went screaming madly down Fifth Avenue, people dashed back and forth, lovers walked hand in hand, women in furs gazed at the windows of Bergdorf Goodman, limousines lurked before the Plaza. A bag man leaned against the wall that separated Central Park from Fifty-ninth Street. He was totally inert.
Bob felt as he had when he was a teenager, after some immense act of sex, drained, emptied of all spark, of all friction, a dreg.
The policeman's attentions had interrupted the process. But the cop had felt his bones. He had been in the process of actually turning into something physically else!
By the time he entered Monica's office, he was wondering why he had ever bothered to call her. No psychiatrist could help a man who was melting.
She was cheerful, still dapper in her blue double-breasted suit, her eyes wide and bright, so innocent that they stopped the heart, so knowing that they made him humble. "Well," she said in a confident tone, "how are we this afternoon?"
He could only lie into her broadside of supportive signals. "I feel better."
"Elavin is a good drug. There's nothing like it when somebody's feeling a little panic."
Panic. Yes, that was a good word. But it was not bad panic. Grand panic. Exotic panic. Magical panic.
"At first I thought the pills had made it worse. I got into a really horrendous state."
"How so?"
He related his story, ending it with the kindness of the two cops.
"The zoo animals we can discount. If there really was a disturbance, it was coincidental. It might even have been what induced your attack."
"I was having trouble before I got to the zoo."
"No doubt you were. But we can't trust our own perceptual memory, can we?"
"Monica, I can only repeat that it was a physical thing. One of the cops that helped me out at the zoo thought I was crippled. He was practically screaming when I walked away, because he obviously didn't understand how a person that twisted could just get up and stroll off."
"Well, this is your perception."
"I had a seizure."
"I grant that—but only that. A seizure I can deal with, hallucinations I can deal with, panic I can help you with. But we have to have a basic understanding that these perceptions of yours are not real. Otherwise, Bob—well—"
"I'm psychotic."
"That would be one diagnosis." Her voice was soft and even, but the sharpness in her eyes betrayed her.
"You think I'm going around the bend."
"I think I can help you."
"Then it's Cindy. You're worrying about her."
"Of course. She is my dear friend. I've known her for more than twenty years. And I know how much she loves you. She treasures you."
"Why would anybody do that?"
"I am not in the profession of analyzing love. I'd be a fool to try."
"Implying that you cannot imagine why she loves me. Well, neither can I. I'm a lot of trouble and not much good."
"You've made her happy." There was an edge in Monica's voice.
"Am I leaving my marriage behind? Is that what this is all about?"
"What do you think?"
"I don't know! That's why I asked. You're the expensive psychiatrist. You tell me."
"I'm not a Miss Lonelyhearts. My profession is to guide you toward insight."
He remembered the wolf sucking at his hand. He could feel the tongue, the teeth, could see those glaring, empty eyes. They looked like glass because the soul behind them had been burned away. That wolf was already dead. It wasn't responsible for what was happening, it was just a mechanism.
There was an impression of somebody so huge that they contained the whole earth. He thought of the Catholic image of the Blessed Virgin Mary standing astride the world, and was for a moment deeply comforted. "Officer Mary."
"Excuse me?"
"Did I say something?"
"Something. I couldn't hear you. What were you thinking about?"
There was no way to say it, because the image was so strange and private. His mother must have held him newborn thus, a magical being cradling an infant who trailed in his soul the whole world.
"We underestimate ourselves,
Bob felt as he had when he was a teenager, after some immense act of sex, drained, emptied of all spark, of all friction, a dreg.
The policeman's attentions had interrupted the process. But the cop had felt his bones. He had been in the process of actually turning into something physically else!
By the time he entered Monica's office, he was wondering why he had ever bothered to call her. No psychiatrist could help a man who was melting.
She was cheerful, still dapper in her blue double-breasted suit, her eyes wide and bright, so innocent that they stopped the heart, so knowing that they made him humble. "Well," she said in a confident tone, "how are we this afternoon?"
He could only lie into her broadside of supportive signals. "I feel better."
"Elavin is a good drug. There's nothing like it when somebody's feeling a little panic."
Panic. Yes, that was a good word. But it was not bad panic. Grand panic. Exotic panic. Magical panic.
"At first I thought the pills had made it worse. I got into a really horrendous state."
"How so?"
He related his story, ending it with the kindness of the two cops.
"The zoo animals we can discount. If there really was a disturbance, it was coincidental. It might even have been what induced your attack."
"I was having trouble before I got to the zoo."
"No doubt you were. But we can't trust our own perceptual memory, can we?"
"Monica, I can only repeat that it was a physical thing. One of the cops that helped me out at the zoo thought I was crippled. He was practically screaming when I walked away, because he obviously didn't understand how a person that twisted could just get up and stroll off."
"Well, this is your perception."
"I had a seizure."
"I grant that—but only that. A seizure I can deal with, hallucinations I can deal with, panic I can help you with. But we have to have a basic understanding that these perceptions of yours are not real. Otherwise, Bob—well—"
"I'm psychotic."
"That would be one diagnosis." Her voice was soft and even, but the sharpness in her eyes betrayed her.
"You think I'm going around the bend."
"I think I can help you."
"Then it's Cindy. You're worrying about her."
"Of course. She is my dear friend. I've known her for more than twenty years. And I know how much she loves you. She treasures you."
"Why would anybody do that?"
"I am not in the profession of analyzing love. I'd be a fool to try."
"Implying that you cannot imagine why she loves me. Well, neither can I. I'm a lot of trouble and not much good."
"You've made her happy." There was an edge in Monica's voice.
"Am I leaving my marriage behind? Is that what this is all about?"
"What do you think?"
"I don't know! That's why I asked. You're the expensive psychiatrist. You tell me."
"I'm not a Miss Lonelyhearts. My profession is to guide you toward insight."
He remembered the wolf sucking at his hand. He could feel the tongue, the teeth, could see those glaring, empty eyes. They looked like glass because the soul behind them had been burned away. That wolf was already dead. It wasn't responsible for what was happening, it was just a mechanism.
There was an impression of somebody so huge that they contained the whole earth. He thought of the Catholic image of the Blessed Virgin Mary standing astride the world, and was for a moment deeply comforted. "Officer Mary."
"Excuse me?"
"Did I say something?"
"Something. I couldn't hear you. What were you thinking about?"
There was no way to say it, because the image was so strange and private. His mother must have held him newborn thus, a magical being cradling an infant who trailed in his soul the whole world.
"We underestimate ourselves,
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