As She Climbed Across the Table by Jonathan Lethem Page B

mammoth of silence. Outside I heard a car door slam, and blind footsteps tapping their way up the porch stairs. Alice began chopping at the canvas with the scissors, her face beet red.
    “I’m learning to hate the sound of my own voice,” I said.

“I’m here as a patient,” I said. I wanted roles to be clear.
    Cynthia Jalter’s daytime offices were in a private medical building in a sunny, modern complex near downtown Beauchamp. She shared a receptionist, waiting area, and piped-in Muzak selections with a Dr. Gavin Flapcloth. The office was even more generic than the informal counseling area in her apartment. The curtains, lamp shades, tissues, and the color in the sky of the small landscape in oils above the desk were all the same color, a meek, inoffensive yellow. It probably bore the name
buff
or
cockle
. The office had no windows. It was like being submerged in a glass of lukewarm eggnog.
    Cynthia Jalter, on the other hand, was poised and elegant. Her black hair was swept back to expose her eyebrows, which met over her nose. She was the least blond woman I had ever met.
    “I couldn’t possibly take you on,” she said. “We have a relationship outside this office.”
    “I’ll relinquish that,” I said. “I want you to dissect me. Understand my life.”
    She smiled. “We can’t go backward. It doesn’t work that way.”
    “My problems are couple related,” I said. “I’m asking the advice of an expert.”
    “We met in a bar, you and I. You bought me a drink.”
    “That was fieldwork,” I said. “You wanted to see me exhibit my tropism, my need to couple. Let’s call it Life-Scenario Therapy.”
    “Two lonely people meeting in a bar.”
    My eyes wandered to a picture on the far wall. A faded print of a familiar painting: Brueghel’s
Icarus
, falling into the ocean unseen.
    “I need your help,” I said. “Things you said have been haunting me. Delusory or subjective worlds. Dual cognitive systems. Inequal growth. Do they apply to me? I need to understand.”
    She sighed. “With what goal? Reentry? My understanding was that you’re currently uncoupled.”
    “Am I? See, you’ve helped me already. That’s exactly what I’m missing, a terminology to apply to my situation. Uncoupled. Of course. Cynthia, can’t you see I’m operating at a disadvantage? Everyone around has a theory or an obsession. I’m making it up as I go along.”
    Cynthia Jalter lowered her head and smiled to herself. She set her clipboard on the desk and crossed her legs.
    “You’ve got yourself mixed up with Alice’s experiment,”she said. “Lack’s the one without any method. You’re just using that as a cover.”
    “What are you saying?”
    “You say you want my help, but I think you’re kidding yourself. You want to avoid seeing the effect you’re having on someone else. To avoid responsibility.”
    I stared blankly. The Muzak swelled.
    “Do you know what I thought when you called?”
    I was mute, wheels turning silently inside.
    “I have to be honest with you, Philip. I’m not interested in your coming to me with problems about Alice. I don’t think you have any. She’s gone. What I would be interested in is seeing you exhibit your tropism.”
    I felt my face flush, my palms moisten. A common panic associated with frank avowals by dauntingly attractive women.
    “I don’t want to be your therapist,” she said. “I might like to make love to you.”
    She leaned back in her chair. Her cheeks were a little flushed too. I felt courted, dizzy. Was it this simple? No more Alice? Could Cynthia Jalter simply uncouple me like a jigsaw-puzzle section and move me into her frame?
    When I examined myself for response, I found a void, a lack.
    “Is this an abuse of therapeutic confidence?” I said, dodging. “Can I lodge a complaint? Have I got a lawsuit?”
    “I haven’t accepted payment or even verbally contracted to see you professionally,” she said. “We’re just squatters in this office right now,