Fredericks and Shellenberger should be here soon, eyeballing my group like two vultures drooling for signs of weakness.
What a job. I bust my chops to do what’s right and the bloodsuckers keep coming. Staring at his black ballpoint, he twisted the gold letters so he could read them. “Victor McGinnis, Ph.D.” Good intentions don’t count for much. Fredericks could care less about what I do, unless it involves his toes getting stepped on. Then it’s hell to pay. Getting in a urinating contest with him gets my clothes soaked and smelling bad. He slumped back in his chair, crossed his arms and stared at the ceiling. But doing nothing guarantees staying trapped in Fredericks’ toilet. McGinnis twisted his pen with a stranglehold meant for his boss.
In spite of his foul mood, McGinnis laughed at himself. What a way to start the day. Talking to a pen. Shrugging his shoulders, he pushed the pen into his coat pocket. Time for today’s special feature: Dr. Frankenstein and Igor. He cracked a smile, but understood only too well that Fredericks and Shellenberger were far from fictional characters; they were forces to reckon with: a VA high priest and a court jester, who moments from now would be holding court behind a one-way mirror. They could be formidable forces indeed as they weighed his fate and that of his group.
Fredericks left little doubt about his biases toward “burned-out chronics” and his need to “clean house.” With reptilian eyes and a heart that pumped ice water, Fredericks thrived on drawing flow charts and cutting budgets. His primary relationships were built around numbers and pornography books stacked under the Bible in his penthouse closet. To his credit, he worked hard to balance his budget and keep his department in the black. Dueling for money with other departments was definitely his forte. More often than not, however, the cost was dear.
Shellenberger was another matter. Preferring the Ivory Tower to the battlefield, Bert didn’t draw sabers. He didn’t duel. As a consequence, he rarely got caught in the crossfire of power struggles. Bert could project a chameleon transparency in political arenas. Assuming a low profile, except with students, he survived most infighting unscathed. His nerdy demeanor and lack of social credibility insulated him from being pulled into administrative frays, while his Ph.D. and seniority kept him poised near the top of the Montana VA food chain. Bertrand’s awkwardness aside, McGinnis felt that Shellenberger was a good man, put forth honest effort, but had an innate ability to stumble over his own shadow.
Waiting for Fredericks and Shellenberger, McGinnis felt like a greenhorn again—a naïve, intimidated graduate student. He had hoped he would have outgrown some of his awkward sensitivity. His fluctuating self-confidence had certainly created problems with his asserting himself and sticking by his guns. Today, with his boss and Shellenberger breathing down his neck, his guts felt like they was back on his first job, decades ago. Back then he was dressed in an itchy wool suit and a tie that was too tight, hoping to impress his new employer and whomever crossed his path.
* * *
Vic surveyed the image of his fine black hair that always needed combing. His mother had shown him at an early age how to dip his comb in sugar water, and then draw it smoothly across his forehead. This process succeeded in gluing his hair in place, but at the price of making him feel like a nerd with horn-rimmed glasses, terminal acne and a pocket protector weighing down his checkered shirt. The sugar water routine was history, but his hair still caused him fits, particularly today when he was doing all he could to make a professional impression on the hometown folks.
Vic frowned at the mirror, as he watched his face twitch with a dozen emotions. Damn, coming home was transforming him into a bag of jangled nerves. The sensations in his bladder switched on and off, alternating between urgency and spasmodic false alarms. He checked his wristwatch. It was time. Setting his jaw, he passed up his last chance at the urinal, and headed out into the hallway leading to the expansive courthouse rotunda.
Crescendo-ing across the tiled floor were sounds of clicking heels, voices sparring for attention, and office doors opening and closing with slams and bangs. Everyone seemed focused on beating the eight o’clock deadline for being late. Through the midst of this programmed chaos cut a high-pitched voice that reverberated like a referee’s whistle calling “time out.” People paused in their sprinting, conversations quieted and the granite walls stopped playing ping-pong with the early morning noises. The vast room collapsed into a tomb of silence.
The screeching voice resumed again, this time with the ring of a banshee discovering fresh meat. “Well, who do we have here?” she wailed. The “she” was a 50s-something woman with a squeal that could strip rust off battleships. Dressed in a brocade dress that draped over her ample breasts like canvas over tipping tent poles, the squat matron strained on her tiptoes to look in Vic’s direction. Bobbing her head with the enthusiasm of a goose being goosed, she swept her arms in a grand gesture around the foyer, ending with her index finger pointing between McGinnis’s eyes. “Would you look at that? Little Vic McGinnis, the new doctor in town.”
McGinnis froze and stopped breathing. Mary O’Reilly! He stifled a curse, as he recognized this grande dame who had known his parents before he was born. As reigning town gossip and all-purpose busybody, Mary ran whatever show she was in. She was “The Star,” the focus of all conversations within a mile of her portly presence. A ceaseless whirlwind of energy, she could function like a veritable social commode, that, when flushed, carried everything with her. Her family, especially her husband, was pitied by all who knew Mary. When a truck collided with him, as he stumbled drunk from one of the local watering holes, some folks secretly wondered if Patrick might not have taken the easy way out. Right now, however, it was not Pat’s scalp that was on the line; it was Vic’s. So the latter tried to run a bluff: pretending that Mary was pointing at someone else, McGinnis stared at the man next to him.
“Not so fast, Vickie,” she keened. “I’m not talking about that old bald-headed buzzard standing next to you. I’m talking to you! Remember me, my little boy?”
Turning toward her with an awkward grin, McGinnis glanced quickly around the silent rotunda at the gawking onlookers, and nodded his head.
“I thought you’d recognize me,” Mary said with obvious satisfaction. Ramping up the decibels in her voice, she turned her attention to the crowded room. Swelling up with the pride of a mother who had just launched a son out of the nest, she bellowed, “I knew Vickie when he was still peeing his pants.”
McGinnis, tucking his proverbial tail between his 26-year-old legs, spun on his heels and headed for his office, but not before he felt that Mary’s verbal spotlight had highlighted his every flaw and failing, undressing him to the crowd. Was it his imagination or had he heard their polite chuckles teeter on the brink of belly laughs?
* * *
The door pushed open as Frankie Grayson scanned the room as she entered. “Good morning, Doctor McGinnis. Thought I’d come a little early and get settled before the rest arrived.”
“Me too, Frankie. Pull up a seat and make yourself at home.”
Grayson smiled in a manner revealing little and walked toward the end of the table, selecting a seat apart from the rest of the chairs. She glanced at the table top, rubbing her fingers over the marks and smudges on it. “To get to the point, I’m nervous about this whole group thing. It’s hard for me to focus. My memory plays tricks on me too. I don’t think I’ll ever remember anybody’s name. I’m actually pleased I recalled yours.”
“Give it time, Frankie. You’ve been through a lot.”
“The doctors tell me I have a traumatic brain injury and post-traumatic stress. Both have been explained to me, but I’m still working on what was said. Are the doctors trying to tell me I’m crazy?”
“No, but this would be good material to discuss in our group.”
Frankie scowled, then looked away from McGinnis as she fumbled with her fingers. “We don’t have much time before the rest of the group arrives, Dr. McGinnis. I need to tell you why I came early.” Her dark brown eyes scanned his face, checking to see if he was really taking her seriously. She continued. “My worst injuries didn’t come from the explosion of my humvee.” Her jaws clinched and then her words poured out in a rush, ignoring whether they would meet with his approval or not. “I cannot talk to a group of strangers about what’s really bugging me.”
“We all need to learn to trust, Frankie. Bring it up in group.”
Frankie considered for a moment, and then shook her head firmly. “No.”
“Give us a chance.”
“I’ve given too many chances. Not this time.”
Grayson pulled her arms across her chest and gripped herself in a tight clinch. McGinnis sank back in his chair, paused for a moment and said, “Tell me what you plan to do.”
Frankie chewed at her lip as she began mustering up more momentum. “I don’t know. However, I am sure that I need to talk to a woman.”
“We don’t have any women on staff.”
“What about Dr. Layton?”
“She’s an intern.”
“So? ”
McGinnis nodded. “She’s still a student who has more to learn.”
A wry smile rimmed Frankie’s mouth. “Don’t we all. Don’t we all.”
“I’d still prefer you deal with the group about your concerns,” said McGinnis.
Frankie’s jaw seemed to set even tighter. “What about you? Will you talk with me in individual counseling if you’re not too busy?”
Now it was McGinnis’s turn to look uncomfortable, his smile morphing into a strained expression as he seemed to search for what to say.
“My God,” said Frankie, “You don’t want to work with me. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Not at all. I’m just—”
“No. Answer my question. You don’t want to work with me.”
McGinnis reached for his pen from his coat pocket and pulled it out slowly. Staring at it, he began twisting it around in his hand. “Sometimes when I don’t know what to say, I fidget with this pen. In this case, Frankie, you’re right and you’re wrong.”
Frankie flushed and started to get up.
“Stay for just a moment. What I have to say has less to do with you and more with me. The fact of the matter is, I’m not sure I can understand all you went through in Iraq.”
“It’s not complicated. I got threatened and raped on weekends and blown to hell by a roadside bomb on the way to work.”
“Still, I’ve never counseled an Iraq veteran, much less a woman Iraq veteran.”
Frankie frowned at McGinnis and lowered herself back into her chair. “What are you saying? That I’m some kind of freak you don’t know what to do with?”
“Of course not. I’m just being honest about my lack of experience.”
“Sometimes it’s best to leave honesty at home. But speaking “honestly,” you look older than my father. I bet you started working at the VA before I was born.”
“Right on both counts. But the closest I’ve gotten to these new wars has been the 5:00 news and Time Magazine.”
Frankie shook her head in disgust. “‘New wars’. What a way to talk. Well, I bleed like the men in Vietnam and Korea. And getting my clothes torn off as I was spread across my first sergeant’s desk plays about the same for any person. My question to you is, ‘What can you do about fixing that?’” Glaring at McGinnis, she waited for an answer.
“Shoot the son-of-a-bitch?” said Geno Molinari, who had walked through the door undetected. “Sorry for breaking in.”
Grayson flushed and started to leave, then muttered to Molinari, “Believe me, I thought of that.”
McGinnis raised his hand, motioning for her to remain where she was at, and said to Molinari, “Could you wait out in the hall for just a few minutes? We’ll be finished shortly.”
“No problem,” said Molinari, who turned and left the room.
Grayson looked back at McGinnis. “Can you make all this go away?”
“We can help.”
“That will have to do for now.” Frankie got up from her chair, pushed it back under the table, and continued. “I’ve been violated enough by men. I don’t need more abuse. I’ll go along with counseling first with you or Dr. Layton, and then we can talk about group therapy.”
McGinnis searched for a counter argument, but none appeared to surface. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you,” said Frankie. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll leave now.”
Further conversation was interrupted by new footsteps down the hallway. Frankie moved quickly to the door, and brushed pass Buck Hanson as he walked into the room.
“Excuse me,” she said.
“No problem,” Hanson answered. Following behind him was the rest of the group.
“We’re here,” Brad said as he held open the door for Sonya. “The rest are right behind us.” Lundeen, Hoffmeister and Reardon made their entrances, moving to their usual spots around the conference table. Smiles surrounded the table except for McGinnis.
“Let’s begin,” said McGinnis.
Reardon paused in the middle of a conversation with Hanson and glanced at him. “Why so serious? You look like you just came back from a funeral.”
Molinari chimed in. “I tried joking with him too, but it didn’t work.”
“Time to get down to business,” said McGinnis.
“Why so serious?” asked Hanson.
McGinnis looked around the room and shrugged. “We have visitors today behind the one-way mirror.”
“Why?” asked Molinari.
“To determine if this group will continue,” answered McGinnis.
“Our group?” asked Hoffmeister. “I thought our discussions were considered confidential. ”
“Me too,” said Reardon. “What’s said in the group stays in the group. Period.”
Hoffmeister nodded his head and continued. “Shouldn’t we be asked first before we’re observed?”
Hanson frowned. “Seems to me we ought to have some say-so about whose sticking their nose in our business. And what do you mean about ‘deciding if this group will continue’? Why would anyone want to shut us down?”
Lundeen narrowed his eyes and asked “Who are these people?”
By this time, Molinari looked on the brink of exploding. “Listen to what we’re saying, Doc. Hey, this is important stuff. Maybe we should invite our ‘visitors’ in and talk this over.” Without waiting for an answer, he was out of his chair and walking toward the door. “Hell, I’ll invite them myself,” he said as he walked into the hallway.
Molinari pushed open the observation room door and peered into the dark room. “Come out, come out, whoever you are, and join us. You can see a lot better there.” He switched on the ceiling light and grinned at the two stunned men in suits who had shifted around in their chairs. “My name’s Geno Molinari from Butte. Who are you guys?”
Shellenberger was standing by now, with his weight shifted to his left leg. Carlton Fredericks remained in his seat, glowering at Molinari.
“Do you have any idea who I am?”
“Nope,” shrugged Molinari, “That’s why I asked.”
“I’m Dr. Carlton Fredericks, Director of the Department of Psychiatry and Behavioral Sciences for this hospital.”
“Well, welcome, Doc,” Molinari said as he extended his arm in a handshake. “Whose your partner?”
Fredericks’s face began morphing into darker shades of red. “Mr. Molinari, I think it best if we defer further introductions until we join you and Dr. McGinnis in the group room.” With a sarcastic grin he added, “Would you care to show us the way?”
“Sure, Doc,” said Molinari. “Follow me. The guys will be delighted to see you.”
In a squeaky voice that could have come from a neutered rodent, Dr. Shellenberger added in correction, “The ‘guys’ you refer to also include two young women.”
“Roger that,” said Molinari. “No sexual bias intended. Both men and women will be screwed equally if you decide to axe our group.” Pushing the group door open, he continued, “So here we are. Make yourselves at home, and let the introductions begin.”
Vic McGinnis did not look like a well man. He had failed to head off Molinari and his foray into the observation room. Now he sat frozen to his chair at the head of the table as his boss strode into the room. Fredericks glowered at McGinnis through pursed lips and gritted teeth. “Dr. McGinnis, I understand from your patient here that you would like us to join your discussion. Where would you like us to sit? I only see one extra chair.”
“Hell,” said Molinari, “You can have mine. The seat’s already warm.” He then nodded to the vacant chair beside McGinnis. “You’re partner can have that one there. I’ll grab another from the other room.” In an instant he was gone and back with an extra chair. “So here we are, all ready to go.”
The group sat stunned at the actions of Molinari and at the two obviously distressed administrators he had delivered into their midst.
“Dr. McGinnis,” said Fredericks, “Might I assume that you are leading this group?”
McGinnis nodded without comment.
“Then might I ask what your intentions are in having Dr. Shellenberger and myself here?”
“I can answer that,” butted in Molinari. “The word is that you’re going to shut down our group. If that’s so, then you can say it to our face.”
Fredericks blanched. “I believe I was addressing my question to Dr. McGinnis.”
“Hey,” said Molinari, “We’re all brothers under the same flag. We stand together on this one.”
McGinnis interrupted. “What Mr. Molinari is trying to say is that we are members of a group that is important and valuable to us and are worried that it might end. We wanted to talk with you directly about doing what you can to see that it continues.”
Laser beams of rage shot through Fredericks’ eyes. “We’ve discussed this in detail, Dr. McGinnis. You know my answer and you also know that we’re not having an election here. The future of your group will be impartially examined and decided by medical professionals who will certainly take your ideas into consideration. The final decision, however, will be ours.”
Hanson leaned his chair back against the wall with a bump. His suntanned face showed little emotion as he looked back and forth between Fredericks and Shellenberger. “Sounds to me like the decision has already been made, and we got the short end of the stick.”
Fredericks glanced at Hanson, like he was something that had come out from under a rock, and then zeroed in on McGinnis. “We’re not on trial here, gentlemen. Let me say again, your opinions have been duly noted and— ”
“Excuse my interruption, Doctor,” said Loren Hoffmeister, “But you’re speaking in the past tense. You claim our opinions have been duly noted, but we haven’t, to my knowledge, offered them yet.”
The veins on Fredericks’s neck bulged as his teeth ground against each other. “I see no point in continuing this debate, gentlemen, so I— ”
It was Rich Reardon’s turn to interrupt. “That’s the second time you referred to us as ‘gentlemen’, Doctor. Are you not aware that we have a woman present who also should be included in our discussion?”
Fredericks was on his feet, pushing away his chair, and shaking his finger at McGinnis. “This is insubordination. We’re finished.” With that, he marched to the door, pulled angrily at the knob, and walked out of the room. Shellenberger glanced sheepishly around the room and followed in a hasty retreat.
As the door slammed shut, Hanson slapped the table, grumbling, “Those two couldn’t pour pee out of a boot if the directions were on the heel. But we sure showed ’em.” Smiles and high-fives passed around the room but stopped with McGinnis, who shook his head and moaned, “I’m afraid the war has just begun.” To himself he muttered, “Vic, you’re still peeing your pants.”