years ago. Said that we had done something, implied that it was something illegal. I told her to get away from me."
"Did you know her?"
"She knew my name. I guess she could have asked someone that, but it didn't seem like a setup. It seemed like she really remembered me."
"And do you know what she was talking about?" Shriver asked. "No."
"Not at all?"
I shook my head.
"What were you like twenty-five years ago?" he asked.
This was what he'd always wanted, I thought: to get me to talk about the earlier years of my life. I had gotten great satisfaction out of stymieing him, keeping my past secret. It struck me then as a petty contentment.
"I was a drunk," I said. "When the sun shined I did day work in construction or some other manual labor. At night I'd drink long and hard. I'd pick up women or pick fights and wake up with a headache either way."
"And you don't remember this woman at all?"
"No, sir."
" 'Sir'? Why call me 'sir'?"
"But she thinks that I did something and I think she told the people at Diablerie. "
"Diablerie?"
"It's a new magazine that my wife's working for. They say they're playing to the upscale market but they're really just a sensationalist rag."
"And what does your wife have to say about this?" Shriver asked, comfortable in this world of seeming paranoia.
"She hasn't said a thing."
"Then how do you know that this woman . . ."
"Barbara Knowland."
"The one they arrested for those serial killings?" Even Shriver was surprised by this.
"Yeah," I said, and then I launched into the story of how I ended up on the other side of the closet door while Mona tasted Harvard Rollins's dick.
"You were actually in the closet watching this?" Shriver asked, wondering, I could tell, whether to believe me or not.
I nodded.
"How did this make you feel?"
"I don't know. I was surprised that she liked his nasty talk. She never liked it with me."
These last words perplexed the good doctor. He stared at me, as isolated from my mind's inner workings as he had been when I was trying to keep him out.
"Don't you feel betrayed?"
"Yes," I said. "By her knowing that Harvard Rollins is checking up on some crime that Barbara Knowland is blaming me for."
"What about her sexual betrayal?" Shriver asked, more for his benefit than mine, I felt.
"I don't know. I think it bothers me, somewhere deep inside. But you know, I have a way of making feelings go away."
"How do you do that?"
I felt foolish talking about the void living in the hollows of my shoulders, but there was really no other way for me to describe it. It felt good to see the intensity with which the doctor listened to my explanations.
"But none of that matters," I said after finishing up the metaphorical description of my psyche. "What I really want to know is what Star thinks I did all those years ago."
"Why didn't you ask her?"
"I didn't think it mattered until Rollins started looking into my past."
"How can you be sure that he's even doing that?"
"I got that from a friend but I can't say who."
Again the doctor was silenced.
Finally he said, "Why don't we get you to lie down on the couch, Mr. Dibbuk?"
"What for?"
"In classic psychoanalysis the patient lies down and closes their eyes. From this position it is felt that there is a readier access to the unconscious."
"Just relax, Mr. Dibbuk," Dr. Adrian Shriver said to me.
I was on my back on a brown backless couch he had against the wall opposite his window. My eyes were closed and my hands were at my side.
"Okay," I said. "I'm pretty relaxed."
"Tell me about your days in Colorado."
"It's like I said. I was a hard-drinking, hard-loving, hardworkin' young man. Sometimes I'd drink so much that I'd lose whole days, not remember anything I said or did. I had &ends but I wasn't close to anybody. I used to make calls back home in my blackouts and blame my parents for all kinds of things."
"What kind of things?"
"I don't know. I don't remember."
"Tell me about a day that you do remember," Shriver
"Did you know her?"
"She knew my name. I guess she could have asked someone that, but it didn't seem like a setup. It seemed like she really remembered me."
"And do you know what she was talking about?" Shriver asked. "No."
"Not at all?"
I shook my head.
"What were you like twenty-five years ago?" he asked.
This was what he'd always wanted, I thought: to get me to talk about the earlier years of my life. I had gotten great satisfaction out of stymieing him, keeping my past secret. It struck me then as a petty contentment.
"I was a drunk," I said. "When the sun shined I did day work in construction or some other manual labor. At night I'd drink long and hard. I'd pick up women or pick fights and wake up with a headache either way."
"And you don't remember this woman at all?"
"No, sir."
" 'Sir'? Why call me 'sir'?"
"But she thinks that I did something and I think she told the people at Diablerie. "
"Diablerie?"
"It's a new magazine that my wife's working for. They say they're playing to the upscale market but they're really just a sensationalist rag."
"And what does your wife have to say about this?" Shriver asked, comfortable in this world of seeming paranoia.
"She hasn't said a thing."
"Then how do you know that this woman . . ."
"Barbara Knowland."
"The one they arrested for those serial killings?" Even Shriver was surprised by this.
"Yeah," I said, and then I launched into the story of how I ended up on the other side of the closet door while Mona tasted Harvard Rollins's dick.
"You were actually in the closet watching this?" Shriver asked, wondering, I could tell, whether to believe me or not.
I nodded.
"How did this make you feel?"
"I don't know. I was surprised that she liked his nasty talk. She never liked it with me."
These last words perplexed the good doctor. He stared at me, as isolated from my mind's inner workings as he had been when I was trying to keep him out.
"Don't you feel betrayed?"
"Yes," I said. "By her knowing that Harvard Rollins is checking up on some crime that Barbara Knowland is blaming me for."
"What about her sexual betrayal?" Shriver asked, more for his benefit than mine, I felt.
"I don't know. I think it bothers me, somewhere deep inside. But you know, I have a way of making feelings go away."
"How do you do that?"
I felt foolish talking about the void living in the hollows of my shoulders, but there was really no other way for me to describe it. It felt good to see the intensity with which the doctor listened to my explanations.
"But none of that matters," I said after finishing up the metaphorical description of my psyche. "What I really want to know is what Star thinks I did all those years ago."
"Why didn't you ask her?"
"I didn't think it mattered until Rollins started looking into my past."
"How can you be sure that he's even doing that?"
"I got that from a friend but I can't say who."
Again the doctor was silenced.
Finally he said, "Why don't we get you to lie down on the couch, Mr. Dibbuk?"
"What for?"
"In classic psychoanalysis the patient lies down and closes their eyes. From this position it is felt that there is a readier access to the unconscious."
"Just relax, Mr. Dibbuk," Dr. Adrian Shriver said to me.
I was on my back on a brown backless couch he had against the wall opposite his window. My eyes were closed and my hands were at my side.
"Okay," I said. "I'm pretty relaxed."
"Tell me about your days in Colorado."
"It's like I said. I was a hard-drinking, hard-loving, hardworkin' young man. Sometimes I'd drink so much that I'd lose whole days, not remember anything I said or did. I had &ends but I wasn't close to anybody. I used to make calls back home in my blackouts and blame my parents for all kinds of things."
"What kind of things?"
"I don't know. I don't remember."
"Tell me about a day that you do remember," Shriver
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