Psychology and Other Stories (28 page)

Daniel Strickland sat watching television in a dark, cavernous room with a woman who wore too much make-up.

“Three,” she said, counting down with the crowd on the television. “Two. One!” She clicked a photo of the screen, then one of Strickland. “Happy New Year!”

“Happy New Year to you, Beryl.”

Later, she wept.

“Nineteen fifty-nine,” she said. “Shirley MacLaine, Deborah Kerr, Robert Stack. George Scott.
Anatomy of a Murder
—now that was when they made movies. Oh God. Everything turns to shit.”

Strickland frowned and nodded.

Beryl gave him a fierce look. “Well? Aren't you going to say I'm catastrophizing?”

Later, she slept.

*

Someone who did not know the words was singing Auld Lang Syne. Someone was watering down the whiskey. Someone was patiently picking infinitesimal grains of cocaine out of the carpet. Someone was on their hands and knees, making kissing noises at the cat, which cowered beneath an end table.

“Five billion dollars for how many, fifty people? That's—ten million dollars a person! I don't care if they
are
Americans.”

“Here puss. Here puss puss.”

“Just another histrionic personality disorder in other words.”

“It's a hundred million and you teach statistics.”

“Here puss, got some nice … what are these?” She tasted one and made a face. “Macadamias?”

“Guatemalans. They're good in salads.”

“Say what you will about histrionic but at least they'll never bomb us. Rest of the world, U.S.A.
is
Hollywood and not even the Iranians would let their crazy government bomb bloody I don't know, Paul Newman.”

“My dear drunken dear, Guatemalans are people.”

Strickland came in holding a large bottle of champagne by the neck, like a club. He leaned over a woman who was sprawled with dignity across an armchair.

“Happy New Year, dollface.” He tried to kiss her but she sat up.

Martie said, “Honey please don't interrupt. Nigel was saying something very interesting about the economic crisis.”

“The solution is simple. Let them keep the hostages; we'll keep the money heh heh.”

“I think that's wonderfully appalling,” said someone.

“What's wrong with your cat!”

Electronic sockets projected from the creature's bare skull.

“Evan brought him home from the lab. I forget why.”

“Because he's used up,” said Evan. “Be careful, he's blind, too.”

Someone clapped Strickland on the back and screamed, “Dan's here! We can finally pick.”

The men lined up and drew keychains from a hollow African idol. After each turn the hostess put the statuette's head back on and shook it like a cocktail mixer.

Strickland pulled out a turquoise rabbit's foot to which a flashlight, flip-top lighter, garage door opener, and some keys were attached.

“Lucky Jim,” said a plump woman, taking him roughly by the arm. “Goodnight, my husband,” she called, waggling her fingers. “I'm leaving with this other, strong, manly good-looking man who is not you.” Failing to get a reaction, she led Strickland away. He resisted, trying to catch his wife's eye.

Someone drew the hostess's keys and she put down the idol with a squeal.

“Who's left?” shouted Nigel, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Just me I guess,” said Martie.

“Then I guess it's you and me tonight heh heh.”

“Looks like it.”

Strickland was yanked brutally from the room.

Strickland drove, but she was the one who kept her eyes on the road while he cast little inquisitive glances her way. Nothing was said for a long time.

“He used to be different,” she said at last. “People always say, After that operation she was a changed woman, he was a changed man.” She laughed. “I always thought that meant changed for the better.”

“And he's …”

“Oh he was always a bit of a swinger, I didn't mind, both of us were I guess. He just never used to take it so seriously. All this theory
crap. Erotogenic zones, modern civilization, polymorphous sexuality and the decline of genital supremacy. It's a bit of a drag.”

“… I know how you feel.”

“But then I'm not a psychologist. I was probably the only one.”

“Some of us are psychiatrists,” Strickland joked. “Not me,” he hastened to add.

“No? What're you?”

“A psychologist. I'm Dan.”

“I know who you are. It was you we were all waiting for.”

“My reputation precedes me.”

“Trace,” she said. They shook hands lightly, ironically. “I'm Ted's wife.”

“Ah yes,” said Strickland. “I don't know Ted very well. He's an experimental man, isn't he?”

“You mind if I smoke?”

“It's your car. I don't mind.”

“Did you see what they did to that cat?”

“Lookie what we have here,” she said.

Strickland crouched beside his five-year-old son. “Sergeant Bonzo,” he said, “what are you still doing awake?”

“Melanie was mean to me. Who's that?”

“I'm sorry to hear that. Did you walk away, or were you mean back?”

“Walk.”

“Good man. This is a friend of mine. Her name is Trace.”

Trace leered at the boy over his father's shoulder. The boy ducked his head, exaggerating a pout to hide a grin.

“Let's go find your sister,” said Strickland. “Sorry about this.”

Trace whispered, “Is there someplace I could go for a little pee-pee?”

“End of the hall. And the, ah …”

“I'll find it!”

When she was gone, he asked the boy, “Do you know if Melanie paid the sitter?”

“I did it.”

“Good man,” said Strickland. “Uh, how much did you give her?”

Melanie sat in front of the television, which showed one man bludgeoning another to death. Strickland gestured his son out of the room. The boy marched off with dignity.

“Everything cool?”

Melanie swiped at her eyes with a hand but said nothing.

“Home a bit earlier than we expected. Lousy party?”

She shook her head. After a pause, she said, “And where's Martie?”

“Staying with a friend tonight.”

She snorted.

“Want a drink?” he asked.

“No.”

“Think I'll have one.”

“Good for you.”

She came into the kitchen while he was pouring. She did not acknowledge him, but sat down at the table briskly, as if meeting someone who was already late. Strickland took his drink to the window while she sat cracking her fingers.

“Catch the fireworks at all?”

She slumped forward and buried her face in her arms. He sat down beside her. He nodded, frowning. He reached out to touch her, then hesitated.

“Your mother …”

She walked out of the room.

*

Strickland watched his son get into bed and pull the sheets up to his chin.

“Light on or off?”

“Off. On! On.”

“Definitely on?”

“Definitely.”

“Goodnight, Bonzo.”

“I'm sleepy.”

“Good. Then you'll enjoy your sleep very much.”

“Wait! Dad?”

“What is it?”

“How much does it cost to buy a whale?”

“A blue whale?”

“No, a big one.”

“A big one. Probably somewhere between seventy-five and eighty thousand dollars.”

While the boy pondered this figure, Strickland turned off the light and slipped away.

The woman, Trace, was sound asleep on top of his bed.

She wore nothing but a sheer negligee. He reached for a blanket, then changed his mind.

Q. January first. And when did Mike Burger beat to death Antonio DiRosa in The White Grape?

A. The date of the instant offense as I believe it is called was July ninth.

Q. Nearly six months later.

A. I beg your pardon?

Q. It is true that you only finally interviewed Mike Burger for the first time nearly six months after the killing?

A. I will take your word for it on the math. It was several months later, yes. Undoubtedly. As I understand it this sort of delay is not …

Q. Do people not sometimes change substantially in six months? Or even one month? Professor?

He turned off the television and lay down on the couch.

A. They can. Certainly. Sometimes.

The next afternoon, Mike Burger pulled his car into Strickland's driveway. He scowled up at the house for a moment, whistling a tune, before going to the front door. He had a loose, springy gait, one that seemed to bring into play every muscle in his body.

Strickland's son looked up from the card game he was playing on the floor beside the couch where his father lay.

The barrage of knocks brought Strickland to his feet, kicking cards across the floor as he stumbled around in search of his glasses. “Where is everyone?”

Mike was peering in through a window when at last the door opened.

“You Strickland?” he said, bounding back up the steps.

Strickland took an involuntary step backward. “Yes.”

“You the shrink?”

“Psychologist. Clinical—yes, I'm Daniel Strickland.”

“This your house?”

“Yes. It is. My house.”

Mike grimaced and fingered his upper teeth as if adjusting a denture. “Guess I was expecting some kind of office or something with waiting rooms and magazines and shit.”

“Ah,” said Strickland. “Of course. You're Mr. Burger.”

“Lawyer sent me.”

Strickland offered his hand and Mike shook it.

“I keep an interview room in the house,” Strickland explained. “I have an office at the university but I don't often use that for my clinical appointments. I prefer to see people on their own turf—or let them see me on mine. Ah yes. This is my son,” he said, sounding slightly perplexed. “Ben, this is Mr. Burger.”

“Mike,” said Mike. “None of that mister shit for me.”

“Are you my mom's friend?”

“Don't think so.” Mike considered. “Don't know. Who's your ma?”

“No no,” said Strickland, “this—Mr.—Mike is my friend, Ben. He's one of
my friends
.”

“My mom is staying with a friend, I thought maybe you were him.”

“She ain't at my house, swear to God, Your Honor.” Mike had begun investigating the room, picking up pictures from the mantel and replacing them indifferently. “This her?”

Strickland said, “Is Melanie around somewhere?”

The boy shrugged, watching the visitor.

“Benjamin.”