Mind Games Page 14

  “I’m confused, Bob. How did she get into it?”

  After a silence: “I don’t get what you’re asking, Dr. Wade. If you’re asking, did I have to push her into it, no. She was totally into it after a while, totally. I don’t know how many times we did it, I stopped counting. I don’t come on heavy like some guys, I’ve got too much respect for women.”

  “Bullshit.”

  That rare instance of bluntness from Martha caused a loss of composure, and an unravelling that accelerated. “Are you … Hey, Dr. Wade, if you’re suggesting … Hey, now just a minute, you talk to her, I got her phone number somewhere, and if she says something different, then someone got to her …” A pause. “I like women.” Another pause, heavy breathing. “I get it. This is one of those games where you try to piss me off. You know what? I don’t care!” He shouted. “Too many people are on my case. And you’re on my fucking case! I don’t get credit! I’m tired of this shit! I have a headache!”

  He stood, fists clenched, body taut, and seemed about to advance on Martha. She was momentarily in fear, but Lyall had heard the yelling – he was always posted outside the door – and rushed into the room. It took him a while to settle Grundy down, and Martha’s only subsequent dealing with him was, as she was departing, to accept an apology, the insincerity of which was as obvious as neon.

  Again, I pondered: Had Dr. Wiseman led Bob through some real catharsis during her own final session? Had a truth been revealed to him so hideous that he made sure it would be forever interred in her grave? Psychopaths don’t feel guilt, but in their narcissistic aspect they can be stressed by fear of shame.

  Does he dream of being naked? I did that night (the anniversary of Insemination Day), finding myself nude in that storybook Alpine village. Staring down at me, from the bandstand, was the Bavarian hillbilly combo: a trumpet player in a Kaiser Wilhelm helmet, an accordionist smoking a Meerschaum bent (I smelled marijuana), a red-suspendered rustic at the washboard. And again, beneath their motley wear, their faces were all familiar from my morning shaves.

  These men, I presume, represent facets of the Dare personality: one was fidgety, another scowling, a third looked wild-eyed and haggard. Their music was discordant, and one player seemed missing – a chair at the front was empty, as if set out for an absent leader: the non-conflicted, integrated ego that they lacked?

  The band was urging me to join them, and I wasn’t sure why until I suddenly realized the phallus hidden behind my hands had taken the form of a clarinet. I wanted to join them, but I’d regressed to childhood, to naked toddlerhood, in fact.

  “He can’t play,” said someone behind me, a child’s voice.

  I turned to face several young boys and girls. “You can’t play!” they shouted in turn.

  I was no longer in the Bavarian hamlet but in a bedroom of a student housing unit where Victoria and I lived when I was only four years old. I remembered the setting vividly in my dream, though my conscious mind has long forgotten it. We were in my mother’s bedroom (the dream and reality – an episode in 1972 that has now come back to me – run on parallel lines), and the children were examining items inside an open trunk, surreal and frightening costumes, a skeleton of plastic bones, death masks – Victoria’s collection, inspiration for the mystery stories she’d begun to write. My only toy was a wooden flute; I was trying in vain to make sound with it.

  “You can’t play!” The children taunting me were all bigger, including a couple of girls who tugged my shorts off and threw them into the trunk. Bare-bottomed and red with shame, I climbed in to get them, and they closed the lid on me. A fastener clicked. I heard little feet running away, giggling.

  In my nightmare, that echo of the distant past, I was plunged into a horror of ghouls and monsters and clutching plastic fingers that was so terrifying that I woke on my cot on the Ego thinking I’d suffered a stroke: I was immobilized, smothered by thirty-year-old memories.

  Victoria had been in another room, banging on a typewriter, hadn’t heard my muted howls. She’d assumed I was playing with our neighbours’ normally benign children, that they were old enough to be responsible, and she wasn’t aware they’d fled the house. Maybe they hadn’t heard the trunk lock shut. Maybe they were just being children, unthinking, forgetful, even cruel.

  For little Timmy, it seemed a century had passed, but it was only two hours before my mother came down in search of me. She freed me, clutched me in her arms, gave love, but by then the damage was done. She never talked about it later, even when soothing my nightmares, probably because of the guilt she felt, or because, in her innocence, she thought cure could come from forgetting. But now I remember, now I know – my two hours in that black pit of torment has scarred me forever.

  How excited you were when I told you about the nightmare, this recovered memory. Let’s go to work, you said, now we have a starting point. Your weeks of hectoring me to unblock repressed memories needed only a lever, a climactic event, a stalled elevator, to spring open the lock of that trunk.

  I’m sorry I felt too debilitated to do more work with you – scars remain after psychoanalysis just as after a successful operation, and they ache in stormy weather. Let me sit on it a week, process it, gather myself. But already I feel a healing – time and reflection are beginning their cure and I hear the demons snorting and fuming as they make their travel reservations.

  In turn, however, I’m less healthy of limb, though I’m lucky to be alive.

  It happened Wednesday. I’d invited Dotty Chung for dinner at the Pondicherry, to review the Grundy file. She’d been working tirelessly, prying what information she could from charter firms, visiting their offices if they were reluctant to help, telling them she was investigating a phony insurance claim. Three charters had flown to northwestern B.C. on Saturday, August 23, but none bore two well-built young men, and all were paid on credit cards by regular customers.

  Dotty finally connected with the Edmonton hairdresser, but learned little we didn’t know. The woman had no idea whether Grundy and Lyall had driven or flown to the Skeena, or how and when they returned to Vancouver. She refused to say anything about spending the night with Grundy, admitted only that he bought her dinner and wine.

  “Was he drinking too?” Dotty asked

  “I have nothing more to say.” And she hung up.

  It was as Nataraja was treating us to his daily homily that matters turned hectic. “Do not fight the river, let the river take you …” He stalled, looking past me. “Oh, shit – that traffic stopper, she’s at the door.”

  Vivian Lalonde had just entered, was peering about. I ducked but too late, and she wove her way toward me, between the tables, with hip-swinging grace and voracious parted lips. She was, as usual, dressed for the eyes of others, a blouse open almost to midriff. I said to Dotty, “Let me handle this.” She looked embarrassed, but went on the alert – how disturbed was this woman, did she have a handgun in her bag?

  “This is important,” said Vivian, leaning over me, like a threat.

  “Vivian, I suggest you back off. Take a few deep breaths to calm yourself.”

  “Timothy, it’s about the hearing. They want me to testify. Can we talk alone?”

  “I’m very busy, Vivian. This is Dotty Chung, a private detective with twelve years’ experience in the Vancouver police.”

  “I know who she is.”

  I scraped my chair back and signalled Nataraja. “Please show this woman the door.”

  The other tables fell silent.

  “No, just listen. I’m only trying to help you.” Vivian’s voice lowered. “I’m not going to let them crucify you. I’ll lie if I have to, if you want me to – I’ll say nothing happened between us.”

  When she drew up a chair, Nataraja summoned courage to intervene, taking her elbow. “Mademoiselle, you are a very beautiful woman, but I got to ask you to go.”

  Vivian looked at him for a moment, smiled in acknowledgment of the compliment, then shrugged free of his hand. “I’m prepared
to lie for you under oath, Timothy. Is that what you want, you want me to perjure myself?”

  “I want you to tell the truth!”

  Nataraja seemed unable to cope with her. I had enough, and I hurriedly rose, knocking over a chair on my way out.

  Vivian legged it after me as I made for the door. I jumped on Vesuvio and bumped over the curb onto Fourth Avenue. If I hadn’t been so upset I might not have ridden into the path of a Toyota sedan. It braked, burning rubber, but by then I was braking myself, and, miraculously, I vaulted onto the hood, slid over it, and onto my feet, though it was then I twisted my ankle.

  I heard Vivian crying, and looked up to see her in Nataraja’s arms on the sidewalk. Dotty grabbed the business card of the woman in the dented Toyota, assisted me to her own car, and we sped away At VGH emergency, I was X-rayed, fit with a splint, and given a crutch.

  Vesuvio didn’t survive.

  1 Sally was friendly, gregarious, and much concerned about Tim’s welfare. There is no doubt she deeply cares for him, but she was quick to agree that the relationship involves a dependency – perhaps unhealthy – in that she serves as an anchor, a cord connecting him to old comforts. We discussed our shared desire for children and the metaphorical “clock” that both of us hear ticking. Childlessness is clearly central to her difficulties with Tim. She is conflicted about the future of the relationship and about whether to take up other invitations. I felt it not my place to ask about such romantic possibilities or offer advice. Apparently however, her friend, Celestine Post, has been doing so.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Date of Interview: Friday, September 12, 2003.

  Tim was in a dark mood today, for good reason – there had been a “grotesque” session of Dr. Herman Schulter’s committee. But I noted a continuing improvement overall, compared to several weeks ago, a determination to seek strength. He continues to back away from the edge.

  He seems more philosophical about his separation from Sally, despite suspicions she’s being “unfaithful” – in a way that puzzles more than threatens him. His dreams continue, as he puts it, “to prophecy, to confirm hidden aspects of reality.”1 While I’m reluctant to take that leap with him, I’m surprised by their prescience.

  His limp is less pronounced. He has been undergoing physical therapy to ready himself for the Okanagan rally, and has bought a replacement bicycle.

  After a brief encapsulation of his week, he demonstrated a quality that was more playful than flirtatious, but which caused me to lose my rhythm for a moment.

  … Just when everything seemed to be settling down.

  I think you’re bearing up extremely well.

  I hope you and Richard are still able to make it tomorrow. Wild sockeye – it won’t be pumped up with fish-farm antibiotics. There’ll only be the three of us – Sally and Celestine are off to some arts festival in Victoria.

  Oh. Then we should reschedule. Richard is in Ottawa giving image advice to the Leader of the Opposition.

  I hope your husband can help the guy. I read about the last outburst. Lunatic fringe, Clinton Huff would do a better job. So. The two of us. More intimate that way.

  Intimate …

  An awkward adjective. Cozy.

  I’m sorry, I don’t know where my head … Yes, of course I’ll come. I’d like that.

  He raised himself on an elbow to look at me. My unconsidered reaction was to tug my skirt down over my knees.

  Let’s go back to work, Tim.

  Tomorrow evening, rather than talk about me, let’s talk about you.

  Tell me about your dream.

  Tell me about yours, Allis. In your flights of nighttime fancy, I doubt you preside at a formal tea party. A different picture is coming into focus. For example, didn’t I observe a shorter hemline today, a naked knee? Quickly censored by a tug of a ringless left hand.

  I shouldn’t have teased you – your blush spoke with the voice of a trumpet. But that was likely prompted by the myriad influences that come into play when marriages are in stress. I don’t flatter myself. The so-called rebound effect, when one is compensating for lost love, operates more powerfully through revenge than desire.

  But we are experts, you and I. We aren’t your normal vulnerable losers, we know how to deny temptation, we understand how the injured can behave irrationally. We acknowledge our feelings – but we accept the boundaries. Still, just in case, and because I know you’re eager to meet her, I’ll invite Dotty Chung tomorrow evening.

  I’ve no good news to report on the quest for Chauncey Wilmott’s killer. I’ve spent some time at 312 Main, watching through a one-way mirror as detectives interviewed skinheads and homophobes, names culled from police records. Most had alibis. Many had records for theft and weren’t likely to have left behind a wallet with three hundred dollars.

  Jack Churko spends almost less time working on the case than bemoaning the pressure he’s under from the frightened gay community, most of whom are staying off the streets at night. “An isolated case,” he says. Let us hope.

  The dream. I was wandering alone in the streets of an Italian city – Bologna? – and from a museum or gallery I heard the unmistakable voice of Celestine Post, her challenge: “I dare you.” I knew, with that oppressive sense of certainty that dreams often generate, that Sally was with her, and that they were up to mischief.

  I hobbled inside, my right leg dragging, and stumbled into a room strewn with abstract art – it was Celestine’s loft. Equally expressionist was the montage being played out on a mattress, where Celestine and Sally were assuming Karma Sutric positions. Yet they seemed to take no carnal joy in doing so.

  I was overcome with a sense I’d been here before, that I’d witnessed this scene many times. I felt ambivalent, felt I should be disturbed, jealous, but instead I was resigned – but also aroused. In fact, I thought to join them, but I was unsure of the protocol: I was an outsider.

  I awoke in an erotic sweat and limped to my coffeemaker.

  Let us put aside the obvious: I haven’t had a sexual partner for two months, so my night erections are becoming more frequent.

  Given that my dreams have become a research tool at least as reliable as the Farmer’s Almanac, I’m tempted to subscribe to their latest divination: Sally is involved in a lesbian affair with Celestine Post (who, according to rumour, has enjoyed the occasional same-sex frolic). I’m not sure, however, whether Sally is merely a dilettante, an experimenter. I may not have lost her completely – in my dream she seemed to be more curious than passionate. I’m remarkably sanguine about the matter – maybe there’s a greater sense of diminishment when one’s wife is stolen by a man.

  The dream may have drawn from events on Sunday, Celestine’s thirty-second birthday. My gift was a day’s sailing with Celestine and Sally and several of their friends: artists with a propensity for illegal substance intake. Both weather and winds were fair, and we crossed Howe Sound to rustic Gambier Island, where we had a pub lunch.

  I suspect Celestine was treated to a snort or two of Freud’s drug of choice, because she became hyperactive on the return leg. She insisted on perching on my lap while I was at the tiller, teasing, whispering, “Getting laid much, honey?” “Or did you forget how?” Her lips tickled my ear. “Sally says you’re not exactly a stuntman in the sack – is it a medical problem? “With that, she slipped her hand between my legs, causing the inevitable reaction despite my efforts to pry her hand free. “Hmm, feels like there’s still some life down here.”

  “Damn it, Celestine!” I looked quickly at Sally, who was sitting amidships, her eyes closed, enjoying the sun.

  “It’s my birthday. Maybe I can teach you some new moves. I might save your fucking marriage.”

  I’d let go of the tiller, and the jib was flapping. “Christ, Celestine! I have to put her back into the wind.”

  She laughed and jumped up. “Coming about!” I yelled in a strangled voice.

  After returning to home port, sour and tense, I let the others go their way
, cleaned up the party mess, and, to burn away the testosterone, went for a ride on Vesuvio II, brother of the deceased (eighteen hundred dollars on my stretched Visa limit, but they agreed to swallow the GST). At midnight, racing down Creelman Street, I saw Celestine’s old Volkswagen van in the driveway; the house lights had been turned out.

  I dare you.

  Let me describe the obscenity that took place Tuesday in the hearing room of the Broadway Medical Centre. I’d hoped Vivian had found the sense to drop the charge, but I found her in the hallway, dressed as if for a job interview, in subdued makeup and long skirt.

  I limped past her into the room, and found Schulter, Mundt, and Rawlings with their heads together. The scrum quickly broke apart. A slight pinking of jowls told me they hadn’t been talking about the latest theories in rational-emotive behaviour therapy.

  “Good morning, Tim,” Schulter boomed. “Bit of a bum leg? You seem to be favouring it.”

  “I’m fine.” I would explain to him in due course how this happened, how my stalker went off the rails at the Pondicherry. There would be some embarrassed faces around here when the truth came out.

  “We were just discussing a few matters of process that maybe you could help us with. We gather you and Werner had a little tiff.”

  Mundt took on a penitent look. “I want it put formally on the record that it was all my fault, Tim.”

  I may not have mentioned that Mundt phoned me a couple of days after his involuntary swim. An excess of the fine Merlot had influenced him to speak foolishly, out of turn. He abundantly deserved the reaction he got. Can we put it behind us?

  “I’ll understand if you want me to remove myself,” Mundt said. “Herman and Fred can carry on – two is a quorum.” A chuckle. “I have to lighten my case load anyway, the fall semester is in full swing.”

  He seemed unduly eager to withdraw – but now I wanted him to stay. It struck me that the new allegations were too close to home; Werner had enjoyed unprofessional liaisons when in practice, so condemning me would be condemning himself. Without him I’d be left with Herman and his lapdog, Fred Rawlings, who at seventy-seven has long eased into the comfort of retirement and senility.