'Then explain to me why you did the things you did.'
'Because I screwed up. Because shit happens. Nothing more and nothing less.'
'Son, how many close friends do you have?'
'What?'
'Humor me, please, how many close friends do you have?'
'What's that supposed to prove? I just spent the last seven years in jail.'
'Before that. You can go back to when you were in high school. Name me one close friend.'
'I had plenty of friends on the force before I was arrested. And I had plenty on my football and baseball teams back in high school.'
'I know, son, but name me one that you ever considered a close friend and not just an acquaintance.'
'Look, I'm tired of this. I'm not playing this game anymore.'
'Son, I'm bringing all this up for a reason. Partly so you can try to get help, but also for your daughters' – and my granddaughters' – sake. You've been talking about custody, but you got to understand how harmful that would be. You got to understand what that would do to Melissa and Courtney. I know deep down you don't want to hurt them. But you got to understand, Joey.'
I was too angry at him to explain that I knew that as well as him. That any talk of seeking custody changes was so that him and my mom could see my kids. 'You think I could hurt my daughters?'
'I don't think you'd want to intentionally, but be honest, son, what real feelings do you have towards them?'
'What the hell are you talking about?'
'If they were to die tomorrow how would you really feel?'
'I've had enough of this.' I pushed myself away from the table. I turned my back on him. I had to. I couldn't look at him anymore. As I made my way towards my room I heard him stammer out from behind how he had books on the subject in his den and that I should try to read them. That was the only thing he would ask of me. I got to my room and slammed the door shut.
I stood frozen for a long time and then I started sobbing. I couldn't help myself. It wasn't out of hurt or pain, but because I was so damn angry. I wanted to hurt him for being so damn cocksure of himself about me and for twisting me – in his mind anyway – into some kind of monster. And for questioning whether or not I had genuine feelings about my daughters. For doubting whether I truly loved them.
Of course I didn't have a chance of sleeping. Not with the cocaine in my system and not with the thoughts that were racing through my head. Sometime around three in the morning, I went to the den and found his psychiatry books. Several of them were nothing but general layman's books. One was on personality disorders and another dealt with surviving a narcissistic personality. I thumbed through the general books, and then took the other two to my room.
I had both of them finished by five in the morning. From what I could tell a narcissistic personality was a form of a sociopath. They had similar characteristics: an exaggerated sense of self-importance, a complete lack of empathy towards those around them, and they were exploitive in their interpersonal relationships. True sociopaths, though, were better at hiding what they were and could be charming, while narcissistic, personalities, because they were so caught up in their grandiose views of themselves, stuck out like sore thumbs. They tended to be arrogant and shallow, with an unreasonable sense of entitlement and a need to be admired; kind of like spoiled brats. There were other things that I found that were interesting; their drugs of choice were alcohol and cocaine, they seldom formed close friendships, and they were driven by power. All in all it was interesting reading, but that's all it was.
You could probably point to any person alive, take enough stuff out of context, twist it around, and use it to prove they had any personality disorder you wanted to. I guess with my dad he couldn't accept the fact that there was no real reason why I did the things I did. He needed an explanation, he needed some underlying disease or mental defect to point to, so he found one.
It didn't matter whether it made any sense or not. The alcohol and cocaine use was an easy match. And he probably worked out in his mind that my motivation for being a cop had something to do with power. He was right about my not having any close friendships, but there were reasons for that. Back when I was in eighth grade I started spending a lot of time with Elaine. Probably the only time I wasn't with her was when I was in class or playing sports. That went on all through high school. I didn't have any time left over to develop close friendships. And I guess it wasn't important enough to me to care about it.
As far as wanting to be a cop, well, there were a lot of reasons for that also, and none of them had to do with me seeking out some form of power over those around me. Yeah, the idea of it attracted me as a kid, especially the way the cops were shown on TV, but there were other reasons. I didn't want to leave Bradley after high school. I was comfortable there, and besides, Elaine couldn't leave since she had to take care of her sick mother. I didn't have a lot of choices. I wasn't going to be cooped up in an office making minimum wage, and I didn't want to work in a garage or do construction. Yeah, I could've worked an assembly line, either building military aircraft in Bradley or computer equipment in Chesterville, but I didn't think I could deal with the drudgery of that. And maybe I wanted something with some respectability, but that didn't make me a narcissistic personality.
The thing is, none of the major characteristics matched. I certainly didn't have any great love for myself, I couldn't care less whether anyone admired me, and as far as a sense of entitlement, well, I'd have to think the opposite was true. I started taking the payoffs because I didn't want to make waves. I never wanted the money, I didn't feel entitled to it, but it was easier to just take the payoffs and keep my mouth shut. The money, though, made me feel rotten, and at some subconscious level I must have wanted to get rid of it as quickly as I got it. That had to be why I started with the gambling and cocaine. It had nothing to do with a narcissistic personality. But there was more to it. Loving myself? Shit, no, I had to have been trying pretty damn hard to hurt myself, and the reason had to have been because in fact I hated myself. Hated myself for just going along and taking money I didn't want. For doing things I didn't want to do. For once again just taking the easy way out.
As for lack of empathy, I had to believe I felt bad about what I did to Phil. At least I think I did. It's hard to say exactly. I know I felt uneasy about it, but it could be because he was walking around so that everyone in Bradley could look at him and remind themselves about what I did. If he had died that night and I had gotten away with his murder, maybe I'd feel differently now. It's hard to say. Of course, what I did to him was in some ways worse than murder. Making him into a freak, driving his wife away, and leaving him as nothing more than a bitter shell of what he used to be. How could I not feel guilty about that?
The one thing my dad said that stuck in my craw was how he had almost been expecting the things that I had done. The hell with him. If he wanted to invent personality disorders for me that was his business. If he wanted to write me off, fine, let him. As far as my daughters went, he could read himself psychiatry books from now till doomsday for all I cared. He had no idea what was in my heart. He never did and he never would. I wasn't going to waste any more time worrying about what he thought.
As I mentioned before, it was five in the morning. It had been days since I'd had any real sleep and my head was feeling kind of fuzzy. I went into the kitchen and made myself some coffee. I decided none of what was going to happen was worth worrying about. I would do what I had to and then move on. Just like anyone else in the world would.