I told him that hearing that from him was more that I could have wished for. I told him I was so glad he held me and allowed me to hold him. ‘I needed to touch you,’ I said. ‘Sex is for pleasure, but I think to hold each other like we just have is deeper and better. Thanks so much for coming today.’
‘And will you come to me Friday at the usual time?’
‘Oh, yes, Doctor – you can be sure!’
We laughed, stood, embraced again. Then he left, and I lay down and cried by myself. I felt so moved by what had happened, the strangeness of it. Perhaps, I thought, there is some hope for me yet. And now I know the next right thing for me to do is to set T free as gently as I can.
As I put the diary down, all sorts of feelings flood in. First, pride in Dad that he didn't give in to his lust, didn't make love to his patient, rather discovered a truth in his experience with her that seriously altered his approach to his work. Second, enormous admiration for Barbara, her vulnerability and also her restraint. When the chips were down, she stopped playing power games and gave into the decent impulses that had always flowed beneath the hard surface she showed the world. Yes, I feel proud of them both.
In this passage, I see each of them reaching for redemption and attaining it. And I think: It must have been the kind of expression on Dad's face, engendered by his strange meeting with Barbara that afternoon, that Kate Evans saw when he left the room and came down the stairs and their eyes met as she viewed him from the pool. The face of a kindly man, a man who would help you, a man with whom you could share your troubles.
And now I know why Dad was never able to complete his paper, “The Dream of The Broken Horses.” How could he? How could he ever have published a description of his August 20 encounter with Mrs. F at the motel? Impossible! He'd risk being run out of his profession. He couldn't even have described it to Izzy at their regular Tuesday lunch. Izzy would have been appalled.
And yet their encounter rings true to me – two lost souls finding solace with one another under unlikely circumstances in a terribly unlikely place. And truly it is the first entry in Barbara's diary that strikes me as having been written without irony or ire.
But the march goes on. Scanning ahead, I see there are a few more pages of writing, shorter entries, not as dense as the ones I've just read. And so I pick up the diary once again, determined now to read uninterrupted to its end:
Thursday
Quiet for once – too quiet perhaps. Decided it was time to call Doris, make up. As expected, she was icy when she heard my voice.
‘My only child and she hangs up on me! I tried so hard to bring you up to be a nice, polite girl. What did I do wrong?’
‘Spare me the mea culpas, Mom, please.’
‘I don't even know what that means. I'm just not as smart and well-educated as you.’
‘You're plenty smart and you know it. How're things going at the track?’
The perked her up. She told me she made four grand last month using her new post-position method. ‘Doesn't matter who the horse is or who the jockey. Just the post position. Not a very colorful approach, but so far it's working great.’
J called. He's got everything set for Monday night. ‘Just make sure you get your boy out of there this weekend at the latest.’
I didn't tell J I'm planning to phase T out of my life altogether. Perhaps I'll tell him Sunday night.
Phoned Jane, told her I've decided to team up with Tess for club doubles. Suggested maybe she should team with Elaine.
‘Yeah, the two rejects. Thanks a lot, Barb!’
Bitter, bitter!
Friday
Excellent session with R. Worked on the dream. He said it's important we not approach it in a tormented fashion, rather have fun with it, free-associate, try out ideas, think of it as solvable and not as an intractable puzzle.
In the end, I told him how happy I was that we'd finally cleared the air.
He said he was happy too, that he'd learned a great deal from me and hoped he could repay me in kind. He said: ‘I'd forgotten that humanist values must be the basis for a successful analysis. Thank you for bringing that home again.’
Later with T – told him he's to break off all contact with the Steadmans right away, that someone else will take up the slack and carry the deal through. He looked so relieved, became so sweet, I didn't have the heart to tell him I can't see him anymore after the boys come home from camp.
We made a lazy, dreamy kind of love, and as always I was touched by his tenderness.
‘You'll make some girl very happy,’ I told him.
‘I want to make you happy, no some girl,’ he said.
He recited French poetry from memory, beautiful verses by Rimbaud. Afterwards he told me what they meant.
‘I've been thinking about what I want to do with my life. I like teaching, but what I really want to do is write.’
I told him that if that's what he wants he should pursue his dream. Which gave me an idea – as a parting gift I could send him off to France for a year. Then I worried he might have too much pride to accept a gift so grand.
Saturday
Hot tempers today at the club. Seems Tess and I have created a crisis. Word is we've ganged up on everybody else and all we care about is taking home club trophies. What the fools don't realize is that if I cared at all about trophies I'd still take part in equestrian competitions, that I already have sufficient trophies to last me a lifetime, and that tennis is only useful to me as a way to blow off steam!
Sunday
Woke up all panicky in a sweat. Bad dream, but it wasn't The Dream this time, was worse somehow, more scary, like I was lying helplessly somewhere in a sea of white while my body was torn apart before my very eyes.
Later – late dinner with J. He had to get up several times to greet people and solve management problems. I loved watching him work. He looked great in his white dinner jacket, by far the most poised, confident man in the club. Everyone makes nice with him, everyone wants his ear. And I like the way he dispenses favors. Watching him, I decided he's the only ‘real man’ I've ever been involved with.
‘We're awfully well-suited,’ I told him when he sat down again.
‘Yeah, the society bitch and the hood.’
‘Not too bad a combination.’
‘Not bad at all,’ he agreed.
He said tomorrow night some people he knows will take care of the Steadmans quick and neat. When I asked him where he finds people like that, he smiled.
‘Haven't you heard, I'm what they call “connected.”’
‘The Torrance Hill Mob?’
‘Only the papers call them that.’
‘What do they call themselves?’
‘Just some guys who have a thing going, what they call “our thing.”’
‘“Thing” – hmmm. Well, I guess it is a thing, isn't it?’
‘Better you don't know, cutie.’ I stared at him. ‘Whatsamatter?’
‘If you'd stop calling me “cutie” I'd enjoy your company a lot more.’
He laughed. ‘That'd be easy if your tits and ass weren't so cute!’
‘And your balls and hairy ass – they're just so cute too, you know.’
He guffawed. ‘What you need is a good fucking.’
‘And you're the cute guy who's going to give it to me, right?’
We skipped dessert, gulped our coffee, then hastened upstairs. The usual – lots of tumbling around, biting and scratching, a few well-placed fanny slaps. Then when he slipped into his dressing gown, poured us brandies, put his feet up, and lit a cigar, I asked him why it was so hard for him to be tender. ‘I know you can be,’ I told him. ‘You were incredibly tender with me three weeks ago.’