his external hard drive. And everything from his neighbor’s office is gone. It is flagrantly unfair to involve Morales. It is part of the Canadians’ studious methodical rampage.
Karen had said to Levy that night, “God is fair.”
Troy is gleeful. He and his friends point at Levy, implying these are his just desserts. Levy’s wearing only a T-shirt, or jeans, or boxer shorts. He looks in his closet—it’s empty. This is too much, the final straw. He finds Troy. They are standing on a balcony. Levy is bereft. Troy looks remorseful when he learns the details. Maybe it’s Levy’s clothes, or the hard drive, or his neighbor’s things. He anticipates a beleaguered recoup. The dream continues through several awakenings, but it’s the same dream.
If God is fair, Levy’s punishment is just. But what is his sin? Ridiculing Canadians? That seems unlikely. Maybe it’s a case of the evil tongue, building oneself up by putting others down. How does that relate to being with Karen in Santa Barbara?
Karen makes the unnhh sound. The nonverbal whine that starts off low, climbs high, and ends lower. It lasts about 3-5 seconds. Her son made that sound the other day during the phone call he’d overhead. Levy used to think it was a cute noise. Childlike. Renee made it often, too, and he learned most of what he knows about it from her.
While he tells himself it’s fine, it is instead his nightmare sound, a psychic fingernail on the blackboard. It’s regressed, childish, petulant, and emotionally retarded. It always bodes ill—if not immediately, then soon enough. The worst is that you don’t really know what’s the problem. It’s impossible to formulate a solution because it originates in the same inchoate place—brimming with primitive emotions and void of thought. It’s anti-verbal as much as non-verbal. It usually means, “I don’t like it”; however, there is a lot of latitude. You have to guess, because they won’t or can’t say. If you’re wrong, you’ll hear more of the sound, slightly modified. The high second note is higher and louder. At this point, it usually means “Now I’m mad,” but not always, and additional exegesis may be required. Failing to read her mind, her resentment lingers. If you really love her, you’d know what she means.
Could I tell Karen to stop uttering the unnhh? Levy wonders. Maybe “ask” her instead. She could take it. She seems tough. Note how he put “ask” in quotes. Think about it: Stop a habit she’s had for decades, which she’s probably unaware of? And which serves valuable psychic functions? Karen is less confounded by mucus when she’s relaxed; perhaps likewise, the unnhh will also fade with time.
He grades their sex. B- for him. Impotent three times out of eight. That’s a success rate of 62%. Then he realizes that’s a C. Or less.
Karen and Levy drive to the airport in an amiable silence. They find a bench set against a wall in a corner of the terminal building. They lean against the wall and each other, hold hands, and wait for the public address system to announce his flight’s boarding. They look at their calendars and set a date for her trip to Wheaton.
THREE
THE FLIGHT LANDS on time mid-afternoon. Joseph Levy gets into his truck and onto the highway and sets cruise control at 72 mph. He reflects on the visit. Mostly successful, worth a follow-up, promising.
He feels a strange exhaustion as he makes his way up to his house on the short gravel driveway. He parks, unloads, unpacks, and takes a long hot shower. He feels good drying off.
The next day he sees Ingrid, his body worker. Local friends, one of whom was battling cancer, referred him to her. Janusz had said, “She is nothing short of a miracle worker.”
It was true. Early on, she cured sciatica symptoms that had resisted the efforts of multiple healers and health care workers for years. The first day, she had dug into the flesh between the bottom of his hip and the bottom of his pelvis. She located an entrapped nerve and worked it loose. His symptoms were gone after the second session.
Ingrid is of indeterminate middle age, medium height, broad shoulders and hips, and sports tastefully dyed red hair. She wears no jewelry or cosmetics. A hippie mama. Her husband is a successful businessman, and their opulent Wheaton house reflects their wealth. They own another home in Santa Fe, where they hope to relocate after he retires. Her Doctor of Metaphysics diploma hangs proudly on one of the walls of her home office. Nearby are several certificates attesting to Excellence in Poetry. Her little old dog is demented but friendly. Its nails tinnily clack along the wood floors as it mindlessly wanders into and out of the treatment room.
Levy sees Ingrid once or twice a month while writing his book on prophecy. Sessions follow a scripted course, beginning with an ambiguous conversation. Is it therapy? Metaphysical counseling? A friendly chat, or something else? She loves Christ and knows the Bible, so their conversations are lively.
Levy uses increasingly non-subtle body language to hasten his lying on the table. He weighs pointing at the table in front of them and making the unnhh noise. Ingrid’s determined, though, and their talks rarely last less than a half hour. She rests against the left arm of the couch, while he leans against its back. She takes his hand and strokes it and looks into his eyes while they speak. If he doesn’t strain to turn his head to the left, he fails to make eye contact, instead gazing at the table. He tries not looking too longingly at it.
Briefly and mostly positively, Levy summarizes the West Coast trip.
He says, “Maybe I’ll move there to be with Karen. We’ll see.” Ingrid nods and smiles, light sparkling from her blue eyes. He adds, “She’s coming out soon.”
Today’s bodywork is refreshing and invigorating. As he finishes dressing, Ingrid comes in. She stands in front of Levy as he buckles his belt. He’s reminded how he’s had to move her hands away from his nipples during a couple of their previous sessions. Maybe she has sex with her clients. Who knows, Levy thinks. Not with me.
She waits for him to finish and says, “We sold our house last week. We’re moving to Santa Fe in two weeks. This will be our last session.”
“What?”
She takes his right hand in hers and pats it comfortingly.
“We got a good price and they want to move in right away.”
Then, conspiratorially, she says, “It sounds like you may be moving soon, too.”
“Me? Too?” He just met Karen. Ingrid is more important than Karen at this point. His impending relocation, so to speak, has no effect on his surprised dismay. It’s a big and sudden loss. And, there’s no time to say goodbye. No termination either—which may be the most important part of any psychosomatic treatment. Termination telescopes months or years of work into a handful of final sessions. Personal sharing, but never too much. And always sad but happy best wishes. A lot of work gets done during that final phase.
Limpid and languid from the massage, the exhaustion that had passed through Levy last night stirs again, like lightly beating wings. “OK,” he manages. “Good luck. Thanks for your help.”
It’s early March, cold and windy. Levy bundles up against the weather, picks up groceries, goes to the post office, and returns home. He’s off balance from the session. Ingrid’s been one of his only personal relationships in Wheaton, besides a trusted and effective body-worker. He takes a short nap and makes ready for yoga. He drives up the hill to the community college. The sun drops below the horizon as he enters the gym, and someone turns on the lights.
Middle-aged, paunchy, and white, the yoga instructor
