7

The next morning, after taking Sweet William to the vet (mercifully, he had done himself minor harm; one toe was chewed to the bone, another merely lacerated), Susan went to the police.

The local precinct, housed in a severe brick building, turn-­of-­the-­century by the look of it, was in itself an effective deterrent to crime. Climbing its stoop of uneven stone steps, even the innocent would chill; the guilty would be consumed with fear.

It was, if anything, worse inside. The quietness of the men (some uniformed, some not) was unnatural, the barrenness of the furnishings disconcerting, the very walls (white but in need of painting) were cold and offensive.

On a bench, to one side of the entry room, a black boy sat, his eyes red, a parent on either side of him, muttering obscenities.

Susan, frightened, approached the long desk facing the boy and tried to explain what had brought her there. She was speaking to a uniformed policeman who looked at her directly, bleakly, uncaringly.

She was told to sit on the bench, near the boy.

Policemen came in and went out as she sat there; some she could envision as saviors, others looked more brutal than those they hunted.

And her feelings of guilt mounted.

After ten painful minutes, Susan was shown past the desk, through a door into a large communal room filled with desks and policemen. People were being interviewed (interrogated?) at these desks, and most looked to her dangerous. She wished she hadn’t come there, to the center of a system that deals daily with horror and viciousness (the bowels of the city, like its sewers, reek).

The man she spoke to was called Kevin Mulay. No other designation was announced (Sergeant, Captain, Detective). He was, happily, polite to her and didn’t stare so much as look intently at her, trying to sort out what she was saying (rambling, accusing).

But even to Susan it sounded insane.

To his credit, Kevin Mulay never openly expressed his certainty that he was dealing with a sick woman, ­but it was apparent all the same. He explained to her that unless a crime had been committed there was nothing the police could do. He assured her (to her dismay) that they had not received comparable complaints. As to the question of the dog’s self-­induced attack, he could only shrug. And with that shrug, he stood up, offered her his hand, and dismissed her.

Outside (once again in the natural world) Susan felt a mixture of relief and hopelessness.

She spent the afternoon at the office bickering with Tara (“Jesus, Susan, you’re letting this thing get to you. Yuri says . . .”) and color-­correcting proofs of one of her illustrations (Cool Cucumber Days and What to Do with Them). But this time she found no relief in work, no respite from the image of Sweet William cowering in the dark of her bedroom, frightened and frightening.

As to Lou, they had spoken briefly when she woke him (he bandaged Sweet William) but it was the middle of the night and they compromised on spending the next evening alone together (Andrea would stay with her grandmother) to discuss it. Susan anticipated that meeting with much the same despair with which she answered any ringing phone (if she indeed answered it).

And so a despondent afternoon led to an unavoidable evening.

She arrived home to find Andrea watching television, flanked by two hostile elderly women, one, the usurped, Mrs. Diamond, the other, the usurper, Susan’s mother.

“She lets Andrea watch television every afternoon?” her mother complained after Mrs. Diamond had quietly stormed out of the apartment.

“What else should she do, Mom? She’s tired after school—” and too late Susan remembered the best way to shut her mother up was to agree with her.

“I never let you watch television, not when there were better things to do.”

“Right, you’re right.”

“A child’s mind needs stimulation. When you came home from school, I used to sit with you and draw pictures. That’s why you’re an artist today.”

In what dream did you sit with me? “You’re right” came out.

“That was always our time together, when you came home from school, before Poppa got home. . . .”

That was your time with the chickens, Mom. “I remember.”

“And then he’d come in and look at your pictures and make a fuss. . . .” The old woman’s eyes stared off into the past of her making, and Susan, seeing it, put her arm around her and lied, “It was good, Mom.”

“Yes, it was. You remember Mrs. Franklin?”

“No.”

“Of course you remember Mrs. Franklin. . . .”

“If I remember her, why did you ask me?”

“She lived downstairs in Three B. She gave you her old records. . . .”

“Oh, yeah, I remember,” Susan said because it was easier.

“She used to ask for your pictures. She hung some in her kitchen, now you remember?”

“I said I remember.” And Susan went into the kitchen, hoping her mother would take the hint and leave.

“Don’t let her watch television after school.” The old woman followed relentlessly. “Get her a little watercoloring set, like I got you. . . .”

In the dear dead days beyond recall. “Good idea.”

“Being a good mother takes thinking ahead.” Susan leaned against the sink and looked to heaven for patience.

“Andrea, get your things. Grammy’s waiting,” she called out.

Within five minutes Andrea and her grandmother were out the door, but not before the latter had dispensed a few more words of wisdom. “It wouldn’t hurt you to take her to the office when there’s no school, so she sees that women also work. . . .” “You want Andrea to do something? Praise her. It does no good to blame. . . .” “You look tired. What time do you go to bed? . . .”

Alone, Susan sat in the living room and smoked a cigarette.

One down. One to go.

At six-­thirty, that one arrived home, his distaste for what lay ahead obvious. Susan wisely chose not to broach the subject until after dinner, and as she cooked (steak au poivre, a bribe for Lou to be supportive) she tried not to notice Sweet William hobbling around, biting at his bandage.

After a desultory dinner in which Susan’s mood altered (“What am I feeling guilty for? What have I done?”) Lou started.

“Honey, I’ve been thinking—” and the words tiptoed out of him as if landing on eggs. “I can swing a week off now. If you’d like, we could get your mother to stay with Andrea. . . .”

It was the wrong tack.

Susan got up quickly from the table, nearly upsetting her chair.

“I’m not crazy, Lou. I’m not inventing these things.” She went quickly into the living room and lit a cigarette.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said, following.

“No? How did you mean it, Lou? Why should we go away? You think it won’t reach me wherever we go?” It was beginning to occur to her how angry she was with him; how resentful of his guilt-­inducing tolerance.

“Honey, calm down. . . .”

“You be calm. Nothing’s happening to you! And she ground the cigarette out on a silver ashtray they never used. “Except maybe your precious serenity is being upset. But I can’t be calm! I’m the one scared shitless!”

He tried to hold her but she would have none of it; no more condescension, no more generosity.

“I don’t know what to do for you, Susan,” he said, and the honesty of it moved her.

“You don’t have to do anything for me.” She allowed him to take her hands in his. “Just live through it with me. Don’t turn me into some kind of fool, okay?”

“I’m sorry. I just don’t understand any of it.”

“Well, join the club.”

“I want to, Susan, believe me—” and she did. “But it isn’t easy. You answer the phone, there’s no one there. . . .”

“There is someone there. Why can’t I make you understand that? There is someone there!”

She walked away from him and looked out the window. She could see a family having dinner across the street in one of the apartments. One of them was actually laughing. (Thank God someone was still laughing.)

“Look—” and she turned back to him, once again guilty (against her will). “Let me try to explain it to you as it happened. . . .”

Lou listened, not interrupting, for nearly ten minutes, and in that time he took Susan’s hand and held it, stroking it self-­consciously.

This time she told him everything: Yuri, her visit to Peter and the police.

By the look on his face, Susan knew she was frightening Lou.

“I had no idea it had gone that far,” he said.

“Well, it has.”

They were silent for a moment, reconnoitering, and then Lou said gently, “Are you going to see that doctor?”

“Yes.” And she could have guessed his reaction. The lawyer had weighed the evidence and come up with his verdict.

Innocent by virtue of insanity.

The specialist Peter sent her to was surprisingly young —barely Susan’s age, but in those few professional years he had already adopted an air of unquestioning superiority. As she told him about the calls, watching carefully to see some flash of incredulity amid the smugness, he merely listened and nodded as if he were hearing symptoms of a common cold.

And then the tests started.

Balance, eyes, ears, taste (sour or sweet, bitter, bland?), touch (warm, cool, rough, smooth?); color sense (which blue is most like this one?); smell (flowers, soap, perfume?).

And the questions. (Any headaches, backaches, tiredness, flashes of color, irregularity of menstrual cycle, soreness, weakness in fingers and toes, sleeplessness, nightmares, bed-­wetting?)

A dozen machines clicked at her; reams of paper were used up.

And then, when the examination was over, he smiled for the first time (who would have thought it? A sweet smile) and let her go (remembering, almost as an afterthought, that she should see his nurse, who would take a blood and a urine sample).

Thus, humiliated once more, Susan hailed a cab and spent the rest of the afternoon (another day of work missed) in bed, vacantly watching television.