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  The mention of his father made Jeffrey recoil. He curled into a fetal position with his cheek squished against the pillow. Jeffrey had stopped going to classes, that’s what had brought up this most recent spate of criticism. His father had called him a dropout, which Jeffrey didn’t think was true. If he were a dropout, he had to officially drop out, fill out a form or something. All Jeffrey had done was stop going to classes. He still went to the college campus. He still ate lunch in the cafeteria. He still drank coffee in the student commons at the corner table near the bathroom. He still went to the library and listened to old 78s on headphones in a cubicle. He did all the normal things; he just wasn’t going to classes.

  In fact, everything was going fine until his father burst into his room one night waving a piece of paper like a maniac. The college had sent a letter concerned about Jeffrey’s lengthy absence. If it weren’t due to a medical condition, for which they required a doctor’s note, they would be forced to place him on academic probation.

  If he couldn’t hack it in school, he would have to get a job and pay some rent to his mother. This was his father’s brilliant idea. Or that’s it. You’re out on your own. That was his father. Mr. Sensible. Mr. Businessman. Mr. Successful. Vietnam was in the hands of the Communists, the ayatollah was holding hostages, the Soviets could nuke if they wanted, and Lennon was shot dead. The world was fucked up and his father, Mr. Capitalist Crusader, was out there raking in the dough.

  What Jeffrey really wanted to do was paint. Or play rhythm guitar. Or write. Maybe writing was better because he had lots of ideas for stories. He hated the painting class he had taken his freshman year of college. He walked in on the first day and a naked woman was standing in the middle of the room. She was naked and smoking a cigarette and talking to one of the other students. Jeffrey stood there, frozen, holding on to his art supplies. He felt himself starting to get hard. She had a good ass, if a little big, and a decent pair of tits. Someone motioned for him to sign in and sit down. He took a seat holding his large sketchpad in front of his pants. No chances.

  The worst thing about the art class was that every so often they had “crit” days. Everyone had to put up a drawing or painting on the wall and the teacher would lead the students around the room to critique the work. The teacher was an asshole, full of himself. That’s what Jeffrey told his parents when he brought home a C for the class. How could anyone get a C in a painting class? his father wanted to know. That’s the kind of class you take for fun, to round things out. It’s supposed to be an easy A. But that upset Jeffrey even more. No one thought Vincent van Gogh was any good either, he said to his father as he fled to his room; he had to cut off his ear before anyone discovered him. The art teacher thought of himself as a brain surgeon leading his med students around. As if he were doing something important.

  So Jeffrey started getting sick on crit days.

  Which is why he thought maybe writing might be his ticket.

  With writing he could be alone.

  How hard could it be? he thought. You type out your story, mail it to a magazine. Not so bad. He didn’t imagine there was much money in poetry. Actually, he couldn’t even think of any living poet now that John was dead. Yoko, maybe, if you could call her that. He supposed the most dough was in Hollywood writing screenplays. That was probably easy money. How hard could it be? Most of the movies he saw were pretty lousy or they were all exactly the same.

  “Jeffrey, we’d like you to see this doctor. We think he could help you.”

  Jeffrey stared blankly at his mother.

  “I’m not that sick,” he said, trying to remain as unemotional as possible while he studied her face. His father had put her up to something. He only had to figure out what it was and lure her back to his side.

  “I’m not talking about Dr. Jameson. This is a different doctor. He’s a . . . you know, he’s a psychiatrist. A specialist.”

  Something fluttered in Jeffrey’s chest. His mother had remained seated in profile on his bed for her little speech, but now she lifted her droopy cheeks upward and turned to face him. He could tell it was one of her fake smiles because she didn’t separate her lips. She raised her cheeks up to scrunch out her eyes and held them there. Jeffrey thought she did it more to blur her vision. With her cheeks bulging up and her fake lashes batting down, he wondered how she could see anything at all.

  When she turned toward him Jeffrey hissed his breath out between his teeth. He had to retain some kind of control.

  “You want me to see a shrink?” Jeffrey managed to keep his voice steady, although it took quite a lot of effort. He couldn’t show he was angry or it would be used against him.

  “He’s a doctor. We think he could help you. I know you’ve been having such a tough time since your sister moved away, and you don’t seem to have made any friends since you started college. And now these problems at school . . . your father and I are just very worried about you.”

  “I’m fine.” If he stuck to only a few words it was easier.

  “We all know you’re a bright boy. Your father doesn’t see any motivation coming from you and that makes him worried about your future. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. We both love you very much. And Jeffrey—” here she reached out to put a hand on his leg. It fell just below his knee, locking him to the bed. “I know you’re very shy.”

  Now she was overly mouthing her words and lowering her voice, ashamed of the big secret she was dutifully carrying on her wiry shoulders.

  “I’m shy too.” Now the hand flew back to her chest. “It’s just something you have to work through and it can take a long time. Before I met your father, I was very, very shy. I hardly talked to anyone. And now look: I have a wonderful family, it’s easy for me to make friends, and I enjoy my life. It turns out, it wasn’t that hard. You just have to put your mind to it.”

  She was deteriorating into stock phrases. She probably picked up the lingo from one of those pop-psychology books—When I Say No, I Feel Guilty; I’m OK—You’re OK—or something equally idiotic.

  “I think this doctor might be able to help you. Make it easier on you. Your father researched him. He has very good credentials.”

  His father was all about credentials.

  His mother proceeded to list them: where he went to school, what kind of degrees he held, which boards he sat on, which charities he gave to, whom he played golf with, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

  “Fine,” Jeffrey said. He wasn’t interested in the detailed résumé.

  “You’ll go?” his mother seemed surprised.

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh good.” She paused. She obviously hadn’t planned her speech this far along. “Good. I think he could help you.”

  “Okay.”

  His mother smoothed out her skirt and stood up.

  “I’ll tell your father to make the appointment. And Jeffrey, I worry about you getting sick so much of the time. You know, honey? I want you to make an effort to take better care of yourself.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Because Jesus only gave you one body.”

  Usually it was God, but today it was Jesus.

  “Now, I found this for you.” She pulled out a magazine clipping. “My friend Harriet had a lot of success with it. I thought maybe you could give it a try.”

  He took the paper shakily with his uncoordinated left hand and held it in front of his face, blocking his view of her. It was some gimmicky diet. He guessed that his mother, even though she said, “All my children are beautiful,” thought he was fat. Even though “Everyone was beautiful in the eyes of the Lord,” Jesus thought he was fat too.

  “I could put it up on the refrigerator and we could both do it. It could be something we do together.”

  His mother, with her bony back, didn’t need to lose any weight. She merely liked to try things she cut out of magazines. He knew it wouldn’t last. Half a grapefruit, six ounces of cottage cheese, Special K with skim milk—no one could live on that for long. And f
or a snack, a quarter-cup of raisins, four celery sticks with peanut butter, two low-salt pretzels, or six more ounces of cottage cheese.

  “All right,” he said.

  He handed her back the paper and she folded it into neat little squares. She was happy. Her mission was accomplished.

  “I’ll bring you down some soup.”

  She came back down ten minutes later carrying a plastic TV tray with a bowl of chicken consommé and a handful of scattered saltines. It was only then that Jeffrey peeled himself off the bed. He slurped a spoonful of the metallic-tasting broth in her presence to make her happy. When she left, he emptied the bowl into the avocado plant on his windowsill and returned to his bed.

  John Lennon was dead dead dead.

  How is it, he wondered, that a nobody, from Hawaii of all places, can step out of the blue one night and shoot you cold? Right in front of your house. Right in front of your Japanese wife. Just as you were recording a new album.

  THREE DAYS LATER, Jeffrey was sitting in the waiting room of Dr. Gans. It resembled a regular doctor’s or dentist’s office, except instead of reading material about the telltale signs of heart disease or the Great American Smokeout, there were pamphlets on troubled teens and communication styles: Why don’t you understand what I am trying to tell you?, Making a marriage work!, Kids today—ten reasons why your teen may turn to drugs. And last, but not least: Why me?

  A couple emerged from the inner office and paused at the receptionist’s window. The guy was saying something like, “Next time you feel like you can’t cope, you come to me and say, ‘I can’t cope,’ and I’ll say back to you, ‘Yes you can. You can cope and I can help you. It’s a together thing.’”

  His wife nodded. She had obviously been crying, and she didn’t look too happy that her husband was saying this stuff in the middle of the waiting room. He kept saying, “We can cope, we can cope together,” over and over again, trying to sell her on the together thing. Or maybe he was trying to convince himself, because he kept saying it as he flipped open his checkbook to pay the receptionist.

  The door leading to the office opened and a man stuck his head into the waiting room.

  “Mr. Hackney?”

  The man, whom Jeffrey assumed was the reputable Dr. Gans, Jewish Tonto of Dallas, Texas, kept one hand on the doorknob as he leaned his skinny body into the trepid waiting area. Jeffrey rose without saying anything and followed him to the inner sanctum.

  Dr. Gans led Jeffrey to a small room and closed the door behind them. There was a desk, a chair, and a couch. The shrink sat on the chair; Jeffrey sat on the couch. On every possible table surface stood a box of tissues. These people are just like my mother, Jeffrey thought, except for them it’s tears instead of shit: one good cry and you’re all better.

  Jeffrey crossed his legs like a girl, knee on top of knee. He never did feel comfortable with the manly ankle-to-knee, open-leg cross, or the wide-knees spread, the way men sat on the bus taking up as much room as possible.

  “So, Jeffrey,” the shrink started off, “can you tell me what brings you here today?”

  Jeffrey didn’t answer. The Romper Room attitude was insulting.

  The shrink let the silence sit for a moment before breaking it.

  “Can you tell me why you made an appointment?”

  “My parents made the appointment.”

  “Right. You’re right. Why do you think they asked you to come?”

  Jeffrey shrugged.

  “How are you doing in school?”

  Jeffrey shrugged again. The shrink obviously knew the answers to his own questions.

  “Well, Jeffrey, when your parents called me, they sounded very concerned about you. They were worried that you were dropping out of college, that you couldn’t find a job, that you didn’t have any goals for yourself . . .” The shrink planted several pauses in his speech where he raised his eyebrows expectantly. But Jeffrey was the master of immobility. He kept his breathing small and shallow and blinked as little as possible.

  The shrink took a long, deep breath at the beginning of each new sentence.

  “They also tell me you have a hard time making friends, that you spend a lot of time alone in your room.”

  The shrink kept a yellow legal pad balanced on his knee. On his desk, a mini tape recorder stood vertically on its end. Jeffrey hadn’t noticed it before. He watched the rectangular recorder closely and saw the white plastic wheels turning around inside. The shrink was recording him. Jeffrey didn’t remember the shrink turning on the recorder or popping in a tape. Perhaps the “we can cope” couple was also on this tape. One nervous wreck bleeding into the next. Jeffrey imagined the shrink going home and playing back the tape, probably as he fucked his wife.

  “I have friends,” Jeffrey said.

  “Can you tell me about them?”

  Jeffrey could see the shrink reaching for his pencil and then stopping himself. He was trying to be casual about everything, but he was such a phony.

  “Right now I mostly spend time with my girlfriend.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Pam,” Jeffrey said. He didn’t really like the name Pam. It was the name of a girl who had lived next door to him when he was seven. It was simple. “Her name’s really Pamela, but everybody calls her Pam.”

  “Where’d you meet Pam?”

  “At school.”

  “Was she in one of your classes?”

  “Not exactly. . . . She was in one of my classes, but she’s not a student.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I was taking an art class and she was the model. You know, we drew her. They call it ‘life drawing.’”

  “So, that’s how you met.”

  “Yeah. A lot of guys in class would try and pick her up, you know, because of the situation, but she would mostly ignore them. Our teacher had us put our drawings up on the wall one day and I put up a picture of her. I had drawn just her face. She has a beautiful face and long hair. Everyone else had these body drawings that were really ugly. But Pam actually came up to me and told me she liked my drawing. So I gave it to her. That’s how we met.”

  “Interesting.”

  “I guess.”

  “She probably respected you for not objectifying her like the other fellows.”

  “I guess.”

  “Have your parents met Pam?”

  “No. Pam’s kind of embarrassed about . . . her job. She doesn’t feel right meeting them. She wants to get a different job and then she’ll feel more comfortable.”

  “I see.”

  “She doesn’t think my parents would approve. Pam’s had a hard life. She left home when she was sixteen because her stepfather was coming on to her. She went to live with her brother so she could finish high school. Now she’s only doing this job so she can save money to move to California. She wants to be an actress. And she could be a really good actress. She’s incredibly pretty. She did one of her speeches that she memorized for me and it was really something. I think she has a lot of talent. I think she could be famous if someone gives her a shot at it.”

  “She sounds like a nice girl.”

  The shrink was buying this hook, line, and sinker.

  “Tell me,” the shrink started up again, “what do you plan to do when Pam moves to California?”

  “Oh, I’m going with her.”

  “You are?”

  “Yeah, Pam and I have it all planned out. She’s going to be an actress and I’m going to be a screenwriter and a songwriter. My parents don’t know about it. I haven’t told them yet. But when it’s closer to the time we’re going, then I’ll let them know. Because, my mother, she worries about every little thing. And she would just worry. If I wait until we’re about to go, she’ll have less time to worry.”

  “I can understand your reasoning, but do you perhaps think that your mother might have a different reaction? She made this appointment because she was worried that you didn’t have a plan for what to do with your life, and now you tell m
e you do have a plan. Perhaps telling her would relieve her of some of this worry.”

  The shrink liked to use the word “perhaps.”

  “Maybe,” Jeffrey said. He could tell the shrink wanted to hear that he was right.

  “Could you consider telling her?”

  “It’s just that Pam asked me not to, on account of the nature of her job.”

  “Could you talk to Pam about it?”

  “Yeah, I guess I could.”

  “Okay.” The shrink stood up.

  The tape recorder clicked itself off.

  The shrink told Jeffrey he was going to see if his mother was in the waiting area. Jeffrey was left alone for a moment to relish in his achievement. Maybe he could be a writer after all.

  The shrink escorted Jeffrey’s mother into the room. For the next appointment, the shrink wanted to talk to Jeffrey and his mother together. Jeffrey’s mother nodded, her fingers clenching her purse as if its enclosures contained a potentially embarrassing emotion. She looked over at Jeffrey and Jeffrey stuck out his hand and bid the shrink good-bye.

  I can play the game too, he thought.

  As his mother drove him home, Jeffrey noticed the twittering on her face, which usually meant she was thinking of something to say and just the right way to say it.

  “You don’t have to tell me what you discussed with Dr. Gans,” she said as they turned at the duck pond and entered the circle. “But if you ever want to, I’m here to listen.”

  The last part sounded like she picked it up verbatim from some women’s magazine, some true-life, heart-to-heart story buried in the back pages of Good Housekeeping.

  Jeffrey was disappointed when she pulled the car into the driveway. It meant she wasn’t just dropping him off at home before going to run errands; she would probably be puttering around the house all day. She was home more and more these days. It must be off-season for all her ladies’ groups.

  When he got to his room, Jeffrey pulled his guitar case out from under his bed. The case was black and clean. He didn’t cover it with stickers the way other people did in an effort to look cool. He thought a guitar and its case should be pristine. It was the same thing with books. He didn’t like it when people underlined sentences and wrote in the margins. Whenever he opened up a library book like that, he had to immediately return it. He couldn’t even have it around.