The Profundity Of Madness (2)
Dr. Wilkes grabbed hold of the mirror on his desk, filled it with a lingering starry-eyed gaze, and then said, "I have a really nice smile. I mean a really, really nice smile. I find that it helps brighten people's moods, which is worth its weight in gold because moods can get pretty bleak around here. It's one of the many tools I use. Another happens to be my hands. Look at them, they're beautifully manicured. And boy, are they soft. So soft, in fact, I have couples hold them in their own hands - you know to get a sense of the very warmth they're looking for from each other. And if that doesn't work, though it seldom fails, I hug my patients. First the women so they get an accurate feel for what it's like to be held by a strong pair of arms, and then the men, so they get an accurate understanding of how it feels to the woman." "You don't say?" "Ah, but I do say. And if none of that works, well then, let's just say I've been known to teach the men about stroking their wives. Their hair, their arms. you get the idea, don't you?" "Wonderful techniques, Doctor, wonderful techniques," I said, the acerbity in my voice humming at full throttle. "Would you like me to show you? I could." "No, no, that's fine. I understand everything perfectly." "Okay, but that's not all of it, Dr. Webster." "You're kidding, there's more?" I asked, tossing my hands to my cheeks. "Yes, when all else fails, I instruct my clients on the importance of helping their partners release pressure. I show them various points on the body, the underside of the foot, the nape of the neck, the lower part of the back. Massaging, squeezing, all of it designed to release pressure, all of it to help them get in touch with one another. You sure you don't want me to demonstrate. I can just." "No, no, like I said, I'm perfectly fine. A demonstration, in fact, might just be more than I can bear right now." "Perhaps, perhaps not. Either way you can visualize just how extensive the benefits might be, can't you?" "Oh absolutely, absolutely," I replied, as I got up from my chair and headed for the door. "Not only that, I can also see, I mean really, really see why you have a reputation as a brilliant savior." "What do you mean?" Dr. Wilkes asked. "Well, quite frankly, I mean so long, goodbye, and toodaloo." Convinced that my inappropriate behavior was the underlying reason we were no longer welcome at the office of Dr. Sherman Wilkes, marriage counselor extraordinaire, Christina returned to her silence. In fact, beyond obligatory discussions concerning our daughter, Rita, she did not speak to me for several days on end. It was a difficult time too, as I suddenly found myself trapped between what was quickly becoming Christina's emotional sterility, and my own deeply rooted sense of self. Would I. could I ever live my life with the same carefree wisdom that somehow brought me this far? Or, was the possibility of everyday life without the face of my daughter to look at as genuine as Christina wanted me to believe? Questions I did not wish to answer.which, of course, was the answer itself. I would delay this confrontation as long as I could by agreeing to see another marriage counselor. Christina did not warm to the idea, however, until I once again acquiesced to her choice of doctor. Stewart Baines, a marriage counselor never-before-married (a strange concept to fathom, I readily admit), was a sturdy looking fellow. Not necessarily large, but between his square jaw and broad shoulders he filled his chair quite differently than the slightly built Sherman Wilkes. He also sported a small scar just under the creases of his right eye, which, when coupled with his lightly whiskered face, lead me to believe that he had no immediate plans to become a poster boy for cosmetic surgery. The combination did, however, give him a ruggedly handsome look, an appearance furthered strengthened by his deliberate, but raspy speech. Dr. Baines did share one ingredient with Sherman Wilkes, however. They both preferred meeting with Christina and I together, as well as the two of us individually. Was it an effective method of practice? Who can say? More importantly why did Dr. Baines feel the need to solicit my approval on the matter? Even when I suggested my uncertainty he pressed on, telling me that until such time as I was convinced, he would be unable to assist Christina and me in our efforts to resuscitate our marital bond. Splendid, I thought. Exorcise the patient's freedom of thought. Coerce blind allegiance under a guise of futility. Introduce the fragility of a crumbling marriage to the rigidity of programmed treatment. Make them listen, make them listen, make them listen! Never change, never change, never change! You are right, you are right, you are right! They will improve, they will improve, they will improve! Never change, never change, never change! Yes, well, far be it from me to express my real concerns, especially since my exceedingly cautious wife was convinced before she even walked through the door. Alas, what's a confused husband to do when the only clarity in his life is his love for the child born to him by the woman sitting to his left? And so began our weekly sessions with Dr. Stewart Baines. Sessions that belittled my wayward style of dress as just another means to garner attention - sessions that determined my reckless behavior to be little more than my inability to harness, or, at a minimum, channel my brazen energy - sessions that sought to explore every intimate detail of the once divine sex life I shared with my wife, Christina - sessions that some three months after they began, Dr. Baines abruptly announced would end. "Your continued reluctance to embrace personal change has handcuffed us all," he declared. "It's not fair to your marriage, to your wife, or, for that matter, to me. Frankly, Dr. Webster, you and your obstinacy need something besides me - a psychiatrist, perhaps. one other than yourself. And should you get help at some point and want to try this again, let me know and we'll see. Until that day, however, I can no longer be of service." So there I was, out in the proverbial cold once again. In fact, had it not been for my daughter Rita, my lovely Rita, I would have felt like an aimless shadow in my own house, for my wife, Christina, "repulsed at the very thought of me, sickened by the very sight of me," withdrew into a world of her own. A world defined by the haughty sparkle of a social calendar, the cavalier nurturing of a suddenly inconvenient child, and the cold, calloused walls of a separate bedroom. Yes, I was indeed deeply saddened by the poignant turn of events. I was not, however, so despondent that I failed to recognize the wonderful gifts that my little girl bestowed upon me - hope, meaning, and, perhaps for the first time in my life, a lucid perception of myself. Rita gave me something else, as well; a playful companion to stroll the sandy beaches along the Atlantic (where we spent many a Sunday morning chasing seagulls and building sandcastles), the boutiques along Mill Avenue (where, after frolicking in the dew laden countryside of my late grandfather, we would often stop for ice cream), and the apple orchards north of Hastings (a personal favorite because I found great pleasure in watching my daughter fumble around in her efforts to extract apples from trees). Yet, in all our splendid time together, there is perhaps one single moment that I shall forever cherish. It was the day I gave Rita a pony for her fifth birthday. Her mother, as had been the norm for almost a year, preferred to mingle with friends rather than celebrate something besides herself - an afternoon of superfluous shopping, a weekend of pamper and frivolous travel, a cocktail party, a dinner party. anywhere I wasn't invited and a dress code was employed. Of course, I, in turn, could not have been happier, for Christina's recurring absence gave me more uninterrupted time with Rita than I could have ever hoped for. In truth, my plan did not call for the purchase of a pony. However, in light of my marital strife, the catalyst for what had become a continuing effort on my part to take stock of my life, I deemed it necessary to embrace my past. Most notably the summers spent on my grandfather's farm, for aside from the time spent with my daughter, they represented, unequivocally, the most gratifying times in my life. So yes, when I first saw the pony I was instantly reminded of the day my grandfather walked me inside his corral, his leathery palm gently squeezing the back of my neck, where, not twenty yards away, stood a magnificent looking animal. Snowy white mane atop rich black skin, his head bounced up and down, as though greeting my presence. And then, in a flash, he broke to his right, darted effortlessly to his left, and then broke back the other way, where he came to an abrupt stop, looked at me, and bounced his head once more. "What do you want to call him?" My grandfather asked. "I don't know, what do you?" I countered. "Well," grandfather announced, "since it's your horse, you get to choose." That may very well have been the first time in my life where I was left speechless. In fact, beyond hugging my grandfather with all the strength I could possibly muster, I stood in wondrous disbelief, graced by the spirit of both a beautiful animal, and the beautiful man who gave him to me. For what it's worth, I named my horse, Sequoia, in honor of a great Cherokee scholar that I had read about as a child. More importantly, I named my daughter, Rita, in honor of my grandfather, Rennie, an exquisite man, who, to this day, I still think about. And as I watched my daughter marvel at the splendor of her new pony, I saw the likeness of his face in hers and my eyes grew moist. Of course, as soon as Rita leapt into my arms and told me how much she loved me, the tears I had been able to contain broke free. Yes, well, it was several months before I heard my daughter speak those lovely words again, for less than a week after Rita and I celebrated her birthday, I returned home one night to complete emptiness. save for an old card table, a twin bed from one of the two guest bedrooms, a handful of chinaware, and my books (thankfully). Much to my dismay, my wife, you see, had not spent all her time gallivanting from one trivial happening to the next as I had so mistakenly believed. On the contrary, according to the letter she left for me on my new dining-room table, she had been setting up house. with Dr. Stewart Baines, no less. Christina further mentioned that she had filed for divorce, this, the result of my potentially dangerous transgressions, was planning to seek full custody of our daughter, this, the result of my potentially dangerous transgressions, and, had removed the vast majority of our joint savings, this (although she didn't say), the result of her wanton greed. Nevertheless, I had the value of my grandfather's estate to depend on. and that is precisely what I did in order to hire the finest lawyer I could find. Yet, and notwithstanding the simple premise that I was truly distraught by the chilling turn of events, I did not desire reconciliation with my wife. Nor was I concerned about the household furniture, the money, or that she was living with Dr. Stewart Baines, circumstances that her lawyer said had everything to do with fear and absolutely nothing to do with a desire to cohabitate. (And I, of course, fell out of a tree and landed on my head at an early age). That said, my one and only desire was to regain custody of Rita. As a result, I instructed my attorney, Mr. William Stark, of Stark, Chalmers and Stark, to do everything in his power to see the situation through. "No matter the cost, I do not want my daughter exposed to the baseless virtues of her mother anymore than I want her living under the same roof with that unethical and shameless bastard of a man." "I'll do everything I can," Mr. Stark assured me. Yes, well assurances aside, my case was unfortunately assigned to Judge Wilma Stevens, the same obtuse judge who put me on probation for assaulting that insidious Nazi lawyer after I battered him in what turned out to be an unrewarding debate on the courthouse steps. At any rate, she did not find my transgressions to be potentially dangerous. She did, however, find that I was not a suitable candidate for custodial parent, reducing my parental stake to visitation rights - once a week and every other weekend to be exact. I was incredulous, to say the least. In fact, I sprang from my seat and demanded an answer. "How is that possible. how?" I fumed. "Is your mindset so predisposed that you're oblivious to the unscrupulous shenanigans of my pitiful wife and her lover. a man who I dare say will be brought before the medical ethics committee by the time I'm finished?" Judge Stevens simply exhaled her pompous attitude, and said, "It's your personal history, Dr. Webster, nothing more." Suffice it to say, after appealing the judge's ruling, to no avail, mind you, I was left with little choice but to make the very most of the short time Rita and I were allowed to spend together. Yet, we picked up right where we left off. chasing seagulls, picking apples, and, by all means, visiting with her pony, who, as I explained to my little girl, would be moving to a new stall just as soon as construction was completed. Shortly after the divorce, you see, I decided to build a country-style home on a beautiful two-hundred-fifty acre parcel of land that once belonged to my grandfather - land, you may recall, that I repurchased out of proceeds from his estate. Over the last several years I had actually been able to repurchase close to six hundred acres. Yet, not all the land was contiguous. Therefore, I chose the parcel most compatible for horses. And while it would be many months before the entire project was finished, upon completion there would a generous size home, a corral large enough to accommodate three to four dozen horses, a riding stable for Rita to learn proper technique, and, most importantly, enough wide open space to run, as they say. lickety-split. Sadly enough, a single phone call from Christina brought my grand venture to a screeching halt. "It's all your fault!" She screamed, the moment I put the receiver to my ear. "All your fault! If you hadn't gone after Stew, none of this would have happened!" "Calm down, calm down," I implored. "I don't even know what you're talking about. What's happened?" "Rita, she's been hurt." "Hurt, what do you mean hurt? When? How bad?" "She's in the hospital," Christina replied between sobs. "And it's your fault." "What happened, damn-it? What happened?" I asked, my body trembling beyond measure. "The malpractice grievance you filed against Stew. The medical board acted on it. They've suspended his license." "Christina, I'm going to ask you one more time," I stated, the words barely able to escape my clenched teeth. "And if you don't answer me then so help me god I'm going to come over there and ring it out of you. Now, what happened to my daughter?" Christina sighed before responding, "Stew beat her up. He was mad because of what you did." "He did what?" I roared. "Where is he? Tell me where he is!" "He left the house, I don't know where. And I'm still at the hospital so I don't know if he's gone back home." "What about Rita, how is she?" I asked, my fury all but overwhelming my ability to hold still for an answer. Christina sighed again. "The doctor said she's going to be fine. But." "But what?" I bellowed. "She's suffered a broken arm. And her face." "What about her face, Christina? What about her face?" Christina did not reply, and I no longer cared if she did. At that moment I only had room for two glaring thoughts: The welfare of my daughter, and the deranged man who jeopardized it. As it turned out, Stewart Baines did indeed return home that evening, where, upon opening his front door, I unleashed a rage I never knew I possessed. I've often heard it referred to as father's rage. Still, having never studied the subject matter I cannot say with any degree of authority. What I can say, however, is that I pummeled Stewart Baines until both his arms were broken and his rugged good looks were reduced to an unrecognizable pool of red. Of course, that is merely the beginning of the story's end. Stewart Baines, you see, in addition to losing his medical license for six long and arduous months, was handed a whopping one year prison term. According to the illustrious Judge Wilma Stevens, (oh yes, between my divorce and previous probation she retained jurisdiction over my person), punishment was minimized because, in addition to having a perfectly clean record Stewart Baines owned a reputation as an exemplary citizen of the community - which, in the predictable scheme of things, meant that he would soon be the proud owner of freedom. as he was paroled some five months later. I, on the other hand, was not the recipient of such propitious treatment. On the contrary, after I stood in open court (having been charged with breaking the terms of said probation, as well as intent to commit bodily harm), and shamelessly admitted the barbaric facts, Judge Stevens said, "Your personal history, Dr. Webster, your strange behavior, it's all such a shame. From everything I've either heard or read, you've shown flashes of absolute brilliance, but brilliance is no excuse for behavior that is so unpredictable, so scurrilous. Quite frankly, I'm afraid you're capable of hurting someone else. perhaps even yourself. Therefore, I have no choice but to confine you to Valley View Mental Institution until I'm properly convinced you're no longer a danger to anyone." And there you have it. at the drop of a hollow gavel the sum total of my existence reduced to observation and speculation, deductive reasoning and estimation, interrogation and cerebration, inkblots. and if I'm lucky all the turkey hash I can gobble down, at the one. the only. venerable and vine-covered Valley View Mental Institution. Where I remain to this day.
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Copyright © 2002 Robert Edward Levin |