On this sunny afternoon in July, she is telling me about a morning in Paris when she was having coffee at a little outdoor cafe in Montmartre, and seated at another table was this absolute stereotype of an Englishman, a Colonel Blimp if ever there was one — and here Annie puffs out her cheeks and raises her eyebrows and becomes this Englishman from Central Casting — this stout gentleman wearing a bowler, and carrying a cane, sitting there sipping his café filtre, his mustache bristling, sniffing the morning air and watching the French pass by on the sidewalk beyond. At long last, he turns to Annie, and says in round brown English tones, “Lovely morning, isn’t it?” and Annie says, “Yes, lovely.” He sips a bit more coffee, looks at the passing parade again, turns to Annie another time and says, “Lovely city, Paris.” My sister nods, agrees, “Yes, lovely.” He nods in return, studies the sidewalk again, turns to her yet another time, and says, “Lovely country, France.” She says, “Yes, lovely,” and he leans toward her and in a conspiratorial whisper says, “Pity it’s wasted on the French.”
I love my sister when she does accents.
We both burst out laughing, much to the annoyance of a stout woman sitting close to the air conditioner and trying to read Proust. Annie raises her eyebrows, and then does a quick impression of the scowling woman, which sets me off on another round of laughter, which causes me to choke on my cappuccino. The woman virtually snorts in disapproval. She snaps her book shut, gathers up her belongings, and storms out of the shop. Annie watches her go, imitating her waddle from the waist up. I keep laughing and choking and finally my sister says, “Are you all right, Andy?” and I tell her I’m fine, and begin laughing and choking all over again.
It is such a sweet warm July afternoon.
But I am waiting for the moment to tell her I think she should see a psychiatrist.
Annie falls silent, staring through the window at the sidewalk outside, nodding, smiling, presumably remembering that day in Paris and her conversation with the Englishman. But then, out of the blue, she says, “Go ahead, ask me.”
“Ask you what, hon?”
“The answer is no,” she says.
Has she read my mind?
“No, I’m not taking the medication that quack prescribed.”
“Oh.”
“Go ahead, yell at me.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Maybe because you agree with him.”
“Annie, more than anything else in the world, I want not to agree with him.”
“Then stop watching me all the time,” she says.
I was not aware that I’d been watching her. But perhaps I was. It occurs to me that ever since I spoke to Bertuzzi, I’ve been studying Annie for any indication that she may be listening to voices inside her head. We are silent for several moments. At last, I ask, “Well... how do you feel? When did you stop...?”
“I stopped taking them a week ago. And I feel fine.”
“Why’d you stop, Annie? You seemed to be...”
“There, you see? You’re going to yell at me.”
“Annie, please, I’m not going to yell at you. I’m just trying to find out...”
“Do you know what those pills were? A neuroleptic drug. Neuroleptic means ‘affecting neurotransmissions,’ I looked it up. Schizophrenia is a disease of the brain, you know, and several different neurotransmitter systems are believed to be involved in the dysfunction. Do I look as if I’m suffering from any goddamn neurotransmitter dysfunction?”
“You look fine to me, Annie.”
“Yes, I am fine, thank you, and please don’t bullshit me, Andy. You’ve been watching me like a hawk.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize...”
“I stopped taking the pills because a) they were making me sleepy, and b) my face was twitching, and c) my arms and legs were beginning to feel stiff, and d) I’m not crazy. Any other questions?”
“No other questions, Annie. It’s your life.”
She turns to me sharply.
“What’s that supposed to mean, Andy?”
“It’s your life, you can do with it what you choose.”
“That’s exactly what I intend doing. As soon as I get past the trauma of being beaten and raped, I want to move on again.”
“Okay.”
“Sure, okay.”
“I mean it, Annie. Whatever you want to do...”
“Sure, as long as I don’t end up in another nuthouse, right?”
“Well, it was you who told them you were going to kill...”
“Yes, to save my ass, bro!”
“And it worked. But it did land you in a mental hospital.”
“So?”
“So you ought to start thinking about that, is all I’m saying.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you’re almost thirty-six years old...”
“Please, not the white picket fence again.”
“I’m not suggesting you get married...”
“Good, because there doesn’t seem to be. anyone who wants to marry me just now.”
“But maybe you ought to think about settling down...”
“I was settled down in Maine for too damn...”
“Now that you have a job...”
“I quit the job. Didn’t Mama tell you?”
“No, she didn’t. Why’d you quit?”
“It wasn’t right for me. I make jewelry. Andy. That’s my job. I’m an artist, Andy. I make fine jewelry.”
“I know you do.”
“So why should I work in somebody else’s shop? I’ve had my own shops, Andy. It’s not my fault people don’t appreciate my work.”
“You do beautiful work, Annie.”
“Thank you. Even if you don’t mean it.”
“I do mean it.”
“Thanks.”
We fall silent again. I sip at the cappuccino. I hate cappuccino without foam.
“You know, if what happened is still bothering you...”
“Of course it’s bothering me! Wouldn’t it bother you? Getting beaten and raped?”
“That’s what I’m saying. You said you wanted to get past it...”
“Oh, boy, do I!”
“So maybe you ought to, you know, talk to someone about it.”
“Like who?” she says at once. “Another quack like Bertuzzi?”
“No, I was thinking...”
“No psychiatrists, Andy! Absolutely not!”
“Well, there are psychiatrists and there are psychiatrists,” I say. “I’m sure we could find someone who’s used to dealing with... you know... rape victims.”
“What good would that do?”
“Well... you could, you know, get it off your chest.”
“Is a psychiatrist going to correct the false accusations Bertuzzi made about me?”
“I’m sure if you told someone...”
“Otherwise what’s the use? The man was part of a determined conspiracy to cover up the indignities I suffered at the hands of an inept health care system. Instead of talking to another psychiatrist, I should be talking to someone in the State Department. Get them to make the proper inquiries in Italy, clear the record there.”
“Well, I don’t think that would be possible, Annie.”
“Of course not. Schizophrenic! I get furious every time I think about it.”
“You could discuss that, too. Your anger. You could set the matter straight in your own mind, come to terms with...”
“There’s nothing wrong with my mind, bro! I just don’t want the word ‘schizophrenic’ following me around America’s health care system. The health care system here is bad enough as it is, don’t get me started on the health care system here in America. It’s what I know about the health care system that probably caused all that trouble in Sicily, don’t get me started.”