passed the day in feverish reverie; the hours slipped away; darkness pressed against the windows. I looked at my watch: nearly eight o’clock. The guard was surely gone for the day. I heard Dr. Schussler’s seven o’clock patient leave, and, once the eight o’clock was safely installed, I planned to make my exit. So it was that I sat bundled in my sweaters, coat, scarf, and hat, despite the steam that clanged through the radiators.
The next patient arrived. I stood. I went to the door and was about to take the door knob in my hand, when suddenly the sound machine fell silent. And a deep alto voice said:
Thank you for seeing me tonight.
35.
My dear patient!
I am glad you could come on such short notice, said the doctor.
(And there I stood before the door, bundled up for the cold!)
Sorry about yesterday, the patient said.
(What had happened yesterday while I lay in my sickbed?)
The doctor made a reassuring sound.
(The door was still open; they stood so near me, naked to the corridor.)
Of course I’ll pay, said the patient with a laugh.
(Had she run off again in midsession?)
I’m a little drunk, she said.
Dr. Schussler did not immediately step back from the doorway.
We went out for drinks after work, she went on. One too many, that’s all.
The doctor remained standing at the opened door.
If not for the coming break, she said, I would ask you to leave right now.
Oh, yeah, the patient said a little sloppily.
Are you all right? asked Dr. Schussler.
Oh, yeah, said the patient. I’m fine, great, terrifically all right.
Two or three seconds passed.
Come in, the doctor said.
36.
Dr. Schussler closed the door, and the patient fell into her chair with a great sigh of the leather cushion.
What is happening? asked the doctor.
The patient seemed to shuffle her feet on the carpet. A driver in the street below leaned on his horn.
Shit! said the patient. What the hell’s wrong with that guy?
The horn went on.
Really. What the fuck is wrong with him?
The horn continued; then stopped.
I have something to tell you, said the patient.
Yes?
You won’t believe it.
Yes?
Last Friday night … I went to this Jewish—what do they call it? Temple.
She stopped; again shuffled her feet against the carpet.
Oh, my, said the therapist. And how was that?
I was late. I took a seat on a back pew—pews! What a surprise. Didn’t expect that. Not sure what I’d thought Jews would sit on—benches?—but there were pews, like church.
She paused.
And of course there was no bleeding Jesus. But otherwise … Big domed building. Ladies dressed up in mink coats. Organ. Playing hymns! Same old chorus of middle-aged women with their vibratos wobbling from here to the next county. Except for the tiny bits of Hebrew—transliterated, so you don’t even have to know it—ba-ruch something something bow-ray pa-ree—that can’t be right, paree, like Paris. Except for those Hebrew bits, Mother would have felt right at home. I could just see her taking the coffee and tea afterward—no milk, though. Something about kosher. But what could be not kosher about milk I have no idea. Coffee-Mate. Terrible stuff !
You stayed afterward for coffee? asked Dr. Schussler.
Why not?
Did you meet—?
No one. No one talked to me. Except to say good shabbose—is that how you say it—sha-BOSE? Mother. Right at home. But my grandfather—she gave a laugh—I don’t even know him, never met him, but couldn’t stop thinking about what Mother told me. How much he would’ve hated the place. Too well lit. Too much light on the subject. Needed his mysterium tremendum. Mass in Latin murmured in the dark, misted by incense. Everyone kneeling before the crucifix, Jesus hanging over them, suffering, sacrificed, bleeding his dark red human blood, blood they drink in communion—how primitive is that! Body of Christ, body of Christ. Corpus Christi. CORPUS. The scum group that took me in then bounced me out. Banished me, like they banished Father.
Then she fell silent. For some thirty seconds, there were only the honking horns in the street, the cough of the radiators.
I don’t want to be a fucking Jew, the patient said at last.
Jewish, said Dr. Schussler. Somehow it is better to call someone Jewish than a Jew.
All right. I don’t want to be fucking Jewish. Happy now?
Dr. Schussler sighed. It is very difficult for us to do our work if you come here after drinking.
Oh, I know.
We can’t—
I know, I know. We were having fun, is all. That last round. That’s the one I shouldn’t … I know.