"Oh, I remember, and yes, you did mention it. He's the original owner of the gun, right? The gun they used."
"And that's the only time you heard the name?"
"The only time I can remember. Why?"
"I don't mean to be intrusive," I said, "but did you ever have occasion to see a psychiatrist? Did you ever have any psychotherapy?"
"I had a consultation my freshman year at Wellesley," she said. "I was screwing up in one of my courses, and they had a policy where you had to see the school shrink to stay off academic probation. But it was a woman, and her name wasn't Nadler."
"What about your parents? Did either of them consult a psychiatrist?"
"Not that I know of. I suppose they would, if they felt the need. And I know my mom had something prescribed for her after Sean's death. Antidepressants or tranquilizers, I don't know what they gave her. But I think that was just our family doctor."
I found other ways to cover the same ground, and got nowhere. Then she asked again about Peter, and whether she could talk to him.
That sent me off in another direction. "The person you went to for counseling," I said. "Remember the name?"
"At Wellesley? I can't possibly remember her name, and what difference- "
"No, the person you and Peter went to."
"Oh, him. I can't remember his name. I know it wasn't Nadler, though."
"You're positive?"
"Absolutely. What was his name? Peter just called him Doc. I could call Peter and ask him."
"No, that's all right. Was his office on Central Park West?"
"No, nowhere near there. It was this office building on Broadway and about- oh, I don't know. Somewhere below Fourteenth Street. We walked there from where we lived, and we were in Alphabet City, so it was a fairly long walk, but it wasn't like walking all the way to Central Park West."
"I see."
"I can't remember his name," she said, "or his address, but I'm sure Peter would know them both."
"Never mind," I said. "It's not that important."
"But of course I remember you," Helen Watling said. "You're the man who paid for my bran muffin."
"I guess it's even better than ginkgo."
"Better than… oh, for memory! Well, as for what a bran muffin's best for, let's not even go there."
That was fine with me. "Let's try your memory," I said. "You mentioned that your son was seeing a counselor."
"Well, he saw a counselor. I don't know that it was ongoing."
"But it helped him."
"Well, that was certainly the impression I got. I honestly think he was getting back on the right track. Of course as a parent you want to believe that, but- "
"I wonder," I said, "if Jason ever mentioned the counselor's name."
"The counselor's name."
"Or if you had any correspondence from the man."
"Well, on the last point, I certainly never did. But I'm sure Jason mentioned the man's name. And I do take ginkgo, as a matter of fact, but evidently I don't take enough of it, because I just can't come up with that name."
"If Jason wrote it down in a letter- "
"Oh," she said, "don't I wish! No, Mr. Scudder, I don't think Jason ever wrote me a letter from the day he left Wisconsin. The only way I ever heard from him was over the phone."
"So that's how he would have told you."
"Yes, that's right."
"Maybe you could try to call up the sound of his voice, Mrs. Watling. He's talking to you on the phone, telling you about his counselor…"
"Oh, now you're going to have me crying, Mr. Scudder."
"I'm sorry."
"I can just about hear his voice. I was going to say before that I wish he had been the sort to write letters, because it would be so nice if I had a letter from him, but do you want to know what I really wish I had? A tape recording. I wish I could actually hear the sound of his voice, and not have to imagine it."
I don't know where it came from, but I had a lump in my own throat. I swallowed it down and asked her if Jason had ever mentioned a Dr. Nadler.
"Dr. Nadler," she said solemnly.
" Seymour Nadler."
" Seymour Nadler. No, that's definitely not the name Jason told me."
"You're sure."
"Oh, there's no question in my mind. The name's on the tip of my tongue, Mr. Scudder, and I can't quite spit it out, but one thing I can say for certain is it's not Seymour Nadler."
"But it's right on the tip of your tongue."
"Well, I think it is! But what good is that if I can't say it?" She sighed, exasperated with herself. "It was a cheerful name," she said.
"A cheerful name?"
"I remember thinking that. Not that the name was cheerful, but that the person sounded cheerful, and since all I knew about him was his name…"
"It must have been a cheerful name."
"Well, it stood to reason."
"Like Happy or Lucky? What kind of a cheerful name?"
"No, not like that. Oh, I'm terrible, aren't I? I'll bet you're sorry you wasted your time calling me."
"Not at all, Mrs. Watling."
"It was a positive name, that's all. An optimistic sort of a name. I'm sorry, listen to me, I'm just making it worse. And this must be costing you a fortune, calling all the way from New York."
"That's all right," I said. "Look, you wait and see if the name comes to you. Sometimes if you stop trying to think of it…"
"I know exactly what you mean."
"Well, if it comes to you, just call me." I gave her my number, although she assured me she had kept my card. "And I'll call you in a couple of days if I don't hear from you," I said. "Just to check."
A cheerful name, an optimistic name. What the hell did that mean?
THIRTY-THREE
The woman is driving him crazy.
She is the type of patient he ought to cultivate. She comes twice a week, Tuesdays and Fridays, at ten in the morning, an hour that is generally hard to fill. And she pays full price, one hundred dollars an hour, two hundred a week, ten thousand a year, and, most remarkable of all, she pays him in cash. Always a fresh new bill with Benjamin Franklin's avuncular portrait beaming out at him. She's a dominatrix, and gets paid in cash herself, by the men she abuses verbally or physically.
She seems oddly cast for the role, a small, slightly built woman of forty-two, who tends to dress down for her appointments, often turning up as she has today in sweats and sneakers, often capping her session with a run around the Central Park Reservoir. She wears no makeup and her long black hair is pulled back in a ponytail and secured by a fuzzy yellow elastic.
On the job, she has told him, she wears a lot of black leather.
You would think, given her occupation, that she would have interesting stories to tell, but no. Her voice is grating, and impossible to ignore, or fall asleep to, and she is hopelessly neurotic, incapable of making the most trivial decisions without agonizing endlessly over them. She whines, she drones, she repeats herself. And, God bless her, she adores him, and is sure he's saving her life, and perhaps he is.
He is, after all, quite good at this.
When his watch beeps he gets to his feet, signaling that time is up. She breaks off in the middle of a sentence, as well trained in obedience as her own clients. In no time at all she's out the door, and he tucks a crisp hundred-dollar bill- green love, he likes to call it- into his billfold.
Ten minutes to eleven. His next appointment isn't until two. He turns to the computer, turns away from it, reaches for the phone.
"Peter," he says, "I'm at a loss here. I don't understand."
"I left a message, Doc."