“What do we do?”
“Why don’t you start by lying down?”
They exchanged places, and Cork, once he’d laid himself on the sofa, could smell the hot chamomile tea in the cup on the end table.
“Close your eyes, and listen to my voice. What I’m going to do is offer you some suggestions meant to help your body and your mind relax. They’ll all be very simple and very safe, all right?”
“I’m ready,” Cork said.
She began in a soft voice and had him focus on his toes, on being aware of each of them. Gradually she moved up his body, toward the top of his head, but as she was leading him ever so gently through the relaxation of his eyes, Cork suddenly found himself in the middle of the nightmare, watching his father fall to his death.
He jerked awake.
“What is it?” Gray asked.
“Sorry. I must have fallen asleep.”
“That happens sometimes.”
“I was dreaming. A nightmare.”
“Want to talk about it?”
He sat up and shook his head. “It was just a normal nightmare.”
“One you’ve had before?”
“Yes.”
“Often?”
“They began a little over a year ago.”
“Is it the same nightmare every time?”
“Not exactly.”
She sat patiently. Outside the window, rain dripped off the roof and hit the leaves of her yard plants with steady little slaps. Finally Cork told her. About how, when his father fell, it was in different ways, and how the nightmare repeated itself, and how, the second time around, he stood outside and watched himself push his father to his death.
“Just a normal nightmare?” she said. “Cork, dreaming that you had a hand in killing your father isn’t exactly your usual thing-that-goes-bump-in-the-night nightmare.”
“All right, what is it?”
“What kind of relationship did you have with your father?”
“He was a terrific father. I loved him.”
“Yet time and again you push him to his death.”
“Not because I didn’t love him.”
“Why then?”
“You’re the mind reader. You tell me.”
“Any conflicts with him?”
“Not that I remember. Although people I talk to lately tell me differently.”
“What do they tell you?”
“That I was kind of a shit toward him.”
“But you don’t remember that?”
“No. It’s part of all that stuff I can’t recall.”
“How old were you when he died?”
“Thirteen.”
“It could be Oedipal,” she said.
“What? I wanted him out of the way so that I could sleep with my mother? Right.”
She shrugged. “I’m not a big fan of Freudian interpretations either.”
“So what else?”
“How did he die?”
Cork explained the shoot-out at the bank and the vigil at the hospital.
“You were with him when he died?”
“Yes. My mother was there, too. Praying her heart out.”
“What about you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Were you praying your heart out?”
He shook his head and realized the headache he’d had most of the day was coming back, big-time. “I knew it was hopeless.”
“Why?”
“Because the doctor said so.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“Probably not. I wasn’t happy with God at that point.”
“Oh?”
“Didn’t believe him.”
“Any particular reason?”
“I’ve always thought it was my age.”
“Do you think it might have made a difference if you’d prayed?”
“Maybe. I suppose I’ve always wished I had.”
“So do you think it’s possible the root of the nightmare might be that you interpret not praying as pushing your father into his death?”
“I don’t need a nightmare to tell me that. I’ve always felt guilty and always wondered if I’d prayed like my mother would it have made a difference. I thought nightmares were about things you didn’t want to know about consciously.”
“Nightmares can be complicated and about more than a single thing. Our minds are pretty complex, and connections can be intricate. You told me that the nightmares began a little over a year ago. That would be shortly after your wife died, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes, Cork, when we see someone fall in our dreams, it may have to do with our own belief that we’re lacking an essential quality they possess or that we’ve let them down somehow.”
“But it was Jo I lost, not my father.”
“Do you believe your father would have saved Jo?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Just a question. But I think it’s a relevant one, considering when the nightmares began.”
“Nobody could have saved Jo.”
“You sound a little angry.”
“There’s a lot going on. I’m kind of wound up.”
“I understand.”
She waited and watched him, and when she didn’t offer anything further, he blurted, “Look, it’s not about Jo, okay?”
“If you say so.”
He pulled himself back, tried to quell his inexplicable anger, and said, “So what else could it be about?”
“It’s possible the nightmare has to do with something very particular, something you don’t remember from that time you can’t recall.”
“If it is, what do we do about it?”
“The truth is that nothing is ever lost. It’s all in there somewhere,” she said, tapping her head. “It could take a long time to crack that nut, Cork, but I’m willing to help you try. If you call my office tomorrow, I’ll see when I can work you in.”
“A long time?” Cork closed his eyes and rubbed his throbbing temples. “I’ll think about it. Do I still have time on this hour?”
“Sure.”
“What do you know about psychopathy?”
“That depends on what you’re interested in.”
“Can it be inherited?”
“There’s a lot of research that points toward a genetic component.”
“People can be born bad?”
“‘Bad’ is a judgmental term. But I believe people may be born without a conscience, yes. Environment also plays an important part in shaping psychopathic behavior. What you’re talking about is generally referred to these days as dissocial or antisocial personality disorder, and psychopaths are generally referred to as antisocial personalities.”
“A rose by any other name,” Cork said. “They’re good at hiding who they really are, right? Like Ted Bundy?”
“They can be very good. They’re often bright, and although they don’t feel remorse or guilt or empathy the way most people do, they know how to mask that. There have been a number of famous cases in which serial killers were able to hide their activities from wives or husbands or parents. But just because someone might be diagnosed with this disorder, that doesn’t mean they’re dangerous like Ted Bundy was dangerous. These traits can make them very successful in competitive environments, like business or politics.”
“Are you saying our politicians are psychopaths?”
She smiled. “Some of them, probably. As were some of the great robber barons and industrialists, certainly.”
“But they didn’t kill people, at least not outright, not like Bundy or John Wayne Gacy. What makes someone do that?”
“We’re outside my comfort zone of knowledge here, Cork. If you’d like, I’ll do a little research on the subject. I know a couple of colleagues who are better versed in psychopathic behavior than I am. I’ll be glad to talk to them.”
“Thanks, Faith.” He stood up, prepared to leave.
“You’ll call tomorrow, make an appointment?”
“I’ll think about it seriously.”
But what he was really thinking was that he needed answers sooner than Faith Gray was going to be able to supply them.
It was still raining when he got home. As Cork stepped from the garage, Trixie poked her nose out the door of her doghouse and woofed. He freed her and let her in the house, gave her a fresh bowl of food and fresh water, took some Tylenol for himself, went out to the front porch, and sat on the swing. A few moments later, Trixie scratched at the screen, and Cork let her out so that she could join him.