“The movies were unbearable, Doctor. But that’s only what was told to me by Kirk. The rest of us, except for Tina, had yet to be born.”
Halberstam spun a pen on his desk for a moment, the flick of his fingers so precise the pen described a perfect circle. I watched his tongue swish over his lips, but when he looked at me again, I saw only indifference in his gaze.
“Let’s talk for a moment about the incident that preceded your confinement at Kings County Hospital. One of your identities, I believe her name is Eleni, made an obscene proposal to a stranger. Do you think she meant to follow through? If the man agreed?”
Victoria’s as outraged as I am. I know Eleni considers me a prude, but that’s not remotely true. If she’d only be discreet. If she’d stop coming home with STDs, stop using whatever drug her partners chose to share, she could indulge her perverted desires from night until morning. There’s no moral issue here, not as far as I’m concerned.
I have a response to Halberstam’s question prepared, just not the one Victoria and I agreed on. “You have a computer on your desk, Doctor. Do a Google search for ‘swinger clubs in NYC.’ You’ll find page after page, club after club, many open to couples only. And if you search a little more, you’ll find agencies dedicated to making your deviant sexual fantasies come true. Just tell ’em what you want and they’ll arrange it. Craigslist, as well. Anything you want. Now, tell me, how many of the men and women who took advantage of the ads were threatened with involuntary commitment as a result?”
Halberstam only smiles. “The incident that brought Eleni to the attention of the police didn’t take place inside a club and it wasn’t arranged by an agency. It happened on a public street, stranger to stranger. The inherent risk is obvious.”
“Really?” I’m going too fast now, but I can’t stop thinking about all those construction workers who make sucking noises when an attractive woman passes by. “How many young men and women do you think visited the bars and clubs in Manhattan last Saturday? How many sought casual sex? How many went home with a stranger? They call them hookups, Doctor, and they happen thousands of times every weekend. But nobody goes to jail because they want to get laid. Except us.”
“Kings County Hospital is not a jail. It’s an ordinary hospital with a short-term psychiatric facility. In addition, you haven’t been charged with a crime and you won’t be. In fact, I’ll probably recommend that your therapy continue long enough for me to fully understand your situation and formulate a course of treatment. I hope things go well, of course.”
Halberstam smiles at that moment, perhaps expecting me to express my eternal gratitude despite the implied threat. That won’t happen because life under Halberstam’s thumb will include the fear, more or less constant, that we can still be committed. That it’s up to him.
“That works for us,” I say.
“Excellent. Now, you were late today, and I understand why. But I can’t have you perpetually late or skipping sessions altogether. And I must become acquainted with each of your identities, including Eleni and”—he glances at his notes—”and Tina, the young one. You’ve said that individual identities can’t be ordered to appear and I believe you. But I’m hoping you can work on it.”
“We’ll do what we can, Victoria and I.”
“Excellent.” Halberstam looks down at his watch. “Well, we got a late start and our session is at an end. But there is one other thing and I’m going to put the matter bluntly. I only found out this morning, but your father will be paroled in less than a week.”
I can’t process the information at first, and I stammer, “What, what, what?”
“You were ten years old when Henry Grand was sentenced to thirty years in prison for what he did to you and many others. He’s now served twenty-seven. I don’t have any details, not yet, but he obviously convinced a parole board that he no longer poses a significant threat to the community. In any event, there’s nothing you or I can do except deal with it in the course of your therapy.” He gestures at the door. “I’ll reach out to the parole board for more details tomorrow morning. More than likely, some kind of restraining order will be issued. Now, if you’ll be so kind.”
As the door closes behind me, I hear Eleni’s voice in my ear. “Thanks,” she says, “for standin’ up for me.”
CHAPTER FIVE
KIRK
I roll out of bed at three o’clock, in sole possession of the body, everyone else asleep. Yea, team. I yank on my usual costume, gray sweats, top and bottom, and a navy watch cap to cover my too-long hair. Then I’m out the door.
I don’t get much time with the body and tonight I need to make the most of it. That’s because I’m convinced that Halberstam is more than an asshole therapist. The scumbag’s running a game and I can’t see us sitting on our collective butts until we know what it is. That sick-ass look in his eye when he told Martha about our father’s parole? Behind the glasses, underneath the gleam, I saw a little boy, a happy, happy little boy.
A long-term psychiatric hospital is little more than a prison. The biggest difference? There’s no definite sentence, no time to be served after which you must be released. You can be held for a month or for the rest of your miserable, shitty life. Any stumble is your own fault because you are, by definition, your own worst enemy. Else why the fuck would you be here?
Bottom line, you’re doin’ it to yourself and you need to stop. Or maybe submit to a twice-daily dose of Clozapine and spend the hours with drool runnin’ down your chin, your heart rate so fast you think your chest’s about to explode.
Eleni’s on my side, Serena, too. But not the prunes, Victoria and Martha. If they knew what I was doing, they’d try to stop me. Just like they’re doin’ everything they can to get rid of me. Maybe they’re afraid I’ll grow a cock and leave them, for a change, the odd girls out. Just like I’ve been the odd boy out for years and years and years. My rare lovers confined to lesbians who think I’m a woman.
*
I leave the apartment, cross the hallway and knock on Marshal’s door. It takes a few minutes but he finally answers, bleary eyed. He’s wearing royal-blue boxers and a Sex Pistols T-shirt with GOD SAVE THE QUEEN written across Queen Elizabeth’s face. No socks, no shoes.
“Hey, Kirk, wha’sup?”
“Need a few minutes, man.”
“Cool.” He steps back to let me pass, then follows me inside. Marshal knows all about us, from me and from Eleni, who’s hauled his ashes a few times. He doesn’t care. Simple as that. Marshal may be a loser, but he’s also the most accepting human being on the planet.
“Sorry to get in your business this late,” I tell him as I find a seat between the lumps on his couch. “But I don’t get around much anymore.”
“Yeah, Duke Ellington.”
“Huh.”
“‘Don’t Get Around Much Anymore.’ Duke Ellington wrote the tune. Back in the day.”
I’m supposed to recognize Duke Ellington’s name. Marshal’s tone makes that much clear. Everyone’s supposed to recognize Duke Ellington’s name. But I don’t.