The Analyst (12 page)

“Yes.”

“I need a signature.”

Ricky hesitated. “Do you have some identification?”

“What?” the young man asked with a grin. “The uniform isn’t enough?” He sighed and twisted his body to show a plastic encased picture identification that was clipped to his shirt. “Can you read that?” he asked. “All I’m looking for is a signature, then I’m out of here.”

Ricky reluctantly opened the door. “Where do I sign?”

The deliveryman offered him the clipboard and pointed at the twenty-second line down. “Right there,” he said. Ricky signed. The deliveryman checked the signature, then ran an electronic tabulator across a bar code. The machine beeped twice. Ricky had no idea what that was about. Then the deliveryman handed him the small cardboard one-day express envelope. “Have a nice day,” he said, with a tone that implied that he didn’t really care one way or the other what sort of day Ricky had, but that he’d been taught to say it, and he was following designated procedure in any case.

Ricky paused in the doorway, staring down at the label on the envelope. The return address was from the New York Psychoanalytic Society, an organization that he was a longtime member of, but had had precious little to do with over the years. The society was something of a governing body for New York’s psychoanalysts, but Ricky had always shunned the politicking and connecting that accompanied any such organization. He went to an occasional society-sponsored lecture, and he flipped through the society’s semiannual journal to keep up with his peers and their opinions, but he avoided participating in the panel discussions the society held just as much as he avoided the holiday cocktail parties.

He stepped back into his waiting room, locking the doors behind him, wondering why the society had written to him at this point. He suspected that close to a hundred percent of the society was taking off on August vacations anyway. Like so many aspects of the process, in the psychoanalytic world, the summer month was sacred.

Ricky found the tab and pulled open the cardboard envelope. Inside there was a regular letter-sized envelope bearing the society’s embossed return address in the corner. His name was typed on the envelope, and along the bottom there was a single line: by overnight courier-urgent.

He opened the envelope and withdrew two sheets of paper. The first bore the masthead of the society. He saw immediately that the letter was from the organization’s president, a physician some ten years older than he, and whom he knew only vaguely. He could not recall ever conversing with the man, other than perhaps a handshake and forgettable pleasantry.

He read swiftly:

Ricky barely glanced at the signature, as he turned to the second sheet of paper. This, too, was a letter, but addressed to the society’s president, with copies to the vice president, ethics committee chairman, each doctor on the six-person ethics committee, the society’s secretary, and treasurer. In fact, Ricky realized, any physician whose name was attached in any way to the society’s leadership had received a copy. It read:

The letter was unsigned, but contained the name of a lawyer with a midtown address, and a psychiatrist with a suburban Boston listing.

Ricky’s hands shook. He was dizzy, and slumped against a wall of his apartment to steady himself. He felt like a prizefighter who has absorbed a pummeling-disoriented, in pain, ready to drop to the canvas when the bell leaves him utterly defeated, but still standing.

There was not a single word of truth in the letter. At least not one that he could discern.

He wondered whether that would make even the slightest bit of a difference.

He looked down at the lies on the page in front of him and felt a great contradiction within him. His spirits plummeted, his heart was cold with despair of his own, as if some tenacity had been sucked out of him, and at the same moment, replaced with a rage that was so far distant from his normal character that it was almost unrecognizable. His hands started to quiver, his face flushed red, and a thin line of sweat broke out on his forehead. He could feel the same heat growing at the back of his neck, in his armpits, and down his throat. He turned away from the letters, raising his eyes, looking around for something he could seize hold of and break, but he could find nothing readily available, which angered him even more.

Ricky paced back and forth across his office for a few moments. It was as if his entire body had acquired a nervous twitch. Finally, he flung himself down into his old leather chair, behind the head of the couch, and let the familiar creakings of the upholstery and the sensation of the polished fabric beneath his palms calm him, if only a little.

He had absolutely no doubt who had concocted the complaint against him. The false anonymity of the phony victim guaranteed that. The more important question, he recognized, was determining why. There was an agenda, he understood, and he needed to isolate and identify what it was.

Ricky kept a telephone on the floor next to his chair and he reached down and seized it. Within seconds he acquired the office number for the head of the Psychoanalytic Society from directory assistance. Refusing their electronic offer to dial the number for him, he furiously punched the numbers into the receiver, then leaned back, waiting for a response.

The telephone was answered by the vaguely familiar voice of his fellow analyst. But it had the tinny, emotionless, and flat quality belonging to a recording.

“Hello. You have reached the office of Doctor Martin Roth. I will be out of my office from August first to the twenty-ninth. If this is an emergency, please dial 555-1716, which will connect you with a service capable of reaching me while on vacation. You may also dial 555-2436 and speak with Doctor Albert Michaels at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, who is covering for me this month. If you feel this is a true crisis, please call both numbers and Doctor Michaels and I will both get back to you.”

Ricky disconnected the recording and dialed the first of the two emergency numbers. He knew the second number was for a second- or third-year psychiatric resident at the hospital. The residents covered for the established physicians during vacation times, providing an outlet where prescriptions superseded the talk that was the mainstay of the analytic treatment plan.

The first number, however, was an answering service.

“Hello,” a woman’s voice responded wearily. “This is Doctor Roth’s service.”

“I need to get the doctor a message,” Ricky said briskly.

“The doctor is on vacation. In an emergency, you should call Doctor Albert Michaels at-”

“I have that number,” Ricky interrupted, “but it’s not that sort of emergency and it’s not that sort of message.”

The woman paused, more surprised than confused. “Well,” she said, “I don’t know if I should call him during his vacation for just any message…”

“He will want to hear this,” Ricky said. It was difficult to conceal the coolness in his own voice.

“I don’t know,” the woman repeated. “We have a procedure.”

“Everyone has a procedure,” Ricky said bluntly. “Procedures exist to prevent contact. Not help it. People with small minds and vacant imaginations fill them with schedules and procedures. People of character know when to ignore protocol. Are you that sort of person, miss?”

The woman hesitated. “What’s the message?” she abruptly demanded.

“Tell Doctor Roth that Doctor Frederick Starks… you had better write this down because I want you to quote me precisely…”

“I am writing it down,” the woman said sharply.

“… That Doctor Starks received his letter, reviewed the complaint contained within, and wishes to inform him that there is not a single word of truth in any of it. It is a complete and total fantasy.”

“… Not a single word of truth… okay. Fantasy. Got that. You want me to call him with that message? He’s on vacation.”

“We’re all on vacation,” Ricky said, just as bluntly. “Some people just have more interesting holidays than others. This message will assuredly make his far more interesting. See that he gets it and gets it exactly the way I said it, or I’ll make absolutely damn sure that you’re looking for another job by Labor Day. Understand?”

“I understand,” the woman answered. She seemed undaunted by his threat. “But I told you: We have clear-cut and defined procedures. I don’t think this fits anything…”

“Try not to be quite so predictable,” Ricky said. “And that way you can save your job.”

Then he hung up the telephone. He leaned back in his seat. He couldn’t recall being that rude and demanding, not to mention threatening, in years. It, too, was against his nature. But then he recognized that he was likely to have to go against his nature in many ways over the next few days.

He returned his eyes to the cover letter from Dr. Roth and then read through the anonymous complaint a second time. Still inwardly battling with the outrage and indignation of the falsely accused, he tried to measure the impact of the letters and return to an answer to the question Why? He thought Rumplestiltskin clearly had in mind some specific effect, but what was it?

Some things came into focus, as he considered the question.

The complaint itself was far more subtle than one would first think, Ricky realized. The anonymous letter writer cried rape! but placed the time frame just distant enough to be beyond any legal statute of limitations. No real police detectives need be involved. Instead, it would trigger a cumbersome, ham-handed inquiry by the State Board of Medical Ethics. This would be slow, inefficient, and unlikely to get in the way of the game clock running. A complaint that involved the police would likely get an immediate response, and Rumplestiltskin clearly didn’t want the police involved in any fashion, other than utterly tangentially. And, by making the complaint provocative, yet anonymous, the letter writer maintained distance. No one from the Psychoanalytic Society would call to follow up. They would hand it over, just as they had apparently done, to a third agency, washing their hands as quickly as possible to avoid what might be a real stench.

Ricky read both letters over a third time, and saw an answer.

“He wants me alone,” he blurted out loud.

For a moment, Ricky leaned back, staring at the ceiling, as if the flat white above him reflected somehow with clarity. He spoke to no one, his voice seeming to echo a little in the office space, the sound almost hollow.

“He doesn’t want me to get help. He wants me to play him without even the slightest bit of assistance. And so, he took steps to make sure I couldn’t talk to anyone else in the profession.”