“No. No, I said ‘free.’ Free.”
“Um-huh. Knife.”
“Death.”
“Um-huh. Red.”
“Bl...”
“What did you say?”
“Blue. Blue was what I said.”
“I see,” the doctor said. “House.”
“Home.”
“Home,” the doctor said.
“Children,” Bellew answered.
“Children.”
“Kites.”
“Kites,” the doctor said.
“Free,” Bellew answered.
The doctor made a disinterested note, and then looked up. “According to your letter, Mr. Bellew, you’ve been disturbed about something, is that right?”
“Yes,” Bellew said slowly.
“Um-huh.” The doctor reached for the slitted envelope on his desk, and then pulled the letter from it. His free hand picked up a pointed letter opener and idly tapped it on the desk as he read from the sheet of stationery. “It’s curious you should write. I mean, most people call, or stop by in person.”
“I wanted to do that, but I was afraid to,” Bellew said.
“Afraid to?” the doctor asked. He continued tapping the metal letter opener. “Why?”
“I... I don’t like doctors,” Bellew said nervously.
“Oh, come now. Don’t you like me?”
“Well...”
“You did come here, didn’t you? After I called back to arrange for an appointment, you did come, didn’t you? You’re here now, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Bellew said. “I’m here.”
“And it hasn’t been so terrible, has it?”
“No, it hasn’t.”
“Just a few tests, that’s all.” The doctor chuckled. “Nothing at all to be afraid of.”
“I suppose not,” Bellew said.
“Then what’s been disturbing you?”
“I don’t know,” Bellew said.
“You don’t like doctors, is that it?”
Bellew hesitated. “Yes,” he said.
“Well, I’m a doctor, and we’re getting along fine, aren’t we?” The doctor smiled and dropped the letter opener. “You do like me, don’t you, Mr. Bellew?”
“I... I don’t know,” Bellew said.
“But we’re getting along fine, Mr. Bellew,” the doctor said enthusiastically. “You must admit that.”
“Y... yes,” Bellew said.
“There! You see how your dislike is unfounded?”
“I... oh, I...” Bellew wet his lips.
“What is it, Mr. Bellew?”
“I don’t know. If I knew, I wouldn’t have come to you.”
“Now, now. Easy does it,” the doctor said. “Quite frankly, Mr. Bellew, the tests we’ve just taken show no indication of any personality disturbance. I’m speaking off the cuff, you understand, since the tests must still be interpreted. But I can judge fairly accurately from a casual interpretation of your answers, and I’d say you were in the pink of mental health.”
“The... the pink,” Bellow repeated blankly.
“Yes, the pink. Top shape. Excellent form. Oh, a few anxieties, perhaps, but nothing serious.” The doctor chuckled. “Nothing more than all of us are suffering in these nervous times.”
“I... I can’t believe that,” Bellow said.
The doctor lifted his eyebrows. “But the tests...”
“Then the tests must be wrong,” Bellew said firmly.
“No, I don’t think so,” the doctor said patiently. “Really, Mr. Bellew...”
“Are you trying to tell me I’m not disturbed when I know I’m disturbed?”
“There,” the doctor said. “Most seriously disturbed persons don’t even know they’re disturbed. That’s the root of all their troubles. When a person seeks the aid of a psychiatrist, seeks the doctor voluntarily, his battle is half won. Don’t you see?”
“No. You haven’t helped me at all. You’ve just told me I’m all right when I know I’m not all right.”
“I said you may have a few anxieties, but we can clear those up in just a very short time. There’s certainly nothing serious to worry about.”
“I don’t believe it,” Bellew said.
“Well...” The doctor spread his hands wide. “I don’t see how I can convince you.” He paused, a blank expression on his face.
Bellew snorted disgustedly. “You’re all the same,” he said. “All you damn doctors.”
“Now, now, Mr. Bellew...”
“Oh, don’t ‘now, now’ me. All you’re after is a fee, just like the rest. I tell you I’m sick, and you won’t believe it. What the hell am I supposed to do? You just give me your damn tests and ask me to identify inkblots and associate words and... oh, the hell with it.”
“That’s all part of your anxiety, Mr. Bellew,” the doctor said. “As I said, we can clear that up in no time.”
“That’s what you say. On the basis of your damn tests,” Bellew said, clenching and unclenching his hands.
“The tests are usually valid, Mr. Bellew,” the doctor said. He paused, and then an inspired look crossed his face. “Say, look, I’ll show you. I mean, I can show you just how normal you are, all right?”
“Go ahead,” Bellew said tightly, his fists clenched now.
“Just give me the first word that pops into your mind when I give you a word. The way we just...”
“We did this already,” Bellew said, a tic starting at the corner of his mouth.
“I know. But I want to show you one thing. Let’s try it, shall we?” He paused and then said, “Boy.”
“Girl,” Bellew said.
“A perfectly normal response,” the doctor said happily. “Girl.”
“Woman,” Bellew said.
“Again, a normal response. Woman.”
“Bed,” Bellew said.
“You see, Mr. Bellew, these are normal responses.” He rose from his desk and began walking around the room. “Bed.”
“Sheet,” Bellew answered.
“Fine, fine,” the doctor said. “Sheet.”
“White.”
“White,” the doctor said.
“Flesh,” Bellew answered.
“Flesh,” the doctor said.
“Blood.”
“All quite normal,” the doctor said, turning his back and examining a picture hanging on the wall. “Flesh and blood, a normal association.”
Bellew rose from his seat and stared at the doctor’s back.
“Blood,” the doctor said, still studying the picture.
“Knife,” Bellew answered. His eyes fled to the desktop, and he reached for the letter opener there, grasping it in firm fingers.
“Knife,” the doctor said wearily.
“Death,” Bellew answered, walking swiftly around the desk and raising the sharp metal letter opener over his head.
“Death,” the doctor repeated softly.
The letter opener sped downward with a terrible rush. It sank between the doctor’s shoulder blades, and Bellew screamed, “Death, death, death, death!” as the doctor sank to the floor.
Bedbug
My wife was watching me again. She pretended to be reading her newspaper, but I knew she was watching me. I could feel her eyes boring through the printed page. She was very clever, and so she kept the paper in front of her face, but she wasn’t fooling me, not anymore she wasn’t.
“What are you reading?” I asked.
I was sitting in the chair opposite her. She had her legs crossed, and I thought what a shame such a pretty girl and with a sickness like that, and the worst kind, the kind they can’t fix, even with all their drugs and their shocks.
“The comics,” she answered.
“Which? Which comic?”
“Pogo,” she said. “Why?”
She was being tricky again. She was always like a defense attorney, always with a comeback, always trying to twist whatever I said. I understand they get clever that way. The minute they get twisted, they start getting clever, too. Only I was just a little bit cleverer than her.