right away, denouncing Samuel for using our technique improperly. In so doing she neutralized his ability to make an impression with the revelation that the techniques he tested were ours. In fact, the study wasn’t causing as much of a fuss as I had feared. Diane’s side of the argument was as well-organized and funded as Phil’s. They called each other frauds and scoundrels in polite scientific terms and the predictable groups chose up sides. Whatever the outcome, this fight was going to be long and bloody. Diane was barely speaking to me by this time. She told me in our last extended conversation that she couldn’t stand my holier-than-thou attitude; that I was worse than Phil: at least he had the courage to fight for what he believed. I was cleaning out my desk the day I spoke to Gene, preparing to leave the next morning for the Prager Institute in Baltimore. They had offered a year’s grant for me to do any work I chose. At first, I planned to edit Amy Glickstein’s first four chapters on Joseph’s work, as well as check the final galleys for my book on our in-house therapy for the severely abused.

“What’s the most of your worries?” I asked Gene. I happened to have my address book in my hand. I flipped to find the number of a therapist near Gene. He obviously needed attention.

“Cathy’s moving out of New York. She’s going to live with her mother in Arizona.”

“Can she do that?”

“I never thought—fuck.” Gene sighed. “Oh God, fuck me.”

“What is it, Gene? Can’t you stop her legally?”

“I was too impatient about the divorce. My lawyer told me to fight for some kind of clause, but Halley convinced—oh fuck, I can’t even think about what an asshole I was. Cathy says Pete can visit me in the summer.” He coughed. He sounded congested.

“Why does she want to move? Is it money?”

“No, no,” Gene was weary of the subject. “Money won’t keep her here. She says Petey’s not doing well in school and her mother will help and anyway, she wants to go back to medical school.”

“Maybe she’ll give you custody.”

“Are you kidding? She’s punishing me. She’s furious at me for Halley.”

“What does your lawyer say?”

“He says if she goes, we can sue, but, you know, that doesn’t mean we’ll win and, in the meantime, I’ve lost him. I’ve lost everything.”

“Well, not everything.”

“Yes, everything.” Gene sounded very faint all of a sudden. He said something too low for me to hear.

“What?” I asked.

This time the answer came loud. “I was fired.”

“You were fired?”

“God,” he said, more to himself.

“When, Gene? When did this happen?”

“Yesterday.”

“By Stick?”

“Yeah. He fucking fired me. Can you believe it?” He breathed heavily into the phone. “I can’t leave New York now. Not to go to Arizona, anyway. I’ve got to get a job fast. I’m sure I can. I mean, even though the business is in the toilet. No matter what Stick says, my reputation is great. I’ve already got one lead and I’m sure I could get something over at Apple.”

“When did you and Halley break up?”

“It’s not connected. She didn’t dump me because he was going to fire me. She hates him. I mean, she’s obsessed with him, but she still hates him.”

“When did you break up?”

“Two weeks ago.” That would have been around the time of the call I had missed. “Jesus, I wish you hadn’t asked me that,” he said in a sad whisper. “Why?”

Gene sighed. “Why do you always have to think the worst of people?”

“That’s my job, I guess. Gene, I’m leaving tomorrow for a long time. Maybe a year. But there’s a terrific guy whom you should see—”

“Stop that!” Gene shouted. I looked at the phone I was so astonished. When I returned it to my ear he was saying, “If you don’t want to see me, fine. You want me to hang up, I’ll hang up.”

“I don’t want you to hang up. But I can’t—” I gave up. “Look, let me give you the number where I’ll be, okay?”

“Okay. Hold on. Okay, shoot.” I told him the number. He repeated it back to me and said, “I’m fucked. I can’t believe how fucked I am. I mean, what else can happen? Is a building gonna fall on me?”

“I think you should see Cathy.”

“What?”

“Go and talk to her. Don’t use lawyers for this. Explain to her how much it means to you to be able to see Pete. Explain that, at least until your job situation is settled, you need everything else to stay the same.”

“I can’t tell her I’ve lost my job. You have no idea how vindictive she is. I don’t know what she might do with that information. Maybe she could get full custody and keep me away forever. You don’t understand.”