had changed—she’d gotten interested in
having sex with me again—and so before bed that night, I asked her.
“Let’s say that I
got knocked out longer than I think I did and when I shot those guys, they’d
already come up here and…you know. Would
you tell me?”
She set down her
book, a library hardback with a blurry picture of a girl riding a bicycle down
a country road on the cover. She removed
her reading glasses and put them on top of it. “Of course I would. Where did
this come from?”
“Dr. Koenig,” I
said. “He remarked that the timing seems
a little messed up with the shooting—he doesn’t think I could get hit, recover
and get the gun in time to intercept Pinnix and Ramseur on their way
upstairs. So he asked if there was a
possibility that maybe I got them on their way down instead of up. Which would mean…”
“I see.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t worry about
it, because it didn’t happen. Okay?”
I rolled over on
my back and stared up at the ceiling.
“Are you
worried?” She asked.
“No,” I said. “It’s just…that caller said a bunch of
bullshit, and he rattled my cage. But
then my therapist goes and brings up some of the same things, like the asshole might
have been right or something, and so that really rattled my cage. Because it’s a good
question. When you have so many
coincidences and the outcome could change with any one, you do wonder. Sometimes.”
She picked up her
book and glasses and placed them on the nightstand. Then she rolled over and propped herself up
beside me, her brown hair spilling down over the hand on which she rested her
head. I thought then that with a woman
so beautiful, it was a miracle she didn’t have crazies following her home every
week.
“You know what I
think?”
“What’s that?”
“I think that
you’re nervous about this whole thing and your therapist threw that out there
to make you confront the idea. Bring it up, make you face it, let you put it
away. It’s actually a pretty good
tactic, I’d say. Do you feel any better
after asking me about it?”
“Yes.”
There came a
silence then, my mind working through what she’d just said and trying to decide
whether or not to tell her that Dr. Koenig wanted her to come to treatment with
me. I had agonized over that, because I
didn’t want her there. I wouldn’t do that, man, Bobby had said
when I asked him about it. You’re supposed to be her hero, which means
you’re supposed to be strong. Not
breaking down and crying in a shrink’s office. I agreed. My wife now
understood better than most women the importance of a strong mate. Sniveling, crying sissies have ways of
getting people killed.
“What are you
thinking?” She asked.
“I’m just thinking
that you’re right,” I replied.
She smiled and
turned off the light. “You should be
getting used to that by now.”
At our next
session, Dr. Koenig was running behind and so I had to cool my heels without
him for several minutes. When he came
in, he found me standing at the window looking out over that little courtyard,
my hands behind my back. Today, an old
woman sat on the bench eating popcorn from a small red-and-white striped
bag. White-haired and hunchbacked, the
she chewed with the slow deliberation of one with few teeth and nothing but
time—although, from the looks of her, she didn’t have much of either. A stainless steel walker frame stood parked
beside the bench. Her eyes stared into
space.
Alzheimer’s , I thought. Dr. Koenig’s office occupied the first floor
of a large building; she was probably an outpatient in somebody’s eldercare
practice. Right now, a man or woman in
his or her fifties or sixties was watching her from another office window I
couldn’t see, talking with an entirely different doctor from mine about
Mother’s options.
“Who’s that lady
out there?” I asked.
“I
having sex with me again—and so before bed that night, I asked her.
“Let’s say that I
got knocked out longer than I think I did and when I shot those guys, they’d
already come up here and…you know. Would
you tell me?”
She set down her
book, a library hardback with a blurry picture of a girl riding a bicycle down
a country road on the cover. She removed
her reading glasses and put them on top of it. “Of course I would. Where did
this come from?”
“Dr. Koenig,” I
said. “He remarked that the timing seems
a little messed up with the shooting—he doesn’t think I could get hit, recover
and get the gun in time to intercept Pinnix and Ramseur on their way
upstairs. So he asked if there was a
possibility that maybe I got them on their way down instead of up. Which would mean…”
“I see.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t worry about
it, because it didn’t happen. Okay?”
I rolled over on
my back and stared up at the ceiling.
“Are you
worried?” She asked.
“No,” I said. “It’s just…that caller said a bunch of
bullshit, and he rattled my cage. But
then my therapist goes and brings up some of the same things, like the asshole might
have been right or something, and so that really rattled my cage. Because it’s a good
question. When you have so many
coincidences and the outcome could change with any one, you do wonder. Sometimes.”
She picked up her
book and glasses and placed them on the nightstand. Then she rolled over and propped herself up
beside me, her brown hair spilling down over the hand on which she rested her
head. I thought then that with a woman
so beautiful, it was a miracle she didn’t have crazies following her home every
week.
“You know what I
think?”
“What’s that?”
“I think that
you’re nervous about this whole thing and your therapist threw that out there
to make you confront the idea. Bring it up, make you face it, let you put it
away. It’s actually a pretty good
tactic, I’d say. Do you feel any better
after asking me about it?”
“Yes.”
There came a
silence then, my mind working through what she’d just said and trying to decide
whether or not to tell her that Dr. Koenig wanted her to come to treatment with
me. I had agonized over that, because I
didn’t want her there. I wouldn’t do that, man, Bobby had said
when I asked him about it. You’re supposed to be her hero, which means
you’re supposed to be strong. Not
breaking down and crying in a shrink’s office. I agreed. My wife now
understood better than most women the importance of a strong mate. Sniveling, crying sissies have ways of
getting people killed.
“What are you
thinking?” She asked.
“I’m just thinking
that you’re right,” I replied.
She smiled and
turned off the light. “You should be
getting used to that by now.”
At our next
session, Dr. Koenig was running behind and so I had to cool my heels without
him for several minutes. When he came
in, he found me standing at the window looking out over that little courtyard,
my hands behind my back. Today, an old
woman sat on the bench eating popcorn from a small red-and-white striped
bag. White-haired and hunchbacked, the
she chewed with the slow deliberation of one with few teeth and nothing but
time—although, from the looks of her, she didn’t have much of either. A stainless steel walker frame stood parked
beside the bench. Her eyes stared into
space.
Alzheimer’s , I thought. Dr. Koenig’s office occupied the first floor
of a large building; she was probably an outpatient in somebody’s eldercare
practice. Right now, a man or woman in
his or her fifties or sixties was watching her from another office window I
couldn’t see, talking with an entirely different doctor from mine about
Mother’s options.
“Who’s that lady
out there?” I asked.
“I
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