going to let himself be defined by some errant impulse to do good for once in his life. Simon clicked on the story and read:
Police Nab Suspect in
B&E at Flaubert’s
Randall Caine, hailed last month as a hero for pulling a local girl from a burning car on Dakin Road, was arrested Saturday at 10:52 p.m. for breaking and entering in the nighttime.
Police say Caine, 27, was caught in the alley next to Flaubert’s Spa carrying a crowbar, with a glass cutter concealed on his person. The door to Red Paint’s popular market was found forced open. It is not known yet what items, if any, were missing.
According to police, Caine said that at the time of his arrest he found the crowbar in the alley and was looking for a phone to use to report the open door.
Off the top of his head, Simon could recall at least five other such stories since he’d become editor—Caine nabbed for possessing marijuana, Caine stopped for driving without a license, Caine inciting the Tiger Tavern melee, Caine breaking a restraining order, Caine threatening a lawyer (his own). The youngest member of Red Paint’s first family of crime was determined to make his own mark in town. Simon deleted the headline and wrote: Hero of Car Accident Arrested on Burglary Charge. In the notes field of the file he typed, “Box on Page 1.” Randy always appreciated the prominent placement.
He did phone Dana Maines, and after a few minutes of catching up suggested lunch in Portland. She agreed so enthusiastically that he felt compelled to mention Amy for the first time in their conversation.
“You’re married?” she said.
“Sixteen years.”
“And you’re calling me up?”
“I thought we could have lunch.”
“Why?”
The question stymied him. He could hardly say he wanted to make sure she wasn’t stalking him, and he certainly didn’t want to give the impression he was interested in hooking up. “You’re right,” he said, “there really is no reason for us to have lunch.”
“Okay then,” she said and hung up.
It happened so quickly he didn’t even have time to ask if she had made it to California.
When Paul settles into the leather armchair again, he feels the warmth of the body just gone. He wonders what poor person recently sat there pouring out his miseries as if they were the trials of Job. Misery always seems that way to the afflicted—unbearable, unimaginable, unlike anything anyone else has ever experienced. But who would trade the misery he knows for the misery of others? No one passed him in the waiting room going out. So how did the distressed person leave, through a secret exit for those who can’t stand to be seen? He feels the weight of this invisible stranger all about, a thick layer of him on the desktop, like fine dust, piles of him on the carpet, and the pungent odor of him soaking the air. In one hour here he would have sloughed off a couple of million cells, shedding his outermost self flake by flake. Paul inhales long and deep, breathing the stranger inside him.
“Mr. Chambers,” Amy Howe says, going by him and around her desk, “sorry to keep you waiting.”
Then why has she? Why show him into her office and then go out into the waiting room—to do what, see if her colleague Dr. Levin will stay around in case there’s trouble with the mysterious new client? It doesn’t make sense, people apologizing for what they could easily do differently.
He says, “Do you know why misery loves company?”
She takes her seat without response, not willing to say whether she does or doesn’t know.
“Because it needs an audience.”
She nods at his observation. “I’ll have to give that more thought.” But apparently not right now. “In our first session Monday,” she says, “we talked about the thoughts that were bothering you, and we’ll continue that in a moment. But I want to start by getting some basic information.”
“No,” Paul says.
“No?”
He has her attention, all of it, in the slight tilt of her head, the wide-open eyes, the tongue hesitating just inside her lips. He takes out his handkerchief and rubs across his nose, prolonging the moment. “My thoughts don’t bother me, like you said. I’m just constantly aware of them. Actually, I find them very interesting.”
“Okay, we’ll get into that. Have you sought help or counseling before?”
He notices that her right eye stretches out wider than the left, as if it has been pinched back by a finger molding clay, a slip of the