Dreamcatcher(8)

Henry nods in all the right places and hears it all without really listening. This is an old psychiatric skill.

God knows Henry and his old friends have their problems. Beaver is terrible when it comes to relationships, Pete drinks too much (way too much is what Henry thinks), Jonesy and Carla have had a near-miss with divorce, and Henry is now struggling with a depression that seems to him every bit as seductive as it does unpleasant. So yes, they have their problems. But together they are still good, still able to light it up, and by tomorrow night they will be together. For eight days, this year. That's good.

'I know I shouldn't, but I just get this compulsion early in the morning. Maybe it's low blood sugar, I think it might be that. Anyway, I ate the rest of the pound-cake that was in the fridge, then I got in the car and drove down to Dunkin' Donuts and I got a dozen of the Dutch Apple and four or - '

Henry, still thinking about the annual hunting trip that starts tomorrow, isn't aware of what he is saying until it is out.

'Maybe this compulsive eating, Barry, maybe it has something to do with thinking you killed your mother. Do you think that's possible?'

Barry's words stop. Henry looks up and sees Barry Newman staring at him with eyes so wide they are actually visible. And although Henry knows he should stop  -  he has no business doing this at all, it has absolutely nothing to do with therapy  -  he doesn't want to stop. Some of this may have to do with thinking about his old friends, but most of it is just seeing that shocked look on Barry's face, and the pallor of his cheek. What really bugs Henry about Barry, he supposes, is Barry's complacency. His inner assurance that there is no need to change his self-destructive behavior, let alone search for its roots.

'You do think you killed her, don't you?' Henry asks. He speaks casually, almost lightly.

'I  -  I never  -  I resent - '

'She called and she called, said she was having chest-pains, but of course she said that often, didn't she? Every other week. Every other day, it sometimes seemed. Calling downstairs to you. "Barry, phone Dr Withers. Barry, call an ambulance. Barry, dial 911."'

They have never talked about Barry's parents. In his soft, fat, implacable way, Barry will not allow it. He will begin to discuss them  -  or seem to  -  and then bingo, he'll be talking about roast lamb again, or roast chicken, or roast duck with orange sauce. Back to the inventory. Hence Henry knows nothing about Barry's parents, certainly not about the day Barry's mother died, falling out of bed and pissing on the carpet, still calling and calling, three hundred pounds and so disgustingly fat, calling and calling. He can know nothing about that because he hasn't been told, but he does know. And Barry was thinner then. A relatively svelte one-ninety.

This is Henry's version of the line. Seeing the line. Henry hasn't seen it for maybe five years now (unless he sometimes sees it in dreams), thought all that was over, and now here it is again.

'You sat there in front of the TV, listening to her yell,' he says. 'You sat there watching Ricky Lake and eating  -  what?  -  a Sara Lee cheesecake? A bowl of ice cream? I don't know. But you let her yell.'

'Stop it!'

'You let her yell, and really, why not? She'd been crying wolf her whole life. You are not a stupid man and you know that's true. This sort of thing happens. I think you know that, too. You've cast yourself in your own little Tennessee Williams play simply because you like to eat. But guess what, Barry? It's really going to kill you. In your secret heart you don't believe that, but it's true. Your heart's already beating like a premature burial victim beating his fists on the lid of a coffin. What's it going to be like eighty or a hundred pounds from now?'

'Shut - '

'When you fall, Barry, it's going to be like the fall of Babel in the desert. The people who see you go down will talk about it for years. Man, you'll shake the dishes right off the shelves - '

'Stop it!' Barry is sitting up now, he hasn't needed Henry to give him a hand this time, and he is deadly pale except for little red roses, one growing in each check.

' - you'll splash the coffee right out of the cups, and you'll piss yourself just like she did - '

'STOP IT!' Barry Newman shrieks. 'STOP IT, YOU MON?STER!'

But Henry can't. Henry can't. He sees the line and when you see it, you can't unsee it.

' - unless you wake up from this poisoned dream you're having. You see, Barry - '

But Barry doesn't want to see, absolutely will not see. Out the door he runs, vast bu**ocks jiggling, and he is gone.

At first Henry sits where he is, not moving, listening to the departing thunder of the one-man buffalo herd that is Barry Newman.

The outer room is empty; he has no receptionist, and with Barry gone, the week is over. Just as well. That was a mess. He goes to the couch and lies down on it.

'Doctor,' he says, 'I just f**ked up. 'How did you do that, Henry?

'I told a patient the truth.

'lf we know the truth, Henry, does it not set us free?

'No,' he replies to himself, looking up at the ceiling. 'Not in the slightest.

'Close your eyes, Henry.

'All right, doctor.'

He closes his eyes. The room is replaced by darkness, and that is good. Darkness has become his friend. Tomorrow he will see his other friends (three of them, anyway), and the light will once more seem good. But now . . . now ...