Wallflower (31 page)

No, it had to be something more. This past autumn, when Jessica asked for the name of her shrink, Tool was quick to send her on. Remember the way she beamed when she told you to expect the call?

What about their actual relationship? How much do you really know? Could they have been more than gym buddies? Could they have been lovers?

Be rational about this; don't let the stress generate fantasies. The truth is you still don't know what they did all those times they went off together after martial arts class. Come to think of it, isn't it strange Jessica never mentioned Tool except the first time she called?

"
Diana Proctor gave me your name. We take a martial arts class together on the West Side. I'm looking for a good therapist. I'd like to come in and talk about it if that's all right."

Yes, of course, it was "all right." You were extremely interested in treating someone who looked so much like Cynthia Morse. And this girl was so much nicer without any evident cruel streak. She was a decent, direct sort of person, but with Cindy's great looks, smile, and appeal.

So what were you after with her anyway? Looking to seduce her? Don't be absurd! Those days are long gone, and anyway, the girl was young enough to be your daughter. But admit it, she attracted you. She was just your type. And just about the same age as Cindy was then, before she turned on you and earned herself a place in the ledger.

No, there's got to be more to this than meets the eye. Tool and Jessica must have had some kind of emotional connection that, when it snapped, generated rage in Tool and set her off.

Remember the little encounter at the knife show? Running into Jessica with Tool in tow didn't strike you as being all that important at the time. But suppose Jessica, seeing her shrink unexpectedly in the company of another patient who happened to be her friend, got curious, decided to trail you for a while, and then saw something she didn't like.

Wait a minute! Remember the famous "English girl" she met in Italy, the one who fenced topless with her? The truth is you've had only her word on that. You never saw the photographs, didn't even know about them until Janek brought them up. Why didn't she tell you about them? Could she have been afraid you'd ask to see them? She couldn't allow that because if she did, you'd recog
nize the other girl. Suppose the alleged
"
English girl" was a subterfuge? Suppose Jessica didn't want to tell you she'd actually played the topless fencing scene with Diana? If that's true, then they definitely
did
have something going, perhaps not overtly sexual, but certainly sexualized. And if that's the case, then there was enough unresolved energy to unleash Tool and cause her to explode.

But go back a moment, think about that knife show. What could Jessica have seen you and Tool do that might cause her to mention to a friend that she was thinking of quitting therapy?

You might have spoken harshly to Tool or petted her. You do that unconsciously sometimes, out of some twisted maternal feeling no doubt. If you'd had your wits about you, you'd never have gone to that damn knife show in the first place. It was Tool's idea. She said she wasn't enjoying using crude store-bought ice picks all the time, she wanted a fine weapon, something she wouldn't have to leave behind, something really sharp with a ritualistic flavor to it, and since there was a knife show in town, would you attend it with her, take a look, see if anything caught your eye?

So there it is. Tool set the whole thing up. She knew Jessica would attend the show, probably even knew which day. She enticed you into taking her there because she wanted Jessica to see her with you, and she probably did something there that you didn't even notice, like taking your arm, squeezing it—anything to provoke Jessica and force her out of therapy.

This is terrible! It means Tool's been using you! It means you've lost control of her, created a Frankenstein's monster just as Mama said.

Calm down! Look at the implications. Janek's got the photographs. If Tool
was
the other fencer and he should see her entering the basement apartment, he'll recognize her at once. He already suspects you. He's not all that great at hiding what he feels. Or, more likely, he's deliberately letting his suspicions show in the hope you'll get spooked and tip your hand.

The main thing now is to keep Janek from seeing Tool.

But there's something even more important, which is to get to the bottom of Tool and Jessica's relationship. Tool has to tell you whether she was the
"
English girl." Once you're certain about that, you can take the necessary countermeasures.

So the thing to do is get Tool up here in front of Mama. Mama always intimidates her. If you can get her up here naked in front of Mama, Mama'll make her talk.

I
t is night. The scene is a shadowy and cavernous bedchamber dimly lit with soft reddish light. At one end a large four-poster oak bed stands free of the walls. At the other, three female figures are arranged in frozen postures as if posing for a
tableau vivant.
From the expressions on the faces of these players, a spectator might well feel that a question hangs upon the air. But not one of the figures moves or speaks. The question, if there was one, remains unanswered.

The first figure, young, muscular, firm-fleshed, stands at stiff attention. She is naked, her head and body totally shaved, a fine gloss of perspiration coating her like a dew. The soft red light that paints her exposed skin emphasizes the blush generated from within. Her eyes, too, are red, as if from weeping.

The second figure, older, shorter, plump, sits opposite the first in a high-backed chair. She is dressed in a too-tight strapless crimson gown which can barely contain her bodice. Her eyes are narrowed as she stares with cold reproach at the younger woman's face. But the younger woman does not return the seated woman's gaze.

Rather, her eyes engage the eyes of a third woman, actually a painted image hanging on the wall just above the seated woman's chair. This woman, the one in the picture, wears the same crimson gown as the live woman below, but the garment suits her better. While the breasts of the seated woman are constricted by her gown, the bosoms of the painted woman fill hers perfectly. There is a curious resemblance between the seated woman and the painted one that must haunt a spectator. It is as if each one's face, in a completely different way, is a caricature of the other's.

But perhaps what would seem most strange would be the power
ful force-field of emotions that appears to exist among these players. A spectator would know that the three are bound to one another in some inexorable and yet tragic way, bound so tightly and forcefully that anything outside their triangle, any person or event, would have no meaning to them at all.

"S
he says she did it because Jessica wouldn't return her bow! What do you think, Mama? Hours of punitive bracing and she comes up with that."

"The bow we gave—"

"Right, Mama, the bow we presented to her when she came back from commando school in Colorado. Remember, she was first in her class out there, and we thought she ought to be rewarded for doing so well, especially as most of the other students were males. Besides, she'd told us her martial arts instructor had suggested she take up archery to hone her concentration. So we mail-ordered an excellent target bow and set of arrows and laid them out for her on the bed so she'd see them first thing when she reported in after her trip."

"But wasn't there another connection?"

"Of course, Mama! Do you think I'm such a bad analyst I didn't understand what was going on?"

"Gosh, Bev, you're touchy today. I don't think you're a bad analyst at all."

"Forgive me, Mama. I thought you were implying that I wasn't aware of the play on words. Because, of course, I was. Diana wanted a bow so she could play archer, or should I say 'Archer'? She liked being the patient but also wanted to play at being Doctor, or at least try out the authority role for a while. If she had a bow in her hands, she'd be a kind of Archer, with real potency, too, as a bow can be an extremely powerful weapon."

"You were always a wonderful analyst, Bev. You have your deficiencies. Who doesn't? But you've always been good at your job."

"What deficiencies?"

"Oh, please, let's not get into that."

"I think we should get into it. I've known for some time you've found me deficient. Now's as good a time as any to clear the air. I'm waiting, Mama. Tell me where you find me wanting. I can take your criticism. God knows, I've taken it all my life."

"You're sure you want to hear it?"

"I'm sure."

"Okay, but just remember you asked for it. So don't complain."

"
I won't."

"Let's start with this wallflower business."

"Is that what it is? A 'business'?"

"You know what I mean."

"I'm not sure I do. I happen to be a wallflower."

"No, dear, that's what you made yourself into. No one's born a wallflower. A wallflower creates herself. Something in you likes being a wallflower, so you have Tool leave those flowers beside the walls, as if—"

"As if
what,
damn it, Mama?"

"There, see, you're getting angry. You were always so touchy, Bev. You could never take the slightest bit of criticism."

"Never mind that! Just tell me how I've made myself into a wallflower, since that seems to be what you think."

"It's not just what I think, dear. It's the truth. And having Tool leave those homely, withered flowers by the bodies only reinforces your negative self-image. Which, frankly, you could remedy if you'd just find yourself somebody who . . . you know."

"Somebody to screw me. That's what you mean, isn't it?"

"I knew this dialogue was going to turn unpleasant, Bev. I think it would be better if we stop talking."

"Certainly, Mama, if that's the way you want it . . ."

"T
here's a difference, Mama, a big difference between us. It's important for you to understand the difference and why, as much as I might like, I cannot be like you. For one thing, I don't have your looks. I know I'm not really
bad
-looking. And I certainly don't feel sorry for myself. In this world, as I so often remind my patients, you've got to play the hand you're dealt. But you're beautiful, Mama. Just look at yourself, your eyes, complexion, bones, the marvelous planes of your face. There were those who called you the most beautiful woman in Cleveland. You played the part, too. Grand. Mysterious. Elusive. Even cruel at times. Not really cruel in the sense of mean or small, but cruel in the way that a great woman projects cruelty, becoming, as the poet said, a Lady of Pain. Mystical. Unfathomable. My nurturer and my nemesis.

"
It was you who taught me the lines:

  
Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel

  
Hard eyes that grow soft for an hour;

  
The heavy white limbs, and the cruel

  
Red mouth like a venomous flower.

"
Sometimes when I'm lying in bed, I look up at you and think:
How could I, little me, be the child of such magnificence?
I know I shouldn't run myself down. I am who I am and, as such, am as valuable as any other human on this earth. But it hasn't always been easy being your daughter. I never had your stature, your beauty, your compelling personality. I had to find my own way to power, and the way I found, the way of concealment and craft, is not nearly as attractive as yours. While you played torch singer to Cleveland, bewitching your audiences with songs, I took a less flamboyant route, studying the permutations of the human mind, then working within the interstices to create unique effects. And while your color was and always will be red, color of flames, mine is and always shall be black, color of night.

"
There were times, Mama, when you hurt me deeply. I never told you this before. I know you never meant to hurt me; I know that whatever you did, it was always with my own best interests at heart. But there're still times when I feel the pain, and then I wonder:
Is it worth it to keep on living, to try to make my way in this pitiless, indifferent world?
I do my best. I work hard with my patients, pretending always to listen to them with sympathy. I try
hard not to seem like one of those small, tight-lipped therapists who listen and listen and give nothing back in return. But there's so little I
can
give, Mama, to assuage so much cruelty, torment, so many hurts and humiliations and intractable problems in other women's lives. Who can solve them all? Who can bind up all the wounds? Who can assuage the hurts and blunt the cruelties and tell the wounded ones there is hope and time will heal. It's hard, too, to listen all the time, always to care about
them,
absorb myself in
them,
focus my attention on
their
difficulties, when I have so many of my own. I haven't wanted to think always of the past, obsess over the old hurts and wounds, but it's been hard not to, the pain's been so real, and, Mama, it's always there.