Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil (44 page)

I have only covered a section of Gene’s analysis and his life. Therapy’s most encouraging and beautiful by-product, the flowering of personality once the bonds of illness are loosened, was quite vigorous and impressive when it came to Gene. The boy who had never shown a dedicated interest in anything—intensity for work and ambition being a betrayal of his mother and a frightening impersonation of the father who hurt him—quickly found an interest in electrical engineering and computers, then at the beginnings of the microchip revolution. Both mother and father were baffled by his scientific and mechanical interests. Carol was literary and Don visual. They were ignorant and hostile to technology’s pragmatism.

Gene, by sixteen, worked hard in school for the first time. I suggested he try for a summer program at Johns Hopkins offered to bright high school students. (I had him tested and found out he had extraordinary math aptitude, something that had been hidden by his attendance at a progressive non-testing school.) He qualified easily. There he discovered his love of computers and his knack for understanding not only their abstract logic but their mechanism as well. One Room, to their credit, allowed him to concentrate on this new interest. Our therapy ended when Gene graduated high school, got into his first choice, MIT, and left for Boston. There he hoped to learn how to build the machines that were already revolutionizing our world. The therapy was ready to terminate anyway. Gene had developed, emerging as a distinct and clear image from his parents’ darkroom.

I asked him, just before he left for college, what he liked about computers.

“They do what you tell them.”

“Not when I’m doing the telling,” I said. I still can’t fathom them.

Gene laughed. After a moment, he said, “And they don’t tell lies …”

I closed the book on Gene. As I saw it then, not wrongly, only too correctly I’m afraid, Gene’s mature fascination with the building of computers was an homage to the happy hours he spent with the hammers and saws of his childhood. He had returned to their pleasures, standing on adult legs as a builder, at last becoming the illusion he had loved, the carpenter-father who used his hands to make things. Only this carpenter was going to build machines that wouldn’t tell lies. He had lived for so many years with only a vision of hell. Now he had a vision of heaven.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR
The Widening Gyre

I
CONSIDERED THE THERAPY A SUCCESS AND, TO BE HONEST, RARELY
thought of Gene. What lingered was its personal meaning, in particular the trigger Gene provided for my love affair with Julie. Unfortunately, my happiness with Julie did not last.

I couldn’t persuade her to marry me. For a long time, much longer than was fair to me, she pretended her career was the reason. After she drifted from off-Broadway theater into producing low-budget films, she announced she needed to relocate in L.A. to break into the mainstream movie business. When I offered to follow her out there, she confessed her true worry—that we had no future because of the potential for genetic trouble should we have children. That explained why she had always insisted on keeping our love affair a secret from the Rabinowitz family. I believed, and this fueled a bitter final quarrel, Julie’s concern about having children masked a keener fear: that she couldn’t bear the prospect of lifelong disapproval from her mother for making an unseemly marriage. Julie was outraged that I accused her of caring what her mother would think, but I’m sure readers can guess how convincing she sounded to a psychiatrist.

I was unwilling to continue the relationship as a haphazard liaison at a geographical remove—and a clandestine one to boot. Nor was she, really. A mere six months after taking a job in Los Angeles in 1984, she married a heart surgeon (significantly, I thought) and had two children within four years. In fact, her new baby’s birth announcement, my second cousin Margaret, was in my briefcase the night I returned to the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Boston and was given a message that Gene Kenny had phoned, leaving a number to reach him at the Sheraton in Cambridge. It was 1988, nine years since our last session.

I didn’t return the call right away. I was tired. I had just completed my fourth day of testimony in the Grayson Day Care case, a widely reported and scandalous trial of the systematic sexual abuse of five children in Boston by a married couple running a small baby-sitting service out of their home. Two days of direct and two more of cross-examination were followed by a round of television interviews, climaxing with the oddness of appearing on
Nightline.
I felt debilitated. (It’s strange to be interviewed by someone whose face you can’t see. You sit in a room with a cameraman and a sound engineer, reacting to a voice in your ear, and yet you have to manage your face, because the audience has the illusion that you can see Ted Koppel. You can’t. Koppel has a monitor, not his interviewees. I’m told Henry Kissinger gets one, but I’m not sure I believe it. This gives Koppel a considerable psychological edge—he can communicate with the audience through facial expressions without his subject knowing. Koppel sounded annoyed when I informed the audience that I couldn’t see him. I’ve been on since then so I know he doesn’t bear a grudge for my repeated attempts to undermine this broadcasting trick, but I still don’t get a monitor.)

I was physically exhausted but mentally exhilarated. The Grayson case was my first taste of the media’s infatuation with personalities. I hadn’t built up any resistance to its evils. Until then, working out of small offices in White Plains, I and my colleagues, Diane Rosenberg and Ben Tomlinson, had labored in obscurity. We consulted on a few child abuse prosecutions and handled the caseload of the local Child Welfare office. Our work with the Grayson Day Care children focused on the most damaged boy, known in the press as “Timmy”—the name of one of his multiple personalities. As is typical of multiple personality disorder, “Timmy,” and the other characters this traumatized six-year-old invented, was a defense against the repeated acts of sodomy and psychological terror committed by the Graysons. Our work with “Timmy” and the three other victims had been routine—we gathered facts, the details of the abuse. The children were still deeply disturbed; indeed, the ordeal of the trial had made “Timmy” worse in some ways. I was called to testify on their behalf because of the defense’s tactic—the only one available to them after the children’s accounts were unshaken by cross-examination—of suggesting the possibility that we had put the allegations into the children’s heads. The defense was quite correct to go over this. Certainly bad technique might create fantasies of abuse in children and lead to false accusations. Because we had been scrupulous, videotaping all the interviews and avoiding leading questions, because the Grayson abuse seemed so lurid to an American public that was then relatively naive, and because the defense attorney could make little headway attacking our methods, we attracted undue attention and seemed to be a success story. I was conscious that we merely performed competently and yet suddenly I was speaking for abused children everywhere. I didn’t deserve to be on all the networks as an expert. I did my best to emphasize that I was merely one of hundreds working in the field, not special. Nevertheless, by the end of the media’s love affair that day, I began to feel I was—in the language of my old neighborhood—hot shit. There was something real to be excited about, though. At least for one day, “Timmy” and the other children were believed.

I anchored Gene’s message under the phone, thinking I would try him in the morning, and then it rang. I had meant to ask the desk to hold my calls, but I wanted to wait a while in case the assistant DA tried to reach me. I might be needed for redirect. I didn’t recognize the deep, mellifluous voice that said to my hello, with a hint of amusement, “Is this Dr. Neruda?”

“Who’s calling?” I was cautious. There had been many crank calls during the trial; two had been not only obscene but violent. The ghastly threats they made were probably empty, but how could I be sure? I tried to goad the second threatening caller into seeing me. He did keep talking for a while, although only to persist in describing a gruesome abuse he planned for “Timmy.” He wouldn’t take my suggestion that we meet seriously. I meant it. He needed help. His fantasies weren’t harmless, whether he acted on them or not.

“It’s me.” The pitch rose and I immediately recognized the voice.

Gene was tipsy. He told me he had been drinking all evening, celebrating triumph for him and the company he worked for, Flashworks. They had presented their prototype of a new mainframe computer at the International Computer Convention held in Boston the day before and orders were pouring in. “We made the fastest machine in the world,” Gene said. “And the friendliest,” he added with a laugh. “They love us. We’re gonna bury Big Blue.”

“Big Blue?”

“IBM. Listen, I know you’re busy, but could I come by for a drink? I saw you on
Nightline.
I mean, I only saw it. I didn’t hear you. There was too much noise in the bar. But I read in the papers what you did. It’s great.”

“Thanks. I didn’t do it alone, I—”

Gene wasn’t listening. “Could I see you? Just for fifteen minutes. I know you’re busy. But I read in the paper your office is in upstate New York—”

“Not very far upstate. White Plains.”

“White Plains? That’s enemy territory. Anyway, we live in Massachusetts and when we come into New York to visit Dad, we stay in the city, so this is my chance to see you.”

“It’s late for me to go out, Gene—”

“I’m not that far from you. Just one drink?”

“How about tomorrow? For breakfast.”

“I’m leaving first thing. Only take up a half hour and then I’ll get out of your hair.”

This grown-up Gene—he was twenty-six now—certainly didn’t sound or act passive. That was gratifying and his eagerness was touching. He was a success of mine. Why shouldn’t I bask in a real therapeutic win, rather than the overblown praise of the trial?

We met in the lobby of the Ritz and went to their staid, virtually empty bar. Gene seemed a little taller, although he still had his mother’s wiry body and smooth youthful skin. He was dressed younger than his age, in a rumpled blazer too short in the sleeves, chinos that were too long, spilling over his scuffed loafers, and a denim shirt with a casual red knit tie. If Gene claimed to be a freshman at Harvard he would be believed. His boyish appearance didn’t give him the look of an IBM killer, but his was the world of computers, which I supposed was populated by youthful gunslingers.

He gushed about me for a little bit while we waited for his gin and tonic to arrive, saying he had followed my involvement with the Grayson case from the beginning, and that it didn’t surprise him I had become a famous psychiatrist, although he was surprised (and disappointed, I wondered?) to find out that I treated children exclusively. He asked when I had left the Tenth Street clinic for White Plains and why I had chosen to focus on abused kids, but his interest in my replies was perfunctory. Soon he was telling me about himself, with considerable pride. He had joined Flashworks, then a fledgling company, immediately after graduating from MIT and was put on a team of engineers and hackers given the critical job of designing prototypes, racing against a rival group within the company as well as against the other two major computer manufacturers. Flash II, the machine so successfully debuted only the day before, represented two years of grueling work, and promised, Gene claimed, to make Flashworks the number one computer company in the world. “Can you believe it? I’m a success.”

I said I could believe it and congratulated him. I noticed he was wearing a wedding ring. “You’re married?” I asked.

“Oh yeah. Junior year at MIT. And I got a son!” He was on the edge of his chair, talking energetically, though slurring his words. His eyes retained his boyish timidity, a tendency to avoid mine, rarely glancing at me, and those were darting movements, as if to catch me unawares. “He’s six.” He squirmed in the Ritz’s huge leather wing chair and pulled a wallet from his back pocket. It was falling apart, stuffed with bills and slips of paper. I looked at several photos of his boy, Peter, and his wife, Cathy. Peter’s hair was curly blond, the curls from Gene, the color from the mother. He had an appealing face, also a mixture of his parents: Gene’s big wondering eyes and expressive eyebrows; his mother’s strong chin and tight mouth. Cathy’s looks weren’t a surprise. Other than the sandy blonde hair and pinched mouth, she had Carol Kenny’s shape and attitude—wiry, head pushed forward, eager for approval, smiling too hard. Stop being a shrink, I told myself, and said, “What a beautiful family, Gene.”

“They’re great!” he said. “Thank God for my wife. She made me who I am.” He glanced at me—the darting look of confirmation—and then away, reaching for his drink. “And you. I’d have no life at all if it weren’t for you.” He drained his glass, bouncing ice cubes against his teeth.

“You
did it, Gene. You’ve made a success of your life. You know, that’s the scam of psychiatry. The patient does all the work and we take all the credit.”

Gene put his glass down. He cleared his throat and frowned. “I don’t believe that,” he said quickly and rushed on. “Cathy once asked me about you and I realized something terrible, really embarrassing.” He checked on me fast and then focused on a hunting print behind my chair. “I never asked you anything about yourself. I just poured my heart out for three years and never found out anything about you.”

“You were right. You instinctively understood that I was merely a symbol. You knew everything about me you had to know.”

That earned me the longest look of our relationship: head cocked, his wide mouth twisted into a blend of curiosity and amusement. “What do you mean?”

“I was a stand-in for whomever you were working things out with. Sometimes I was your mother, sometimes I was your father, sometimes I was you, or parts of you anyway.” I realized I had fallen into pomposity, used to lecturing from all the testifying and interviews. I waved my hand. “Don’t worry about it. If you hadn’t gone off to college we probably would have continued the therapy for a while—”