The Dream of the Broken Horses (46 page)

God! Well, I guess that'll be interesting—if we ever get around to consummating it!

Certain sexual episodes and peccadilloes!
Does this mean Waldo was telling the truth when he told the cops Barbara had been looking for proof Andrew was fooling around with men?

I hold my breath before reading on, for the next entry concerns Wednesday, August 20, one week to the day before the slaughter and the second Wednesday in a row that Dad cancelled his afternoon appointments:

Wednesday
: R arrived precisely on time. I opened the door wearing a robe.

'You came.'

'Not for the reason you think.'

'I didn't ask you here for that reason.'

'I find that laughable.'

'Then go ahead—laugh!'

'We're not going to make love.'

'I know that, I'm not a fool.'

'Then why—?'

'Why did I summon you? Because it was necessary that you come. Otherwise all our "assumptions" are just so much garbage.'

'You play a dangerous game, Mrs. F.'

'Now you're back to calling me "Mrs. F"? Isn't professional formality kind of silly here in this sleazy motel room where I regularly have sex with your namesake?'

Finally, he smiled. I invited him to sit down on the bed.

'Don't worry, I won't attack you. Please make yourself comfortable so we can talk.'

I told him I didn't think formal analysis was working for me, that I needed something more warm-blooded, something that will make me feel as though I'm connecting with a real human being. I told him how much I've been moved when he's shown concern for me, and how awful I feel when he coldly applies more formal methods. I told him that if he can't modify his treatment I'll have to quit therapy, and that I don't want to do that because I desperately need his help.

'But real help,' I told him. 'Compassionate help. And no more games.'

I told him I feel he's played me as much as I've played him, that his counter-seductions are seductions in themselves, and that I feel he shares as much of the blame as I for what's gone wrong between us.

I told him: 'When you tell me I should assume we've made love, assume my seduction of you has been successful, and that I should share my sexual fantasies about you, you show me the weakness at the core of your cool stance. I can't abide that pose. I need a friend, a brilliant friend who can really help me—because I need help, tons of it. This is why I invited you to this sordid place, to tell you all this so we can decide where we go from here. I couldn't tell you any of this from the couch in your office. Maybe that's part of my neurosis, that I needed to tell it to you here in this awful room face to face.'

I started to cry. I sobbed. He moved to me, held me in his arms. Then I could feel him sobbing, too. We wept together.

'I care for you, ' he told me.

'I know you do. Please know I feel the same way.'

'But it's impossible. You understand?'

'Yes. But maybe that's the best part of it somehow.'

We hugged each other, wept upon each other, and I felt so close to him then, so fine and close. It was the most moving experience I've had in a long time. And the strangest part was I hadn't planned it this way. I told him that, too.

'Truth is I don't know what was in my mind when I asked you here. I didn't know myself till I opened the door and saw you standing there so fearful and grave.'

'This is wrong yet it feels so right. That's what I don't understand.'

'Don't try to understand it, Doctor,' I urged. 'Just keep feeling it the way were doing.'

And at that we hugged and sobbed some more.

When we finally let each other go, our eyes clear and smiles on our lips, he said he owed me an apology. I told him he didn't, but he insisted.

'When you first came to me, I recognized you were an extraordinary woman, but then I got bogged down thinking of you as a fascinating case rather than as a deeply troubled person in need of help. I thought too much about how I was going to write up your case, well-disguised of course, and that led me astray. I forgot that I'm a healer first of all, that feelings and compassion are my most effective tools, not theory and technique. I put personal ambition ahead of my oath to heal. I want you to know I'm not going to write up your case, rather I'm going to put all my efforts into working with you to solve your dream and free you of its tyranny.'

I told him that hearing this from him was more than I could have wished for. I told him I was so glad he held me and allowed me to hold him. 'I needed to touch you,' I said. 'Sex is for pleasure, but I think to hold each other like we just have is deeper and better. Thanks so much for coming today.'

'And you will come to me Friday at the usual time?'

'Oh, yes, Doctor—you can be sure!'

We laughed, stood, embraced again. Then he left, and I lay down and cried by myself. I felt so moved by what had happened, the strangeness of it. Perhaps, I thought, there is some hope for me yet. And now I know the next right thing for me to do is to set T free as gently as I can.

As I put the diary down, all sorts of feelings flood in. First, pride in Dad that he didn't give in to his lust, didn't make love to his patient, rather discovered a truth in his experience with her that seriously altered his approach to his work. Second, enormous admiration for Barbara, her vulnerability and also her restraint. When the chips were down, she stopped playing power games and gave in to the decent impulses that had always flowed beneath the hard surface she showed the world. Yes, I feel proud of them both.

In this passage, I see each of them reaching for redemption and attaining it. And I think: It
must
have been the kind expression on Dad's face, engendered by his strange meeting with Barbara that afternoon, that Kate Evans saw when he left the room and came down the stairs and their eyes met as she viewed him from the pool. The face of a kindly man, a man who would help you, a man with whom you could share your troubles.

And now I know too why Dad was never able to complete his paper,
"The Dream of the Broken Horses
." How could he? How could he ever have published a description of his August 20 encounter with Mrs. F at the motel? Impossible! He'd risk being run out of his profession. He couldn't even have described it to Izzy at their regular Tuesday lunch. Izzy would have been appalled.

And yet their encounter rings true to me—two lost souls finding solace with one another under unlikely circumstances in a terribly unlikely place. And truly it is the first entry in Barbara's diary that strikes me as having been written without irony or ire.

But the march goes on. Scanning ahead, I see there are a few more pages of writing, shorter entries, not as dense as the ones I've just read. And so I pick up the diary once again, determined now to read uninterrupted to its end:

Thursday
: Quiet for once—too quiet perhaps. Decided it was time to call Doris, make up. As expected, she was icy when she heard my voice.

'My only child and she hangs up on me! I tried so hard to bring you up to be a nice, polite girl. What did I do wrong?'

'Spare me the mea
culpas
, Mom, please.'

'I don't even know what that means. I'm just not as smart and well-educated as you.'

'You're plenty smart and you know it. How're things going at the track?'

That perked her up. She told me she made four grand last month using her new post-position method. 'Doesn't matter who the horse is or who the jockey. Just the post position. Not a very colorful approach, but so far it's working great.'

J called. He's got everything set for Monday night. 'Just make sure you get your boy out of there this weekend at the latest.'

I didn't tell J I'm planning to phase T out of my life altogether. Perhaps I'll tell him Sunday night.

Phoned Jane, told her I've decided to team up with Tess for club doubles. Suggested maybe she should team with Elaine.

'Yeah, the two rejects. Thanks a lot, Barb!'

Bitter, bitter!

Friday
: Excellent session with R. Worked on the dream. He said it's important we not approach it in a tormented fashion, rather have fun with it, free-associate, try out ideas, think of it as solvable and not as an intractable puzzle.

In the end, I told him how happy I was that we'd finally cleared the air. He said he was happy too, that he'd learned a great deal from me and hoped he could repay me in kind. He said: 'I'd forgotten that humanist values must be the basis for a successful analysis. Thank you for bringing that home to me again.'

Later with T—told him he's to break off all contact with the
Steadmans
right away, that someone else will take up the slack and carry the deal through. He looked so relieved, became so sweet, I didn't have the heart to tell him I can't see him anymore after the boys come home from camp.

We made a lazy, dreamy kind of love, and as always I was touched by his tenderness.

'You'll make some girl very happy,' I told him.

'I want to make you happy, not some girl,' he said.

He recited French poetry from memory, beautiful verses by Rimbaud. Afterwards he told me what they meant.

'I've been thinking about what I want to do with my life. I like teaching, but what I really want to do is write.'

I told him that if that's what he wants he should pursue his dream. Which gave me an idea—as a parting gift I could send him off to France for a year. Then I worried he might have too much pride to accept a gift so grand.

Saturday
: Hot tempers today at the club. Seems Tess and I have created a crisis. Word is we've ganged up on everybody else and all we care about is taking home club trophies. What the fools don't realize is that if I cared at all about trophies I'd still take part in equestrian competitions, that I already have sufficient trophies to last me a lifetime, and that tennis is only useful to me as a way to blow off steam!

Sunday
: Woke up all panicky in a sweat. Bad dream, but it wasn't The Dream this time, was worse somehow, more scary, like I was lying helplessly somewhere in a sea of white while my body was torn apart before my very eyes.

Later—
late
dinner with J. He had to get up several times to greet people and solve management problems. I loved watching him work. He looked great in his white dinner jacket, by far the most poised, confident man in the club. Everyone makes nice with him, everyone wants his ear. And I like the way he dispenses favors. Watching him, I decided he's the only 'real man' I've ever been involved with.

'We're awfully well-suited, ' I told him when he sat down again.

'Yeah, the society bitch and the hood.'

'Not too bad a combination.'

'Not bad at all,' he agreed.

He said tomorrow night some people he knows will take care of the
Steadmans
quick and neat. When I asked him where he finds people like that, he smiled.

'Haven't you heard? I'm what they call "connected."'

'The Torrance Hill Mob?'

'Only the papers call them that.'

'What do they call themselves?'