Hillary Conquers the Summit

"I see a cottonwood standing in a desert. It's raining. I'm trying to escape. Someone. Something is chasing me. It's getting dark. I don't think I'm going to make it to the tree but I do. It's coated with wax. I try to climb but can't. The thing gets closer. I can smell it."

"What does it smell like?"

"Bittersweet. Men’s aftershave. I know what you're thinking, but it's not Harold.”

"Who then?"

"I took your advice not to look at the face until the very end, but I always wake up."

"What about the other parts of your dream?"

"The tree is easy. I'm sure we agree upon that."

"We do?"

"Freud’s cigar. But why am I so terrified?”

He shuffles in his chair. He has a tic, fingering the knot in his tie. His blue eyes camouflage any flickering desire. What I know of his personal life: single. The wedding band came off in mid-analysis. The beard a week later. I fantasized I was the cause. But any attempts to discern the facts were met with polite, firm rebuttals.

He has a technical term for my condition. Like everything, it goes back to childhood. Feelings I have transferred upon him. I dream about him every night. Frolicking in bathtubs full of champagne, acrobatics from the Kama Sutra, tongues in forbidden places, moistened with lubricious oils.

Last week I entered his office with buttons unclasped; he discussed my seductiveness with clinical formality. My breasts no more than meat upon bones.

But dreams are his livelihood. They get him going. He straightens against the chair. His eyes rivet. He peels my mind like a knife on fish. A single vein protrudes on his forehead. He purses his lips. Rapt attentiveness.

"What do you know of deserts?" he asks. He’s sounding the bottom, fishing. A psychiatrist, Dr. Bridgestone catches all sorts.

"Snakes I guess. Gila Monsters. Vultures?"

"Vultures?"

"Don't they live there? That's not what you're asking?"

"Sterile. That's the word that comes to mind. Your dream contrasts potency and sterility. A diptych of the struggle within you."

"My barrenness."

"Yes."

It’s a theme from my first marriage, Gigolet, who I met in college. He was African American, my rebellion against parents who sent me to all the right private schools, tutoring, Columbia. Dad had mapped it all out. Even to where I would someday sit in his real estate firm monitoring insider bets it wouldn't rain in August in Iowa. All I had to do was get a B.A. I married instead.

Gigolet was leftist. He wore dreadlocks, played the sitar, was an Olympic swimmer and tennis pro whose father, a prince, died young. His mother remarried and Gigolet the angry stepchild got sent overseas. He spoke cockney but lapsed into French when angry. A composer for Off-Broadway musicals with the typical creative vices. The drugs I endured, the promiscuity I couldn’t. When an actress filed a paternity suit against him, I split.

Gigo and I tried to conceive. We failed even with the prayers my fundamentalist mother unloaded who believed she had inside connections to the Most High. Gigo and I attended a clinic. The doctors asked Gigo to ejaculate into a cup. A future king sitting on a stool with a stack of Playboys beside him. They could find nothing wrong with him, so it had to be me.

"You think it's that, don't you?" I asked.

Dr. Bridgestone hummed. "Yes. A penis in the desert. What an accurate depiction of your first marriage."

"But what about the thing chasing me?"

"I think it’s Harold."

Husband number two. Who wore his pajamas inside out because he hated seams. Who believed that if you kept dead cockroaches around, the sight would scare off their comrades.

"You wanted to get rid of him but couldn't?"

After our divorce, Harold showed up at odd times. If I went on a date, he’d park his car outside my house. He never got out of the car. Sometimes I thought he might have tagged me, but my mechanic could never find it. The police were reluctant. "Just how is he harassing you?" I wasn't about to tell them about all the kinkiness: the chains, costumes, high heels, and whips. How sometimes when he pulled out a knife, I feared for my life.

It took years to trust Dr. B. Psychotherapy was an assembly line in reverse. Instead of the workers installing the parts, the machine—me—got broken down. I feared at the end nothing would be left but loose connections: tubes, hoses, nuts and bolts. The parts came in a variety of experiences: my father whom I took baths with until the age of eleven; a mother who drank herself to sleep and was periodically carted off for recovery; an uncle who exhibited himself at a family picnic under the guise of answering the call of nature; a high school boyfriend who left me at a football game until I found him hunkered down with my best friend in the backseat of my sedan; a borderline date rape at a Sigma Nu party, the punch spiked with grain alcohol.

Dr. Bridgestone became a topographer. Mapping the peaks and valleys of my life. I imbued him with omnipotence: a fortune teller who could cast my entrails and predict the future.

"Why do I keep coming back to Harold?"

"You tell me?"

"Because I was kind of happy then?"

"That's a start."

It sure wasn't what I have now, selling real estate. How Dad did it day after day and felt good about it, I never knew. It wasn't having a series of sexual encounters with strangers in Paris, Copenhagen, Bali, Hokkaido either, nor drugs, cocaine an expensive rush but too quick like my orgasms, and Ativans which dropped me into a dizzy sea of forgetfulness.

"We shouldn't have been happy. Harold and I had nothing in common. He taught science in an inner city school. I sold fantasy underwear to private high end clients: Playboy Bunny costumes, the Devil, one of Britney Spears. Can you imagine someone of my intelligence doing that? The owner, Mr. Donaldson, had these lingerie presentations. He asked—required—that employees participate. We could wear body suits but who'd want to? Everybody'd know you were a prude or covering up a blemish. I think someone finally sued him for harassment."

"You didn't enjoy it?"

"On stage? No. You can't help but be self-conscious."

"We've wandered. You were speaking of Harold. With him you were happy."

"I didn't ask for much. I was still young."

"How?"

"Sexually. Oh sure, I'd read the Hite report but who can believe such things. Like sixteen percent of men actually perform fellatio on themselves. I don't know many who are physically capable. But Harold was a sensationalist. A ten every time. It was unnatural, humiliating at times but never dull. A passion I've never regained.”

Dr. Bridgestone was an anomaly. Talking about sex bored him. He leaned back in his chair, his arms on top of his head.

"You find my talking boring?" I asked.

"What makes you say that?"

"You were nodding."

"You caught me. I haven't been sleeping much."

"You wanna talk about it?"

He laughed. "I doubt I could afford the going rate."

I pressed on like the explorer I was named after. "Maybe what you're going through I could help you with."

"We're getting off the subject. Ethically, I can’t tell you about my problems.”

"Even if I'm willing to help."

"Even if you're willing to help." He glanced at his watch.

As always, he stopped our session to the minute. Forty-five minutes. $210. Insurance covered eighty percent with a lifetime allotment of fifty thousand. When I reached the maximum, I'd have to get another policy. They had clauses for psychiatric problems. I'd gone cold turkey for greater intervals, but the thought petrified me.

*

Therapy became my religion, it had it all: the high priests—Jung, Freud, Maslow, Erickson, Haley, Minuchin; the arcane language—countertransference, sublimation, triangling, cathexis; the rituals—confession, repentance, insight, acceptance; the sins—anger, hate, guilt, envy, rage. But what the specialists offered was understanding, the promise it all would someday make sense, and for one struggling, it was a priceless balm. I never met a shrink who didn't think they understood my problem and its solution: love, hope, happiness locked up in some channel waiting to be released.

The specialists hawked their wonder drugs; the latest samples that a company pushed or worse, a kickback arrangement the IRS never infiltrated. Dr. Bridgestone preferred Elavil, but my nightmares continued and he switched me to Prozac. He dismissed the reports that on the drug every one in a hundred thousand or so wanted to kill their young and floored the pedal when they saw a septuagenarian jaywalking. Under Prozac, feelings got pin-cushioned. A flat effect.

It made my job easier. Selling real estate never held much promise—the market was in decline, and though interest rates were dropping, the Young Urbans, my prime clients, were waiting for redistricting to see where the inner city kids would be bussed—but it got me through the day. I sold houses because in real estate women outperform men. Husbands might make more dough, but their wives pick. It took realty companies decades before they realized this.

My most recent house was a Cape Cod owned by a couple, the Rogers, both lawyers, who had recently divorced. Walking through the prospective home, I imagined their arguments, the salacious gambits, the whispering phone calls, the virulent lies. The Rogers represented themselves in court. They agreed to split everything: china, silverware, the proceeds from the house sale, but late one night Mr. Rogers had a change of heart and removed the outdoor sauna—with a crane. He shredded the plumbing, leaving gashes in the wall that had to be spackled.

My potential buyers were from Japan. Mr. Masazi was vice president of a zipper company. He had a small build, slightly bowed shoulders and smiled continuously. His suit was perfect, cuffs midline to his knuckles. His term for the house was mansion. I couldn't tell if that was good or bad. I played up to him rather than his wife. She rarely spoke, only whispering to him in Japanese. He inquired about the wall. I explained the incident between the Rogers. He shook his head. "So sorry, what love comes to these days."

I had sold to Japanese couples before. Many thought them parsimonious but I'd found them generous. They rarely looked at more than one house. The size always impressed them. So much larger than what they owned overseas. They paid cash. I got my commission within a week. Mr. Masazi wanted to crawl under the house. I discouraged it, "it'll ruin your suit."

He smiled and pulled from a pocket a crinkly Cellophane rainsuit. "No problem," he said and climbed into it. "True you have ants that eat wood?"

"Termites. But the house has been treated. It’s got a termite bond."

"Better to do it yourself."

I'm not sure Mr. Masazi would have known a termite if it had bit his nose. He shimmied under the house, peeled back the insulation and stuck a screwdriver in the joists and floorboards. When he returned, he spoke sharply to his wife who nodded, and then he turned to me, "We like it. You make arrangements? Yes?"

"Yes," I replied.

*

"I've been having dreams about the Masazis," I said. “This couple I sold a house to."

"Go on."

"I'm riding in an airplane. Actually, I'm flying it. I'm terrified of heights so it makes no sense. But I'm perfectly calm. I'm flying over the ocean and then in the distance I see an island. I go through some clouds. I recognize the island—Japan. I realize my plane is going to be shot down. I try to shut off the controls but the plane keeps going. As I cross the coast, I pull a knob hoping to cut off the engine. Out of the bomb bay falls..."

"A bomb?"

"No. Mr. and Mrs. Masazi. As he falls he has this sad, betrayed look. He shakes his fists at me. He tries to fly, flapping his arms to no avail. Tries to grab his wife. But it's his look that gets me: as if I've deceived him."

He nestles his chin into his palm and crosses his legs. "I see," he says, which means he has no clue. Looking into his eyes, the soul's reflecting pools, I read somewhere, I imagine the face of a child fathered by Dr. Bridgestone: reclined brow and balanced nose, delphinium eyes, a perfectly symmetrical face indicative of high intelligence.

He yawns, the tired look of a long distance runner. “I’m not sure we are getting anywhere.”

"I thought that's what you wanted."

"Frankly, I don't see why you keep coming. Surely there are cheaper ways to get friends?"

"What right have you to say that?" Angry. I could break things. A crystal hexagonal paperweight is within reach; the window within range. Conk some guy on the head three stories below. He'd never know what hit him.

"You don't come here for insight. You don't need me."

"You're wrong. I want..."

"What?"

"Well...to be around you, I guess."

"That's exactly what I'm referring to."

"What's wrong with caring about someone I've spent the past two years with."

"It’s called transference. We have discussed this numerous times."

"I've checked around. I know you moved into an apartment on Belford. You recently got divorced. You got the Mercedes. Your wife got everything else. You're single. Just like me."

"So you're a snoop."

"No one can hide in Cranston."

"What does it matter? You're my patient. It ends there."

"What if I stopped coming to see you? What then?"

He shakes his head. When Harold and I fought and I got the upper hand, he provided the same gesture. I misinterpreted the resignation as a victory rather than a segue.

"Our relationship is confined to this office," Dr. Bridgestone concludes, empty promises, fruitless as the mating of jackasses.

After dismissing me against my will, he called two months later. A bolt of AT&T blue. He wanted to buy a house. "You seem the practical choice. I know you won't bilk me."

Considering his income, his tastes were modest: three thousand square feet, a pool, enclosed garage, automatic sprinklers, security system, fireplace, ceiling fans. He wanted something in the country away from Earlridge, prominently known as Doctor's Row, elegant mansions on high bluffs, million dollar homes that in a bigger city would sell for several times that. We agreed to meet at my office. He was reading his cell phone in his Mercedes when I drove up. With Serengeti sunglasses atop his head, he'd dressed in a sports coat and slacks. As he got out of the car, I noticed his huskiness. At work his tailored suits hid that part. "I hope I haven't taken you away from anything important," he said.

"No. I work Saturdays," I replied, though this morning I had met Jean for a tennis match. A quick change out of my tennis clothes into a lavender business suit and pumps and I was ready. My office was cramped. I shared it with three men. Cluttered with papers, our desks lined the walls, and smelled of tobacco. Against the far wall was a poster board of Polaroids of houses on the market. "Any suggestions?" he asked.

"Appearances are deceiving," I said. ''Houses have histories just like people. Termites, powder post beetles, dry rot. A house can be undermined and no one would know it."

"I thought there were laws?"

"The laws say you must tell if you know. But any homeowner with a little knowledge and a paintbrush can deceive."

"I'd like to stick to something modern," Dr. Bridgestone said.

"No guarantee but it's usually safer."

Five years difference in the age of houses meant one to two thousand dollars in my pocket. Unassuming, he'd swallowed the bait without a moment's hesitation. "A swimming pool would be nice. An outdoor Jacuzzi."

I showed him some homes on my iPad. "I don't like the lawn. Too many trees. Not enough square footage, the trimming looks moldy. Too provincial. I don't like wood paneling." Nothing satisfied him. I considered asking him about his childhood.

"Have you thought about building?" I asked.

"A royal pain in the ass. I swore after Marla and I got ours completed, I'd never go through that again."

A breakthrough, the first time he'd mentioned his wife but it stalled in the air. To settle things, and for that reason alone, he picked another house.

Dr. Standish Cronin and his family had recently moved to Idaho. He worked as a psychologist. A standard upper middle class home but with several accouterments—swimming pool, ceiling fans, modern kitchen, a deck, an insert, a garage with automatic door opener, centipede lawn with sprinklers. The Cronins had owned a Malamute and cut a doggie entrance in the back door. Before they'd left I'd asked them to fix it but they'd forgotten. Large enough for a juvenile or vagrant to climb through. For that reason I had not put out a For Sale sign, an advertisement to vandals.

We walked from room to room. The carpet had been fogged, but fleas bit my legs. I fought the urge to scratch. I was one of those who attracted the vermin: not enough garlic or vitamin B in my diet. Dr. Bridgestone appeared unscathed.

"What do you think?" I asked.

"Not bad. I've met Dr. Cronin, but I didn't know where he lived. What's he asking?"

"Eight twenty seven—five."

"And what do you think he'd take?"

"He'd probably come off it a bit."

We entered the bedroom. "What are these marks over the walls?" he asked, little flecks that resembled wood shavings. Every wall had them and the ceiling too.

"Those were mirrors," I said. Dual track lighting lined the ceiling. Dr. Bridgestone chuckled.

"Better to be seen than heard."

I remembered the room. As I'd supervised the housecleaning, I'd heard one of the workers shout, followed by giggling. While clearing a closet she'd uncovered a stack of porno magazines.

Stuffed beneath them was an inflatable anatomically correct female doll. She'd never seen such a thing and wanted to take it home to her husband. I like to think Dr. Cronin used the model in his practice, but with all the mirrors I wondered.

What happened next defied logic. Put two strangers on a ship in the Riviera, or looking over the railing at Niagara, or sharing a seat in front of a Monet at the Louvre and a synchronicity occurs that transforms them into pulsating Pleistocenes. Dr. Bridgestone grasped my shoulder. I stiffened. I closed my eyes; he spun me around. He fingered my buttons. He whispered, "Do you protest?"

"No," my voice trembled. 

It was important to him that I receive satisfaction. My first lover in years to show such consideration. When we'd finished we lay side by side, buffered by tutti-frutti deodorized carpeting. Unable to contain himself, he laughed, "Can you believe this? I've just ruined myself."

"This was consensual," I replied, surprisingly angry, the mood ruined.

"Explain that to my Board."

"Why does it all have to center around you? That's what I hated about Harold. He was an egotistical bastard who enjoyed hurting me in my most exposed areas and I didn’t stand up to him. You make us believe we're the center of things, but you never surrender control. I get it now.”

"And that surprises you?"

"Not anymore."

I didn't see Dr. Bridgestone again. Later, I noticed that his name had been taken off the marquee at the office park. He gave of himself, free of charge. I gave too but the cost wasn't as high, and I got cured. I never felt the need to go to a therapist again.

"I'm being chased through the wilderness. I hide behind a tree. I don't know if he can see me. But I don't want him to find me. As he approaches, I glimpse his face. Dr. Bridgestone. He holds in one hand the jawbone of an ass. He sees me and swings the jawbone at me, but I am undaunted. I pick up a tree limb and chase him with it. I whack him on his head, back and shoulders. Terrified, he flees, disappearing into the darkness where the wild beasts roam."

I stop the recording. The marvelous thing about recording is that it adds nothing. No analysis. Only surrenders to what is given. And it can be played again and again. In delight. In sheer delight.

D. S. Stewart has published or has work forthcoming in dozens of magazines including Cimarron Review, Puerto Del Sol, Passages North, Shenandoah, Permafrost, Umbrella Factory, Jet Fuel and Bellevue Literary Review. Honors include an award from the Kansas Arts Council for Best Story–Fiction, grants through the Georgia Council for the Arts for literature, and several Pushcart nominations.

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