His sister, five years older-Bob’s memory of her is innocent, and his worship of her saintlike-died of leukemia a year after their father deserted them, on the very day that Bob entered kindergarten.
She’d died at home before breakfast and Bob’s mother didn’t permit him to miss his first day of school.
His mother was, by Bob’s description, a hot-and-cold, smother-and-reject kind of caretaker whom I surmised, had she made her way into a clinician’s office for a diagnostic sit-down, would probably have walked out with the dreaded 301.83 label of borderline personality disorder.
As a childhood tableau, it was an awful set piece. But sadly, I saw worse all the time.
All the time.
If a traumatic upbringing wasn’t responsible for Bob’s seemingly intractable character pathology, was nature to blame? Did the shuffle and deal of genetic bounty leave Bob with a particularly bad hand? Possibly.
Most likely, though, it was some combination of two powerful forces, some unpredictable interaction between Bob’s genetic fabric and the bedeviled caprice of his human family.
But I didn’t know for sure. The only solace I could find was that a lot of work was being done on the spectrum of disorders that covers the broad territory from autism to schizoid personality. Someday soon, maybe, we’d learn something that would allow me to be a more effective therapist for people like Bob.
Bob said, “When Doyle sells it, I’m going to have to find a new place to garage the Camaro.”
Something I’d learned about Bob over our years of Tuesdays together was that he often started our conversations midstream, as though an important dialogue had been going on in his head and at some point in my presence-a random point possibly, but more likely not-he decided to put voice to one of the thoughts. I was left to wonder why segue, context, and transition were absent from those rhetorical equations. For the time being, until the long list of goals that comprised my treatment plan for Bob was completed, keeping up with the nature of the progression of his thinking was part of my responsibility.
That day, though, what I was most aware of was that Bob hadn’t started the session talking about Mallory.
“Doyle is…?” I asked.
“The guy I rent the garage from. For my Camaro.”
Bob explained the simple fact as though he was annoyed that he was being forced to repeat it for my benefit. Although Bob had mentioned the garage arrangement already that week, the truth was that I’d never heard him mention anyone named Doyle before. I was certain.
“And he’s selling…?” I guessed that Doyle was selling the garage.
“The house. It’s been on the market for a while, since fall. When he sells it, I’m going to have to move my car, obviously.”
Bob garages his car next door to the home where Mallory Miller lives with her father and brother. And a guy named Doyle owns the house.
Interesting. Lauren hadn’t mentioned that last fact to me. Nor did I think I had seen that tidbit in the paper. Not in the Boulder Daily Camera. Not in the Denver papers.
The house had been on the market for a while before Mallory disappeared. Had I seen that detail in the paper? I wasn’t sure about that either. Maybe. I reminded myself that I wasn’t exactly a student of the case.
Bob is concerned about losing the garage for his Camaro.
Check.
“Have you spoken with this guy Doyle, Bob? Do you know his plans for the… garage?”
With Bob, where interpersonal relationships were involved, the obvious step often wasn’t obvious at all.
“He’s selling the house. There’s a sign up outside. What’s to ask? He moved out a couple of months ago. It’s a nice place. I can’t afford to buy anything like that.”
Bob’s reply was edgier than usual. I noticed that I was tiptoeing with him. I wasn’t sure why I was doing it, but I could feel the care I was forcing into my words as I said, “When he sells the house you’ll have to look for a new place for your car?”
Bob was pulling his lower lip across the sharp surface of his front teeth. He did it three or four times before he said, “I don’t actually pay him.”
It was my turn. “You don’t pay Doyle? For the garage?”
“He, um… builds fountains and ponds and streams and waterfalls, you know, crap like that for rich people. That’s his… his business. He does pretty well. I mean, to buy that house, right? It has a theater-a real theater-in the basement. It’s like… a great place to watch movies. So cool. He has to be doing okay. I help him sometimes, on weekends mostly. He lets me use the garage for the Camaro, and lets me watch movies sometimes. The Trilogy down there? Oh, that’s the deal. That is the deal. It may turn out I’ve been getting screwed. I don’t know. I really should have done the math.”
For two years I’d known Bob and I didn’t know anything about Doyle, nor did I know anything about his weekends spent building fancy water features for people self-indulgent enough to expect to have large quantities of scarce water decorating their high desert properties. What else didn’t I know about this man across from me?
Experience had taught me that with someone like Bob, the scope of my ignorance could be breathtaking.
“The Trilogy?” I asked, trying to fill in at least one blank.
“The Lord of the Rings?” he explained as though I were a dunce.
“Of course,” I said, feeling appropriately chastised. Of course. For Bob, what other trilogy could there have been? “I didn’t know you worked for anyone else, Bob.”
“It’s just moving dirt.”
“And that means it’s not important?”
“What’s the big deal? We put down liners. Move rocks. Lay down some pipes, attach pumps. It’s pretty easy. But people pay him a mint for this stuff. You should see his yard. Surrounded by berms and rocks. A big pond, a stream, a bridge, two waterfalls. Those fish-koi. It’s pretty cool. We moved a lot of dirt for all that. I like driving the little tractor, the Bobcat? That’s a trip.”
“But no more?”
“I told you, he moved. I’m watching his house now until it sells. Keeping the walks shoveled, sweeping up, checking on stuff. Timers, lights. Like that. I think I will go back and do the math. I probably got screwed in the deal.”
If he had been screwed, he didn’t sound too upset about it.
Assuming that he had one, I wasn’t certain precisely what emotional point Bob was trying to make. Was he aggravated at losing his garage space? Was he sad that he would no longer have a part-time job building water features? Was he going to miss whatever relationship he had with Doyle?
All of the above? I had no idea.
“Will you miss it?” I asked. The “it” was deliberate on my part. Bob could select an object himself. Garage, job, friend. His choice.
“Miss what?” he asked, instantly abrogating the intent of my clever quiz.
Forcing myself to remain placid, I asked an obvious shrink question. I said, “I don’t know. What do you think you will miss?”
Bob sometimes did this thing with his head that was exactly half of a shake. He’d turn his head to one side-I thought exclusively toward the right, but I wasn’t done testing that hypothesis-and begin a head-shaking motion, but he would interrupt the arc of the shake precisely at the moment his nose was back at the neutral position. The movement wasn’t graceful; it was abrupt. His face would jerk to a stop as though it had smacked into an invisible obstacle. Typically he accompanied the motion with a verbalized, “Sheeesh.”
Years before, I’d had another patient who possessed the same bizarre affectation. I found that curious; it was like knowing two people who each had a sixth finger growing out of his elbow.
Bob chose that moment-after I pressed him a second time on what he would miss were Doyle to sell the house-to do the half head-shake thing, and he included the exasperated “sheeesh” for emphasis.