When things ran normally, Jeff always got to the office before me. I had an 8:00 and 9:00 session at a nearby school, so I did not check into the clinic until somewhere around 9:30 most mornings. This worked out well because Jeff could then do his morning therapy right in our office without having to book one of the interview rooms.
Because I could usually count on his being around in the mornings when I arrived, I was disappointed to come in on Monday morning and discover Jeff was not there. I had been mulling over Kevin’s story about the dream and, while I did not want to give away to Jeff Kevin’s secret about swimming, I definitely wanted to talk the dream business over and see if Jeff had heard anything comparable during his sessions with Kevin. But since Jeff wasn’t there and apparently hadn’t even come in yet, because his coat wasn’t on the hook either, I soon forgot about it and sat down at my desk and began to work.
Then I couldn’t find my scissors. Standing up, I went over to Jeff’s desk and rifled through his top drawer. Bloody hell, Jeff, where’d you stick them this time? I’d punch him, I really would. He was forever running off with my scissors. And he never put them back.
I searched. I searched everywhere and could not find the stupid things. In a fit of pique I stomped out of the office and down to the receptionist’s desk to borrow hers.
‘Do you know where the hell Jeff has gone?’ I asked as she handed me the scissors.
Shirley, the receptionist, and one of the office aides were sitting there, having coffee and sugar doughnuts, our traditional Monday-morning treat from Dr Rosenthal. A funny look crossed Shirley’s face when I asked that. She said nothing.
I glanced at the other woman. She looked down. I looked back at Shirley. ‘Is something wrong?’ I asked, perplexed.
The expression on Shirley’s face made it apparent something was, but I couldn’t imagine what. The stillness, which must have been only seconds long in reality, expanded to silence the entire room.
‘Didn’t Dr Rosenthal tell you?’ she asked quietly.
‘Tell me what?’
This was awful. Something dreadful must have happened to Jeff. He must have been maimed in some accident. Or killed. Jeff was the sort of person you’d expect to have accidents. He lived that way.
‘What’s happened?’ I asked when no one spoke.
Shirley glanced at the other woman and then back to me. She swallowed her doughtnut. ‘Didn’t Dr Rosenthal tell you anything? Not a thing?’
Again I shook my head.
‘Jeff was let go.’
‘What?’
‘They let him go Friday night.’
‘What do you mean? They fired him? Jeff? How come?’
‘Well, not exactly fired. Just let go. To go somewhere else.’
My confusion was monumental. Jeff wasn’t planning to go anywhere. I knew that for a fact. He loved the clinic and he loved the city. Just a couple weeks back he’d been talking to me about a research grant he’d applied for, a grant to come to Sandry Clinic. I knew full well that when Jeff’s final training was completed at the end of the spring, he had planned to stay here. He’d told me so.
So what did she mean? Did they fire him? Why on earth would they fire Jeff? He was marvelous at his work. He was better than I was.
Shirley’s face was drawn. She fiddled with the remainder of her doughnut before finally pitching it into the wastebasket.
‘Jeff’s a homosexual, Torey,’ she said. ‘What with all that’s been going on in the city lately, the board of directors … well, you know how it goes. They just though it better if he wasn’t working with children.’
‘He’s gay?’ I asked, half aloud. I had not known. Yet in the half-conscious part of my mind, I suppose I always had. When Shirley said it, I knew it was true. Hans apparently had been more than a roommate.
Then everything became crushingly clear. The Dade County referendum in Florida had been only months before. Several cities around the nation had begun repealing their gay-rights acts. We had our own referendum coming up in a few weeks’ time.
‘They found him a place to work,’ Shirley said. ‘Down in California. He isn’t going to be without a job, Torey. They didn’t really fire him. It was just because he was working with kids.’
‘But he was good with kids, Shirley,’ I said.’ He wouldn’t hurt any kid. No more than I would. He was good. We needed him here.’
‘But they found him a good place. Dr Rosenthal gave him a wonderful recommendation. I know. I typed it out. He’s going to be working in an alcoholic rehabilitation center.’
‘Alcoholics? Jeff doesn’t know anything about alcoholics, Shirley. What’s he going to do down there? It’s kids he’s so good with.’
‘He’ll be good there too, Torey. And they need him there.’
‘But what difference does that make,’ I asked, ‘when I need him here?’
Completely devastated, I returned to the office. I wasn’t even capable of thinking. Jeff must not have heard the final decision until Friday night because, as I looked around the office, there was nothing missing to give me a clue of what had taken place. Jeff’s desk was still Jeff’s desk, stacked untidily with case histories and textbooks and medical dictionaries. Two candy bars and an empty wrapper were on the corner of the desk. Along the back was a collection of Styrofoam hamburger containers that Jeff had saved to keep his paper clips and rubber bands and things in. The only thing on his bulletin board was a long sign with the Pink Panther on it that said, ‘This is where Jeff lives it up!’ Well, not anymore.
What began to sink in as I sat down at my desk was how involved Jeff and I were professionally. We shared six cases together now. So much for teamwork. So much for the perfect team. What was going to happen to me and the kids now?
And Kevin. Kevin. Oh my God. I slumped into my chair. What was I ever going to say to Kevin? How was he going to understand? All it was going to look like to him was that one more man had proved untrustworthy, that one more person had walked out of his life without saying good-bye.
I began to cry, as much for myself, I fear, as for Jeff or Kevin. This business was like trying to build a card house in a drafty room. Half the time was spent desperately building, the other half trying to save it from the drafts. And every time one thought one had finally accomplished it, a breeze would come up from an entirely different direction and knock all the cards down again.
At four-thirty I packed my things and went to see Kevin. He was sitting on his bed when I came in. He had one of the puzzle books out and was intent on it. Closing the door behind me, I came over and sat down on the bed. Loopy Larry was in there too, lying on his own bed and staring at the ceiling.
Kevin looked up. ‘What’re you doing here? This is Jeff’s night.’ Then before I could get a word in, he continued, ‘Oh well, guess what? I earned twelve more points today. If I earn sixty will you take me swimming again?’
I watched him.
Kevin stopped talking. He searched my face. ‘Where’s Jeff?
‘Jeff isn’t coming.’
He knew something was wrong. Frantically, I was shifting through my thoughts to come up with a viable way to explain what I was going to have to explain to him.
‘We’ve had a problem come up, Kev. Jeff isn’t going to be able to work with us anymore.’
‘Huh? What?’ Alarm ran naked through Kevin’s eyes. ‘What do you mean? What’s happened to him?’
‘Well, it’s kind of hard to say. Jeff had to go away. He decided to move to California and work in a clinic there.’
Kevin’s brow puckered. ‘Why? How come? Did I do something? He never told me he wanted to go somewhere else.’
‘Oh, Kevin,’ I said and sat down beside him to put my arm around his shoulders, ‘It was nothing you did. Nothing anyone did. Jeff didn’t really want to leave; it wasn’t because of us. Not because of anything you did or I did or anything that happened here. That wasn’t why he did. Just other things came up. And people at the clinic decided it was maybe best if he would go work somewhere else.’
Tears puddled up in Kevin’s eyes and he made no effort to conceal them. ‘They’re stupid people!’
‘Yes, I agree with you.’
Kevin snuffled.
‘I’m terribly sorry it happened, Kev. I know you liked Jeff a lot. We both did. He was one of our very best friends, wasn’t he? And for a while it’s going to leave an awful big hole. But I want you to know that his leaving had nothing to do with you or anything that took place here. It was a separate decision Jeff had to make.’
‘But why didn’t he tell me he was leaving?’
‘I don’t think he knew until right at the end. He didn’t tell me either. But I’m sure he would have, if he’d been able.’
The silence descended on us, rolling itself down off the walls like slime. Loopy Larry was over on his bed, lying there and watching us. He had flat features and I wondered if he had Down’s syndrome. When the silence became so complete, he started to make little tiny fiddly noises to pierce it. Crazy as a loon was Larry.
Kevin stared at his puzzle book. I could hear him breathing, and there was something heartbreaking about the noise. It was so pathetically human with its fabric of tears.
‘Why did he leave? How come people decided he ought to be other places when you and me wanted him here?’
I let out a long breath of air and weighed what I needed to tell him. It had to be the truth, but how did one say it to a kid like Kevin with his experiences so that Jeff would come out just as he was, neither better nor worse.
‘Jeff was a homosexual, Kevin. Do you know what that is?’
‘Yeah. Sort of.’
‘It’s when a person prefers to have sexual relationships with someone of his own sex. So that a man prefers sex with another man and woman with another woman.’
Kevin sighed.
‘And that bothers some people. They don’t understand it and most people are scared of things they don’t understand. They’re scared of people who are different from themselves and so they try to make those people go away.’
‘Boy, I sure know about that,’ Kevin said.
‘Well, see, Jeff was different in his way, just like you are in yours. And people got scared of him and they decided he ought to go away.’
Kevin’s head was down again. Chirp, went Loopy Larry behind me. He sounded like a little bird.
With his brow furrowed, Kevin looked at me again, ‘But what I don’t understand, Torey, is why? Why would something like that make a difference? It didn’t have anything to do with what he did with me or you or anything. Who would care about a thing like that?’
Instead of going home after seeing Kevin, I returned to the clinic. It was almost six but I knew Dr Rosenthal would still be there. It was his private time with no phones or beepers when he could do most of his writing.
He was expecting me. I had made no arrangements to see him but he must have known I’d come. His office door was open and before I had reached the doorway, he was turned around in his office chair. He gestured for me to sit down. I sat. Still wearing my jacket, still with an armload of books and materials, I dropped down into the chair.
Rocking back and forth in his desk chair, Dr Rosenthal regarded me a long time. He knew my questions before I asked them. I knew his answers. Back and forth he rocked. Finally he reached over his desk and took a tissue. Removing his glasses, he cleaned them, examined them, wiped them again. Then he folded them up and put them in his breast pocket. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. He loosened his tie. I wondered, as I watched him, what made aloof, intellectual men so attractive. He was a compelling man. Then he took out his pipe. Still without saying a word, he opened the tobacco pouch, extracted leaves, stuffed the bowl of the pipe. Did I make him nervous, that he always smoked when I was here? Or did he always have a private little smoke in his office before he went home to the family who believed he’d stopped? Then he pulled open the desk drawer and lifted out the teapot and the tea bags.
‘I don’t think I want any, thank you,’ I said.
He smiled. ‘Yes, you do. Come on and join me.’ And he rose to go get water.
I was sitting in one of his ‘therapy’ chairs, a huge, soft overstuffed rocker meant to relax his clients. I sat with my chin braced on one fist. Tears welled up and came down my cheeks as he gave the warm steaming cup of tea to me. I made no effort to hide them. There was no point. He already knew he had hurt me. I only hoped he felt as bad about my tears as I did.
‘Why couldn’t you at least have told me?’ I asked. ‘I never knew at all.’
‘It wasn’t really your matter,’ he replied.
‘It was. We were sharing cases.’
‘Then it would have been up to Jeff to tell you, not me. It was a personal matter.’
‘But he didn’t tell me. And I didn’t know.’
We fell silent. Dr Rosenthal drank his tea in great, quenching gulps. Then he poured himself another cup. The clinic was absolutely silent at that hour, and so I could hear him swallow.
‘Why did you do it?’ I asked.
‘I didn’t do it. The board did it.’
‘But you could have stopped them, couldn’t you? Why did you let a stupid, stupid thing like that, which had no bearing on Jeff’s work, matter?’
‘Because it did matter.’
‘It didn’t. No more than my sexual preferences or behaviors in my own time interfere with my work. Jeff would never touch a kid. You know yourself that’s a fact. He’d never hurt a kid any more than I would. Or you would.’
‘No, true. But it mattered to the board.’
‘But why did you let it? They’re stupid, uncaring, narrow-minded people.’
Dr Rosenthal lowered his head and regarded the fabric of his suit. He nodded. ‘Yes, they are. But sometimes the stupid are in the driver’s seat. More often than not. Because the smart, caring, broad-minded are too busy out doing.’
For several moments neither of us spoke. He rocked in his desk chair, lit his pipe and then sat, contemplating his fingernails and the backs of his hands. I watched him and tried to make thoughts come out of aching confusion.
Then Dr Rosenthal looked over at me. He said nothing at first but just searched my face. ‘Were you in love with him, Torey?’
‘No,’ I replied and it was true. At least it was mostly true. I hadn’t really thought about it before, and if it never occurs to you, it probably isn’t what you’d call love. But then what is? It’s a barren language, English is, for words like that. There’s only one to cover everything when the nuances of the emotion could use up a thousand different words. I had never considered Jeff for a lover and he had never given me reason to. But we had had a passionate affair of the mind, and for want of a better word, it had made me love him. I was a great one for loving anyway. It was an emotion that came easily to me. I could do it effortlessly and over such an incredible range of people, big and small, old and young, male and female. I savored the emotion; it made all things bright and beautiful to me when in the hard, cold light of day, I knew they really weren’t. But that was always enough, to feel the beauty.
‘Not in love with him, no,’ I said, ‘but I loved him.’
Dr Rosenthal smiled in a sad way and lowered his head.
‘You did a rotten thing to me,’ I said, ‘and to my kids. And a rottener thing to Jeff.’
‘I know,’ he said and I knew he did.
The worst, perhaps, was Charity.
She was late coming over. Her mom was having troubles recently, and so Charity was having to spend more time minding her young brothers. She arrived after I had already eaten. I heard her coming down the sidewalk. It was a dark, frigid night and Charity came skipping through it, singing ‘Silent Night’ at the top of her lungs.
‘Guess what I did today!’ she hollered from the front door as she let herself in. ‘Hans? Are you here, Hans? Guess what I did at school today, Hans.’
I came into the hallway from the kitchen.
‘Where they at? Where’s Hans?’ she asked, her voice cautious. She knew already something was wrong.
‘Come into the kitchen, Charity. Would you like a mug of hot chocolate?’
‘Where they at? They always come on Mondays. Every Monday. How come they’re not here?’
Carefully, I tried to explain that Hans and Jeff would not be coming back. Charity was sitting on the stool beside me as I made her chocolate. When I handed it to her, she stared into it, her mouth pulled back in a tight, mordant expression. When I finished explaining, she looked over at me without really raising her head. Consequently, I saw her dark eyes through a fringe of bangs.
‘They divorced us, didn’t they?’
I smiled in sympathy. ‘No, Char, it wasn’t anything like that.’
‘Yes, they did. Just like my pop divorced me.’
‘But parents don’t divorce kids, either. Adults divorce other adults. Parents don’t divorce kids. Friends don’t divorce friends.’
‘How do you know?’
I studied her face. Her expression was hard and knowledgeable. ‘Divorce is something only adults do,’ I said. ‘It’s a grown-up thing. But friends never do it and Jeff and Hans were our friends, Charity. Things might change between us, but it isn’t divorce.’
‘It’s the same thing.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘Yes sir. Your pop goes away and you never see him again, really. I mean, he isn’t family anymore, like, he doesn’t give you baths or play hide-the-thimble when your friends come over. Just like Hans isn’t ever going to take me skating again. It’s over and I’m never going to see him or Jeff again. Maybe it isn’t divorce. Maybe it isn’t because they divorced us. But it’s the very same thing.’
I paused from hugging her and tried to think of a very honest answer to sort things out. With tears on her cheeks, Charity caught me at my thinking and gave me a small, sardonic smile.
‘It is the same, Torey,’ she said with gentle finality. ‘I’m right. I know. Believe me, it is.’