and unsnapped the latches. Everything was there—a worn copy of Das Kapital, my collected papers through the ninth grade, a six-pack of Diet Pepsi, and various meds. The only clothes inside were my pajamas. “What a nice gesture! Thanks a zillion.” I shouted, in case Cousin Iris was around to appreciate the irony; she was the one who had first introduced me to the sweet sensations of nude slumber.
I searched in the pockets of my father’s blue blazer that I was wearing and felt the envelope containing the two-page letter from my parents, a kind of report on this latest home leave, which I was supposed to hand to the attendants. I could read it if I wanted to.
The air had grown chilly as I waited, the darkening shadows of a November afternoon, the day after Thanksgiving, blocking out the tentative sunshine of earlier in the day. One by one the windows of neighboring houses lit up. After a while the only dark house on the street was my family’s, with all the lights off so as not to give me any ideas about being welcomed back. As if I would willingly return to their stares and smirks. I have my dignity. I imagined them scurrying about in the dark, Father occasionally dialing Loiseaux and asking in a whisper what was keeping the shuttle. Because frankly, there was some urgency here: the client (never “patient”) is not to be trusted within spitting range of certain family members. The problem is not just rudeness, though there is certainly enough of that. The fear is that the client in question might resort to violence. That has not happened before, but there are unresolved anger issues that could, if allowed to boil over, erupt into something of a physical nature. Whoa, there, people! Somebody might think the worst about me, that I might be a potentially fratricidal maniac, interfamilial fornicator, self-made orphan.
I knew all this without ripping open Father’s envelope or reading the additional letter my mother had pinned to my shirt for the eyes of Dr. Clara. The truth is, the family was scared of me. Every little nutty act, every eccentricity, every non sequitur in the course of family chitchat was seen as a harbinger of mayhem. If I squashed down the yams during Thanksgiving dinner, who was to say I wouldn’t pummel Brother Tedious on top of his melon head with something blunt and heavy? If I walked around the house naked with an erection, I was deemed capable of doing something carnal to Cousin Iris. Yesterday I flicked my Bic lighter over and over throughout the day while sitting in the den, holding the phone to my ear, pretending to be in deep conversation, all the time going flick flick, until everybody breathed a sigh of relief when the butane ran out. I could go on flicking until my thumb fell off and not generate more than a spark.
I tried to tell everyone, from Dr. Clara to Mother and Father, that I was not in any way dangerous to others. I played with the lighter until it ran out of gas and saw Father sneaking glances at me. I locked into his gaze. “Don’t worry, Dad, I’m not going to set anything on fire.”
I had to laugh at the scared look he shot me. Like it had not crossed his mind that I was a pyro, but now that I mentioned it, well, that certainly gave them all something to think about. The truth is that I can’t deny something if I’m not directly asked. Are you homicidal, my child? No, sir. The world suffers from a lack of communication. Instead of asking me outright, Dr. Clara tries to look into my head through a variety of lenses and mirrors. Dreams, inkblots, free association, automatic writing, regressive hypnosis, and better than all, her own invention—the Confessional.
Dr. Clara, Chief Mistress of the Head Game, does her work in the dark. The patients gather in the parlor with the lights off and the room pitch-black. The slightest sound is magnified. The rustle of our clothes as we shift in our chairs, the bated breath, the whimper, the sigh, all grow into a larger dimension. We take turns confessing, as to a judge, to crimes we have or have not committed. That is the rule: we can admit to something we have actually done, or we can admit to an imagined transgression. What fun.
Harley got out to load my suitcase in back of the van. He is a big fellow, a true Viking Son of Norway, a former WWF Smackdown star with long, flowing curls and a sculpted physique, known in the ring as the Happy Scandihoovian. After he retired from sweat and sadism, he was hired for his firm ways and cool head, and even now that he is off steroids, it’s best not to get on his bad side. He has been known to subdue a rowdy passenger with the vise grip of his thumb and forefinger on a shoulder deltoid muscle, all the while smiling and murmuring endearments. Now, now, my precious, settle down and enjoy the ride, or tonight Dr. Clara will withhold milk and cookies. Unprovoked, he is a gentle giant.
“There you are, you little troublefucker.”
“And a happy Thanksgiving to you,” I muttered.
He went on as if he hadn’t heard me. “Aren’t you glad to see your old buddy Harley? I drove here quick as I could, on account that your family thinks you’re on the verge of doing something really wacko. Are you going wacko on us again?” Harley came around the front of the van and slid the door open for me. I resisted going in because I didn’t like the backseat being locked from the outside, the passengers strapped in, and a steel-mesh grill caging them in back.
“Let me ride in front?”
“I can’t take any chances.”
“Hey, this is your buddy, Adam.”
“I was told you were going through an episode.”
“Who you going to believe, HH? Me or that bizarre family of mine?”
“Good point. I’ll believe your family. They’re the ones paying the bills.”
“Well, I’m not sitting in back of your booby wagon.”
“You going to make me work for my pay? On a holiday, yet? I was hoping we’d have a friendly ride back to the ’Tute.”
“There’s nothing friendly about getting straitjacketed in back.” I realized my voice was rising into its distinctive quavery trill, so I took a moment to breathe. No point in sounding shrill when you’re trying to get upgraded from dangerous cargo to companionable passenger.
“Relax. I’ll play music, take the scenic route, listen to your ramblings.”
“How about I ride shotgun and stay quiet?” I did the zipping-of-the-lips thing and smiled my best ingratiating smile. Watch out for psychos smiling. We’ve got the disarming, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly grin down to a fine art. How else do you think serial killers get their victims to stumble into ditches, check into horrible motels, stroll down dark alleys? I grinned until Happy Harley caved.
“Okay. But not a peep out of you for the whole trip.”
Oh, but I wanted to peep. It took every bit of resolve not to wheedle, whine, whimper, and weep. As we rolled down Hyacinth Street, where I’d lived off and on since birth, I felt a prick of sadness that only got sharper as we turned down the meandering road, its skeletal elms lit by the yellow glow of faux-historical streetlamps. You can’t go home again, and again, and again, without on a given night leaving forever. I was blasted right out of my fantasies by the knowledge that this was potentially the final parting. A death of sorts.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I was about to make the leap from quirky childhood to fully unleashed adolescence. Out on our porch stoop, waiting for the van, I’d felt the breeze of liberation for the first time in the two months I’d been home. They were coming to take me away, and I was exceedingly glad. Yes, good-bye, Mom, good-bye, Dad, good-bye, Iris, good-bye, Ted, I’m off to Institute Loiseaux. Better known as a home for the cleverly complicated. It’s not a place for everybody. The entrance requirements are rigorous. It takes more than being challenged in the conventional ways, reality-warped, emotionally stunted, mentally fevered, attention-deficient. You gotta be cute to get into Loiseaux. No bobbing heads here, no fatties, droolers, spitters, or snifflers.
