Norma came back to the table and sat down and continued eating.
Macky waited. Then he said, “Well?”
Norma did not look at him. “Well, what?”
Aunt Elner said, “Does he have a tattoo or not?”
Norma reached across and picked up a dinner roll.
“Macky Warren, I could kill you.”
“Me? Why?”
“I made a complete fool out of myself and it’s all your fault.”
“My fault?”
“The one time you’re not making something up … and you let me go in there and make a complete fool of myself. You knew darn well that he had a tattoo.”
“I told you he had a tattoo. Didn’t I, Aunt Elner?”
“Yes, he said he did.”
“You should have stopped me. You deliberately let me go in there and—”
Aunt Elner said, “What’s it a tattoo of, is it a lamb?”
“No.”
“Well, what is it?”
“It’s just a heart with a name inside.”
“What does it say?”
“It says ‘Wanda.’ ”
Aunt Elner was taken aback. “Wanda … I thought his wife’s name was Betsy.…”
Norma glared at Macky. “Macky, I could kill you.”
“I wonder who Wanda is?” Aunt Elner mused.
“I don’t know and I certainly didn’t ask.”
“Poor little Betsy.”
Norma looked up at Macky, who was smiling. “What are you so happy about?”
“I believe I’ll have my first back rub after dinner.”
Norma shook her head. “See, Aunt Elner, see what I put up with? Well, that’s what I get for ever fooling with his silly bets.”
“Maybe his mother’s name was Wanda.”
Macky chuckled. “No, Aunt Elner, I don’t think that was his mother’s name.”
She was baffled. “Norma, did she offer any hint as to who it was?”
“No, and she did not seem thrilled about me asking, either. It was extremely embarrassing for both of us, thank you very much, Macky!”
“I don’t know why you didn’t believe me.”
“Because what person in their right mind would ever think that a Presbyterian, particularly a minister, would have a tattoo? You can’t tell me that’s a normal occurrence.”
“Maybe it’s from the Bible?”
Norma said, “No, Aunt Elner. I don’t think there’s anybody in the Bible named Wanda.”
“She wasn’t one of the apostles’ wives, was she?”
“No, honey.” Norma frowned at Macky. “I’ll tell you one thing, you can thank your lucky stars you didn’t have some other woman’s name tattooed on you when I married you.”
“What?”
“You didn’t have that Annette girl’s name written on you or I would have divorced you the first day.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
Aunt Elner asked, “Who’s Annette?”
“Nobody,” Macky said.
“Don’t let him fool you, Aunt Elner.”
“I had one date with this girl and she’s turned into some big romance.”
Norma got up and started clearing plates. “I happen to know you had two dates.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know, that’s all; never mind how I know.” Norma headed for the kitchen to get the rice pudding out of the refrigerator.
Macky winked at Aunt Elner. “I tell you what … tomorrow I’ll go down and get your name tattooed right across my chest, OK?”
Norma was squirting Reddi Wip on the pudding and called out, “Don’t you dare. That’s all I need is for you to get yourself tattooed all up. Next thing you’d run off and join some motorcycle gang and be robbing banks. That’s all I need is to be married to some criminal.”
Macky looked at Aunt Elner, who already had her spoon in her hand waiting for dessert. “The woman is insane.”
“Yes, but she sure makes a good rice pudding.”
Shrinking
New York City
December 15, 1974
For months Dena had dragged herself to Dr. O’Malley’s office two times a week, and two times a week she sat there bored to tears. He too just sat and waited for her to say something interesting or something he could analyze. When she did talk it was about the weather, current events, or her job. Today, fatigued with her own conversation and staring at the ceiling as usual, she decided to use her skills.
“So, why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself. You seem a little young to be a doctor. Where are you from? Are you married? Children?”
He looked up from his notebook. “Miss Nordstrom, I’m the doctor and you’re the patient. I’m here to talk about you.”
“What do you want me to say? Tell me what you want me to say.”
“Anything you want, Miss Nordstrom, this is your time.”
“I find this very uncomfortable.” He was jotting down something on the pad. Uncomfortable. “You just sit there, and … I mean … I’m paying you. Shouldn’t you be the one who’s talking to me, asking questions? I came here for you to help me get rid of stress, not to get it.”
He smiled but continued writing. After a moment she decided to try another tack. “You know, Dr. O’Malley, you are a very handsome man, did you know that? Are you married?”
Dena thought she saw a faint blush but he put his pen down and said matter-of-factly, “Miss Nordstrom, you have tried everything that patients usually try but we will eventually talk about you. We can either start today or next week or the week after. It’s up to you.”
“I have been talking. Every time I come here I talk,” Dena said, full of frustration.
“Miss Nordstrom, you only talk about what you do. I am interested in how you feel.”
“How do I feel about what I do? I like my work. It’s what I have wanted since I can remember.”
“No, how do you feel about you—outside your work?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not getting a clear picture of you, unrelated to your work. I need to know how you relate to people, how you feel people relate to you.”
“But they relate to me … about my work.”
“I think you are mistaking a profession for a personal identity. Who are you other than what you do, that’s what I’m trying to get at.”
“I think you are trying to fit me into some box. What I do is not that simple. It’s who I am. I am not a plumber or a construction worker who quits at five o’clock. What I do is a twenty-four-hour career. I think it’s hard for people to understand. Wherever I go, I’m on television; that’s how people ‘relate’ to me.”
“I’m not saying that other people may not be able to separate you from what you do, I’m wondering if you can.”
Dena looked out the window. Snow was falling, luminous against the yellow glow of the streetlights. It reminded her of another late snowy afternoon when she and her mother had walked in the streets of New York, all the way from midtown to her mother’s apartment building, but she quickly pushed it out of her mind. She did not like to think about her mother. And it was certainly not something she wanted to discuss with O’Malley. It was none of his business.
At the end of the session, he closed his notebook. “Miss Nordstrom, I am afraid we have a problem.” He corrected himself. “Well, no, I’m afraid I have a problem, a scheduling problem. A former patient of mine is in a serious crisis and I am going to be forced to give up your time.”
Hooray, thought Dena.
“But,” he continued, “I’ve spoken to Dr. Halling and—I am sorry—I am going to have to transfer you to another doctor, one I think can help you a lot more with your immediate problems. You know, sleeplessness, nervousness; she specializes in hypnotherapy and—”