be Catholic, then no, it’s even worse than that—I’m a Jew! For godsakes, what am I supposed to feel?
The doctor waited for the patient to go on. After her client said nothing for several seconds, she said:
I am afraid you can only feel this bewilderment for now. I am afraid there is no recourse but for you to feel it.
Feel it, echoed the patient.
It seemed, for the moment at least, that the therapist was not doing such a bad job after all, for the patient now sighed heavily, balancing on the rim of her emotions, about to “feel it.”
When she suddenly exclaimed:
But what was that?
37.
I had coughed! A sudden, explosive cough had escaped my chest!
All that while I had been poised there, sweating in my outerwear, afraid to move a muscle, standing equally on each foot, so as not to creak a floorboard …
All that while, I had controlled my breathing, because I stood so close to our common door, and my labored breath might give me away …
All during that half hour I had allowed the sweat to roll uninhibited down my body, for fear even the rustle of my overcoat would be heard …
Only to be betrayed by my own chest! A tremendous cough! Which erupted out of me and barked once into the night like a tethered dog.
It was loud! said the patient. What was it?
My God, I don’t know, answered the therapist.
It sounded like it was right in this room, said the patient.
Why, yes it did, said Dr. Schussler.
They shifted in their seats.
Well, I don’t see anything, said the therapist.
(I shivered, my sweat ice-cold.)
And I don’t hear anything now, said the patient.
But it was odd, said the doctor. It did seem to be coming from right there.
(I could feel them looking at our thin door. I all but saw the doctor’s hand stretched out in my direction, her finger pointed at me.)
Seconds passed. Horns played in the street below.
(I must be quiet! I must stay hidden!)
The doctor sighed. In any case, she went on, shifting back around in her chair, I hope you understand the reasons for the hatred—the self-hatred—you have expressed.
Yes, said the patient. And then again no, I don’t.
(But still she stared at the door. I could feel her eyes on me. Oh, how I wanted her gaze! All the same, I begged her inside myself, Turn around, my dear patient. Forget I exist!)
But I still haven’t told you the worst thing, she went on, shifting back in her seat (at last).
She laughed.
Charlotte’s breaking up with me.
38.
Mein Gott! said the therapist. Why did you not say?
I think I want to pretend it isn’t happening.
The patient sighed, and sat back.
Charlotte got me a surprise Christmas gift, she said.
Yes? said the therapist.
Yes, right. Not like her at all. Charlotte and her fear of being “bourgeois,” which seems to include anything with a bow. So, yes, very unexpected. She’d written “Merry Christmas!” and “Happy Birthday!” on an envelope—scrawled, in smudged pencil, but still, a gift. I opened it.
She laughed.
It was a confirmation for a one-week stay at this Russian River resort, she went on. Some cabins under the pines. A famous place for wim-min and wim-mine, spelled W-O-M-Y-N. Granola lesbians, whose greatest goal in life is to have a piece of land, a goat, and goat cheese. It’s all wim-min, wim-mine, and baby dykes—and just the sort of place Charlotte knows I hate.
(I stood holding my scarf over my mouth, to stifle any sound, and listened, fascinated, despite the patient’s distress. How interesting that a category as seemingly solid as “lesbian” could contain all these various admixtures! The “old-style girls” the patient had admired at the bar called A Little More: high heels, red lipstick, “breasts out to here,” she’d said. The “politicos”: politically active, short hair, flannel shirts, “stomping boots.” And now these new types, these “granola lesbians” with their goats; and what did she mean by “baby” dykes?)
Asked the doctor: And where would you like to go on holiday?
Somewhere warm, the patient replied. Charlotte knows this. I think it was the first thing I told her about myself. That I love swimming in the sea, tennis, golf, cocktails under the stars, my girlfriend and I naked under our silky dresses. The patient gave off a cynical laugh. Why in the world did she take up with me? Charlotte ridiculed me. You want to go to a third-world country, she said, where poor people in waiter’s jackets serve you piña coladas. You’re nothing but a Dinah