The Demon (30 page)

 
Shortly before he left the hospital the psychiatrist visited him and they chatted briefly, and then he asked Harry what his problem was.

             
Harry felt defenseless and wanted to just blurt everything out, but something quickly closed it off and he shrugged and said, I seem to have sexual problems. Harry trembled inside as he heard himself say this and waited for some sort of reaction from the psychiatrist. Maybe he would find a way to get the truth out. It could be hoped for. But at the same time Harry was fighting desperately to prevent it. He wanted this man to help him, but there were certain things he just could not tell him. He could feel the sweat rolling down his back. Maybe he had said too much already. He wanted to take back what he had said. He wanted to tell this man that he was only kidding. Why did he say that? How did it get out? He was trying to think of some way to correct or retract what he had said, but he heard and saw the man laughing.

Dont we all.

 
Harry could feel himself grinning stupidly. He felt a little faint.

 
Sexual problems of one sort or another are the basis of many, if not all, of our problems. Its simply a case of finding out what their causes are and then we simply look at them and understand them and with self-awareness they are no longer a bogeyman.

 
Harry heard his voice but was not sure he was hearing all the words correctly. Actually he did not care. Above the panic that had shivered him when he heard his reply to the doctors initial question was a vague feeling that maybe this man would be able to give him the answer he needed. Even if he could not ask the question. Whatever the question was.

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Here, here is a prescription for Librium. Just take one three times a day and you will feel much better.

Harry nodded and accepted the slip of paper.

 
I will see you at three oclock next Thursday. In the meantime you just relax.

 
Linda had an interview, too, with Dr. Martin, before Harry was discharged from the hospital and felt reassured and optimistic by the time the interview terminated. The psychiatrist had already been advised of Harrys brilliance and success in business by his associates, and when Linda told him of their marriage—she was too embarrassed to admit her suspicions— and their relationship in the marriage, he smiled and told her the prognosis was excellent. I really do not anticipate any real difficulty in getting to the root of your husbands problem.

O, that certainly is good news, Doctor.

 
I have a great deal of experience in this area—dealing with repressions and subconscious conflicts. As a matter of fact I have published many papers on the subject.

Its hard to believe that Harry has any conflicts.

 
Dr. Martin smiled benignly. To the untrained and un-specialized eye perhaps, but to someone like myself. . . . He shrugged slightly and leaned back in his chair. You see—I will try to keep this as simple as possible—we have all suppressed things from our childhood, things that go back beyond our memories. Sometimes they give us trouble. I have been successful in cases that were far more difficult than your husbands. He is an extremely successful man and, from what I have been told, his future is unlimited. He, in all probability, will one day be one of the most outstanding businessmen in the country, a man of tremendous influence. Linda smiled and nodded with obvious pride. And there would seem to be no real problem at home; you love each other and your son. So, it is simply a case where I must help him to understand how his mother and his childhood have created conflicts in his subconscious that have resulted in anxieties and his present con-

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dition. And, all things considered, I anticipate no problem in your husband sublimating the underlying tensions that are a product of those repressed feelings. I hope I have explained it in such a way that you understand what I said?

Yes, I believe so, Doctor.

 
Good, good. And do not be disturbed if your husbands behavior seems to be a little—ah shall we say, unusual? It may take a little while for him to adjust to the therapeutic process.

Yes, I think I understand, Doctor.

 
Good, good. You just leave everything in my hands and everything will be back to normal.

 
Linda wanted very much to believe Dr. Martin; she wanted reassurance. She also wanted very much to believe that the cause of Harrys recent behavior was some unresolved childhood problem and that their marriage was not endangered.

 
Harry came home from the hospital with a vague and desperate hope. The medication that the doctor had prescribed seemed to take the edge off his feelings; his skin did not feel quite so alive and he did not feel so squirmy inside, and in the back of his head was an attempt to believe that Dr. Martin possessed a panacea. It might take a little time, but someday (soon, he hoped) they would dig back into his childhood and he would remember something suddenly and the doctor would say, Thats it, thats where it all started, and his troubles would be over. That would be the day. The day that he would be free. Yeah, that would be the day.

 
Harry continued to cling to this idea even though things seemed to get progressively worse the longer he continued his therapy with Dr. Martin. They went deeper and deeper into the past and he remembered things that were not a part of his conscious memory. He relived experiences that had long been forgotten, remembering how he felt at the time and even the smells. They got deeper and deeper into the problem, which seemed to interest Dr. Martin profoundly, but there were no answers for Harry, and so he was forced to continue

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to seek the only answer he had ever found that relieved him of those intolerable feelings.

 
On the evenings that he went to the doctor, he left, after the session, and went immediately to some rats nest on the waterfront and fucked some pukey broad and then had to force himself to go home. Day after endless and painful day he would resolve to lie on that couch and tell Dr. Martin everything that was happening in his life. Tell him all the things he had done and was doing. To make a clean breast of it. But he not only found it impossible to get the words out, but did everything possible to avoid even approaching that area of his life, as if he were defending his right to continue doing the thing that was killing him but that was, at the same time, the only thing that would relieve the unbearable tension in his body and mind.

 
Again the fear of syphilis haunted him and made his home life more frigid than usual, and the old fear of discovery, and the feeling of hopelessness, prevented him from going to get a blood test. The pain of despair became so intense that he tried to open the gate and allow the poisonous flood to flow forth and he blurted out that he had been unfaithful to his wife.

Does this bother you?

Yes, it does... very much.

Why?

Why?

 
Yes, why? Why should this disturb you so much? You are trembling.

I dont know, shaking with confusion and fear, it just does.

 
Do you know any other men who have been unfaithful to their wives? his tone, as usual, cold and detached.

What???? I dont understand. I—

Are you the only man who has been unfaithful to his wife?

No, no, certainly not. But thats not the—

Do you have a mistress?

A what? I—

Do you have a mistress? A girlfriend?

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No, no, of course not. You know—

You love your wife?

Yes. I—

 
Then this extramarital activity of yours is just of the usual variety.

Well, yes, but I—

 
In other words your liaisons with other women are the usual thing that last for an evening. The type of affair that millions of men indulge in.

Yes, yes, I know that, but I love my wife and I—

 
The interesting thing is that you should make such an issue of something that is so usual. Yes, it is extremely interesting that you should feel so guilty. Do you have any trouble performing with these women?

What? What—

 
Do you ever have a problem with impotency? How about with your wife?

No, no, thats not the—

 
What did your mother tell you about infidelity? Did she tell you it was a sin?

What???? I dont know, I dont know. I cant—

Were you ever caught masturbating?

Masturbating? I dont know what—

 
Were you ever told that it would make you stutter or make you go blind?

I dont remember anything like—

Can you remember your toilet training?

What? I dont—

 
Were you forced to sit on the toilet after each meal until you had a bowel movement?

Jesus, I—

When did you stop wetting the bed?

Harry
   
wanted
   
to

scream and cry and run and curl up in a ball and roll away or fade into the wall and when the session was finally terminated he took a cab to the nearest subway station and locked himself in a public toilet and cried and cried, under the roar of the

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trains, until he felt exhausted and there just werent any more tears, and no energy or resources to manufacture more.

 
Lindas hope was constantly decreasing as Harry became increasingly morose for longer periods at a time, the periods coming closer and closer together. And her fears and anxiety increased as her hope decreased. She fought with herself for weeks about calling Dr. Martin, not wanting to be an interfering wife, but eventually her desperation overwhelmed her judgment. She kept her voice and manner as calm as possible, but her insides trembled. She tried to reassure him that she was not trying to pry, but she was worried because her husband seemed so depressed and seemed to be staying away from home more and more often.

 
I wouldnt worry about that, Mrs. White. A man in your husbands position has enormous responsibilities, responsibilities that do not end at five oclock.

Yes, I realize that, Doctor, and I—

 
I assure you, I will take care of everything. There is no need for you to concern yourself.

Thank you, Doctor. I do not want to be an alarmist; its—

 
Yes, yes, I know. Your husband seems withdrawn and silent and you are worried.

Yes, and—

 
Such behavior is normal in therapy. Your husband is simply going through a period of transference. You just leave everything to me.

O, I dont mean to—

Good. I have to hang up now. Good day, Mrs. White.

Linda

sat with her hand on the phone for many minutes. She tried to think herself into moving, but her hand refused to release the phone. She stared at it, trying desperately to revive a feeling of hope, but all she could feel was a void.

 
Harry was still able to function at work, though his work was not up to his standards. He had to reread documents and

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letters and, even after that, sometimes they still did not make sense, but by putting in additional time he just barely managed to keep up.

 
His associates, especially Walt, were concerned, since the evidence of the strain Harry was working under was becoming more and more obvious. They too were reassured by Dr. Martin and told that it was necessary for Harry to continue working. I appreciated your concern, Mr. Wentworth, and the concern of the firm, but a vacation at this particular time is not just what the doctor ordered, if I may introduce a bit of levity, hahaha. It is important that he be able to sublimate.

 
Fine. We/re really glad to hear that. Hes extremely valuable and we do not want to jeopardize his future. He is very important to the firm.

Yes, I am fully aware of that.

 
And, smiling and shrugging slightly, I guess I have more than a professional interest in Harrys welfare. I guess its obvious that it is also paternal.

 
Yes, yes, nodding his head, but dont worry, I will keep your Mr. White functioning.

And Harry continued to function

at work, locked in his office, his oasis, his haven and refuge, envying the others who were free to come and go as they pleased, when they pleased, and wishing to krist that he could just stay in his office and then be picked up and placed at home and then back in the office, but he knew that he could not avoid leaving the office from time to time, that he could not avoid those trips to those phlegm-spotted bars to find another filthy mess to spew his poison in and then try to vomit the hell and rottenness out of his gut. . . .

                                  
     
O jesus, the rottenness . . .

             
The black, festering rottenness that chewed him up and the stench from his own gut that constantly hung in his nostrils. And the more time he spent on the couch the worse it got. The blackness that he felt squirming through him was slowly starting to wrap itself around his head and

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squeeze it and squeeze it until he thought he would lose his mind and he had to go out into those streets and fuck another pimpled cunt.

 
He tried to tell Dr. Martin, but somehow it just didnt come out. During the day, and especially in the cab going to his office, he would go over and over in his head what he was going to say, how he was going to tell him everything he was doing, how he was going to spew forth the evil corrosion of his soul (O jesus, he wished he could get that slime out), but somehow they always got involved with the past... his mother and his childhood.

 
The thing that kept him going to Dr. Martin was the vague hope that he would reach deep down and pull this vileness out of him. He wished to God it would happen soon. He couldnt stand this much longer.