Chapter 25

Mathews’ “Temp” secretary wasn’t exactly comfortable meeting me the next morning. I’d arrived early, waiting outside until she opened the office at 8:45. I entered, continuing to listen to my headphones and took my usual seat in the corner. I removed the phones for a moment and introduced myself as Charles Randall. She was obviously nervous with a stranger, a possible “whacko” stranger sitting alone in the office with her. When she asked, “Will the other one,” she consulted her appointment book, “...Charlie...Will he be arriving late?”

I answered “No,” replacing the headphones over my head and continuing the hum of a quiet, almost imperceptible monotone. I was thoroughly immersed in the listening to a tape I’d found at Sara’s, “Ambient 1 / Music for Airports,” a peculiar, but calming piece of music by Brian Eno. Sara had introduced it to me on an occasion when I was tied up in knots, one of the times I was ready for an anxiety attack. The low hum she had suggested I voice while listening had always worked in the past, vibrating through my chest, giving me a calmed state of mind. I definitely needed that this morning. As I continued the humming - “Ohmming,” as Sara had called it - I became more relaxed and prepared for Mathews.

The temp’s  eyes continued glancing up at me as she prepared her desk for the day.

“Oh, Charlie,” I said, after removing the headphones. I had forgotten she was still waiting for an explanation. “Charlie won’t be making it. He’s out to sea.”

“Oh...of course,” she said.

I went back to my listening and ohmming.

She went back to her own anxiety and began to ready the percolator.

Trying not to disturb me, she said “Coffee?” I slowly lifted my heavy eyelids and turned. Her expression, the moving of her eyes back and forth over my own told me she had just seen something that disturbed her. It might have disturbed me too, but, at the moment, I was unaware that...Charlie was here.

Mathews’ arrival was without fanfare. The conversation proceeded without irritation. I definitely was uncomfortable.

Mathews was an outspoken man. A man who made a point of letting you know what he thought when he was annoyed. I couldn’t believe my New York departure hadn’t set him off. I was due for a reprimand, a warning, something. I wouldn’t have been surprised by a threat to kick my ass out. But... he surprisingly understood. He was so much the doctor, so much the compassionate, consummate professional, that he was totally unbelievable. So, if he wasn’t going to talk about it, I would.

“Jesus, Mathews. We’ve been nowhere for 20 minutes now. We’ve both had 2 cups of coffee. You’ve told me how much you missed having me experience, what... ‘Julios,’ ‘The 5^th Season,’ ‘Embassy Gardens,’ and what was the other 4-star restaurant...?”

“The Penguin House,” he cheerfully answered.

“’The Penguin House.’ So, when are you going to stop the crap and ask what the hell got into me?”

“You’ve already saved me the trouble of asking. Is there an answer?” He started packing that pipe of his. He hadn’t smoked it once in New York, at least in front of me. Was it some kind of authority symbol for him? Did it give him a feeling of power over his patients?

“Could you not light that?” I asked in my most respectful voice. “I’ve acquired an aversion to pipe smoke recently. Don’t know why, but it gives me a hell of a headache. Should see a doctor, I guess.”

“Yes,” he said. His tone was different.

“Yes, I should see a doctor, or yes, you’ll not light up?”

He showed the first sign of honesty at that moment. We were many minutes into my expensive hour, and he was finally giving me the Mathews I knew...the Mathews I was paying for. “Yes, I’ll not light up, you little shit,” he said as he moved over to his intercom. -Click- “Miss Parker, if Ms. Sobel calls, send it through,” -click-, and then back at me. “...and no, you shouldn’t see a doctor.” He leaned across the desk, still not taking a breath, “...you’ve got one. A damn good one. A crazy one for putting up with your bullshit, but nevertheless, the best you’re likely to find, given the condition you’re in.”

I smiled. I was enjoying this now. But, then, the inexplicable happened. Words came stumbling out...falling forward, out of control... “A good hand knows it’s a good hand because a good player counts the cards and can make a bad hand a good hand, if he’s playing with a bad player. You play cards, Doctor Mathews?”

“No, CHARLIE.  I’ve always wanted to but, you know, never had the time to learn and get good. You’ve got to be good to survive, right? Especially if you play the high stakes. Is that right, Charlie?”

I was feeling squeezed. Mathews was coming at me from the front, and that...that other influence, and that’s all it was now, an influence...I’d frozen the son of a bitch in that wave of my NY nightmare.  So, that’s all it could be. The influence was coming at me from my blind side...trying to put words in my mouth. I didn’t want to talk cards, tables, stakes...

I reached for a cigarette from the box on the coffee table. “Of course you’ve got to be good, better than good. You have to have a little ice water in your veins, and a lot of fire in your eyes. You know what I mean?”

Suddenly, I was up on my feet, turning my back to him. God, damn it. What was going on? That’s not what I wanted to say. Get a hold on, I muttered to myself. I squeezed my eyes shut. I hummed ever so quietly to myself...just a single tone. I knew if I kept it low enough, Mathews wouldn’t hear me, and that...the other one wouldn’t either. Just a few seconds, that’s all I needed. Get centered, freeze him, freeze him out. I thought hard...so hard.

It couldn’t have been more than five...ten seconds at the most and there, there was his hand coming around from my backside, holding a cigarette lighter, no it was a pipe lighter. The flame was long, then short as his thumb rolled across the little gear that controlled the butane. “Light, Charlie?”

I swung around. We were eye to eye. The flame was reflecting across his pupil, making a primitive light to illuminate the primitive cage I thought he was trying to lock me in. I raised the volume of my drone. The single tone was pushing everything away...vibrating down over the flame...pushing the air and making it flicker...then disappear. A single bead of sweat ran down my forehead and dropped onto the hand holding the disarmed weapon. Mathews stood there, just a moment before trying to re-light...but that was the moment I needed.

“Charles...Charles Randall is the name, doctor. Remember? And no, Charlie doesn’t need a light.” I stepped away. “This Charlie character is somebody else, not me.”

“Of course. Just an innocent slip, Charles. Very easy to say Charlie to someone named Charles.” He placed the pipe lighter back on the table and sat down, nodding toward the cigarette. “Does Charles want to smoke that cigarette?”

I was in control again. I never knew what it was that for those brief few moments had shook my resolve, but I was okay now. I sat down and held the cigarette up in front of Mathews to demonstrate. “C’mon, Mathews. You can talk normal. You can talk normal, can’t you?” I continued without waiting for an answer. “’Ice water in the veins and fire in your eyes...’ I don’t know if I’m quoting that right, but on the flight coming back, the old film they played... ‘The Player’ I think it was called, had this guy, actor named Azante...Azzantte, something like that, at a table. Baccarat I think. I think I remember that kind of table at the Mirage, and he told his girlfriend in the story, something like ‘ice water in the veins and fire in your eyes’ and he was rolling this cigarette he had—lit too—between his fingers, you know, like a coin? Ever see a coin rolled...?” I tried to roll the unlit cigarette over my fingers, until Mathews took it and placed it back in the box.

“You’ve made your point,” he said, adjusting his position and settling into his doctor attitude. “We’re still going to have to deal with the Charlie issue. You understand that of course. That’s the key, Charles. You have to accept that. Now let’s work together to make Charlie okay to talk about...without any new…wrinkles. Sara did tell me about your nightmare in Central Park, you know.  Deal?” He gave me that sincere look, the look I wanted to believe, the look of a man I wanted to trust.

“I guess I should tell you about the ‘lake’ and the ‘cove’,” I said. “Then you can tell me why you were going to let Sobel interrupt this session.”

“That was just to get you going,” he declared, as if it should have been obvious.

I was too much into wanting him back on my team right then to get pissed, so I just nodded. “Figures,” I said.

“I’m hungry as hell,” he said. “You?”

He was good. I didn’t feel he believed it, really...about the person sitting in front of him being a man named Charles Randall, but... he had his reasons, because he was very good. At that moment, I knew I was better off working with him than trying to beat him. He had shown me he was still every inch the psychiatrist he’d been before they stripped him of his practice. Hypnotherapy had to be to Mathews what a firecracker must have been to Oppenheimer.

It was 12:30, and we were arguing who was going to buy lunch as we passed through the reception and out to the hall. Going down in the elevator, I couldn’t help but wonder what his temp thought of this somewhat strange patient going to lunch with his doctor. Did she have any idea how inseparable we were becoming? Did Charles?  No one was aware of what was beginning to happen. No one except… Charlie.