During one of my daily sessions, I ask Dr Guttman to open a window. ‘After the fourth or fifth patient, couldn’t you use a little fresh air?’ He gets up from his armchair, walks toward two casement windows and asks, ‘Which window?’ I reply, ‘I don’t really care.’ I point to the window on my right. ‘That window.’ With all his might, he tries opening the window. He hits it with his hand, nudges it with his forearm, taps it with his elbow, finally he bangs it with his shoulder. ‘Ouch. It won’t open.’ I suggest that he try opening the other window. He walks over to the window on the other beige wall in his beige office, flips the latch, opens the window, pulls a pink and white starched handkerchief from his trouser pocket, like a good little boy scout, wipes his hands clean with his little hanky, returns to his armchair.
Reminds me of a story my mother told me many years ago, when I was getting serious about boys … many years ago. ‘He starched my skirt. It was the first time a young man had … one day you’ll understand, when it happens to you.’
That was my underwhelming birds and bees intro; her strength was not in the details. But, there was Dr Guttman, wiping his hands clean on his sanitary hanky. His every move conjured up the image of her, at the moment, when she was probably wiping her skirt clean. ‘Thank you. I feel better when the windows are open.’
‘Good.’
‘In the last nine months, since your return from Cape Cod, my father has married and divorced my mother’s best friend, has been trying to fuck or has fucked my lover, and now he has disowned me. Considering what’s gone down, I should have disowned him … considering … You haven’t polished your shoes for days. I discuss it with Dina every time we speak. You once had such shiny shoes. In the old days, when I walked into your office, the appearance of your shoes gave me the feeling that there was order somewhere in the world. From the looks of your shoes, neither one of us is having a particularly orderly life. You don’t have to say anything; I know you won’t. Dina’s convinced you’re overwhelmed with work. I think you’re overwhelmed with life, just like the rest of us. I hope you have someone really good to talk to. Dina says all psychiatrists are crazy; that’s what makes them good.’ He says nothing.
That evening Dina asks me, ‘Why in the name of God did you have to write him that letter? What was the point?’
‘The man was or is trying to fuck my girlfriend.’
Dina won’t hear it. ‘They’re friends.’
‘He doesn’t know how to be friends with a woman.’
‘Why would you tell your father, at his age, that you’re gay? It makes no sense to him.’
‘I told him because I wanted him to know me. Besides, he’s making a fool of himself. Every time he hits on one of my girlfriends, he looks like an idiot. I had hoped when she died, he would stop making an ass of himself. I was wrong.’
‘His sex life is none of your business.’
‘When it intersects with my sex life, it certainly is!’
‘Your sex life doesn’t interest him.’
‘Not one solitary part of my life interests him, except of course Simone. Isn’t that peculiar?’
‘You are so much alike. It’s frightening.’
‘How is that precious marble monkey collection of his? Has he been moving the pieces from one bureau to another like the lunatic he is?’
‘On Mom’s bureau. In front of the mirror.’
‘I haven’t told you, have I? Saul Rudman’s taking me to a spa called “Eros Rising”, a retreat center. There’s a communal nude swimming pool.’
‘Do you think it’s safe?’
‘Is New York City safe?’
Dina asks, ‘Did I tell you about Burt.’
‘Mrs B.’s son?’
‘He’s had a nervous breakdown. His ex-wife took him for every red cent.’
‘Marriage.’
‘Mrs B. is taking care of him. Poor Mrs B.’
‘Poor Mrs B. is right. She’s a saint.’
‘You should write to her.’
‘You keep up with the past. I’m trying to get away from it.’
‘Stop trying so hard.’
‘I don’t know any other way. I had no guidance from my elders.’
‘You had me.’
‘That’s not what I call guidance … or elders. How are the kids?’
‘They’re odd.’
‘They’re yours. What do you expect?’
Dina sips her wine. ‘I loved my childhood. We were a fine family. When you were born … did I ever tell you the story…’
‘Oh no not that again.’ We giggle like little girls in oversized pinafores. The buzzer rings in the background.
‘Ralph’s home. I’ve got to finish cooking the brisket. The kids are starving to death. Call Mrs B. Please. Straighten things out with Pop.’
‘Not ready for either assignment.’
‘Loli, Pop’s too old to change.’
The phone call ends.
Next day.
Once again with Dr Guttman. Both windows are wide open. Through one of the windows, a sliver of light shines on Guttman’s shoes. They are polished. ‘She hasn’t been around lately. I miss her voice. You can close the windows. I feel much better today … I’m going to change my life.’
‘Friday night’s dream, on Saturday told,
Is sure to come true, be it never so old.’
‘I mean it.’
‘I’m sure you do.’