Read Online Ballad of the Black and Blue Mind by Anne Roiphe - Free Book Online
Authors: Anne Roiphe
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years ahead, not as many as there once were, but enough to appreciate. It could be good to be alive.
It wonât, said Mike Wilson, but nevertheless he agreed to meet with Dr. H. and try. All he had to lose was time and money. He had nothing better to do with his time and the money he had in the bank. The trip he and Lourdes were planning to take to the Norwegian fjords, the trip they had postponed until it was too late, that trip would be transformed into visits with Dr. H. Also, there was that other money, the money he wouldnât touch, in the safety deposit box, not his exactly, deep in the steel vault, two stories down from the street, a secret he vowed to keep from Dr. H.
Mike Wilson wanted to die, but not quite yet.
Mike Wilson dreamt he was in the studio and they were on-air and suddenly the anchor, Rory Cane, a man with wide lips and weary black eyes, began to whisper, and his voice got lower and lower and no one could hear him and the technicians were rushing around and sparks were flying from the wires strung from klieg lights and then the anchor took off his jacket and there was blood on his shirt. Someone had shot him.
Who shot him? asked Dr. H.
I donât know, said Mike Wilson. He was a good guy. He hadnât said a word against Mohammad or expressed any opinion on any matter at all. He was known to cheat at poker and a few people held it against him but I doubt they would shoot him.
Yes, said Dr. H.
He did once put his arm around Lourdes when we were covering the convention in Anaheim.
And? said Dr. H.
I didnât mind, said Mike Wilson. I didnât own her.
Uh-huh, said Dr. H.
You want to prescribe something for me? asked Mike Wilson. I have no objection to mind-altering drugs.
How much are you drinking? asked Dr. H.
Not enough, said Mike Wilson, not as much as when I was in Kuwait.
Iâll prescribe something, said Dr. H., but think of it as a thin blanket, hardly enough to keep out the frost, not enough to keep your heart pumping, just enough to let us talk.
All right, said Mike Wilson. But nothing was all right.
Lourdes wore her hair loose and long. It went down to the middle of her spine. It was dark brown and soft and her nose was too wide and too long but her eyesight was perfect and she missed nothing. She could get angry quickly and just as quickly her anger turned to lust or affection, or song. I could bring you a photograph, said Mike Wilson.
Just tell me, said Dr. H., I prefer your words.
Lourdes liked to frighten me by swimming too far out in the sea. She was a good swimmer but sometimes I could hardly see her and the waves were high and loud.
Lourdes ran every morning in the park. She often smelled of sweat and soap and her legs were strong enough to hold me down on the bed and no matter how I struggled she wouldnât let me up until Iâ. Mike Wilson stopped. This was not the sort of thing you talked about.
Dr. H. said, Tell me more about her.
Mike Wilson stopped talking. He felt a great pressure on his chest. Was he having a heart attack? He felt a hot flash on his face, a grief came over him and there were no words to describe it, no words that he could form in his throat, his non-cooperating tongue was still and he would have been weeping, if he was the sort of man who wept, instead he coughed, he shook his head from side to side, he seemed to have let out a sound, perhaps a sigh, but it was involuntary, and he rejected the sound he heard coming from his own body.
There was silence in the room. The analyst waited and the patient knew the analyst was waiting and he wished he could speak but he couldnât.
The analyst said, What would Lourdes have wanted for you after her death? Did you talk about it?
Mike Wilson said, She said she wanted me to be happy.
And did you believe her? asked Dr. H.
I donât know, said Mike Wilson.
It was six months later when Mike Wilson told Dr. H. that his second son, Ivan, had been out of touch with his parents
It wonât, said Mike Wilson, but nevertheless he agreed to meet with Dr. H. and try. All he had to lose was time and money. He had nothing better to do with his time and the money he had in the bank. The trip he and Lourdes were planning to take to the Norwegian fjords, the trip they had postponed until it was too late, that trip would be transformed into visits with Dr. H. Also, there was that other money, the money he wouldnât touch, in the safety deposit box, not his exactly, deep in the steel vault, two stories down from the street, a secret he vowed to keep from Dr. H.
Mike Wilson wanted to die, but not quite yet.
Mike Wilson dreamt he was in the studio and they were on-air and suddenly the anchor, Rory Cane, a man with wide lips and weary black eyes, began to whisper, and his voice got lower and lower and no one could hear him and the technicians were rushing around and sparks were flying from the wires strung from klieg lights and then the anchor took off his jacket and there was blood on his shirt. Someone had shot him.
Who shot him? asked Dr. H.
I donât know, said Mike Wilson. He was a good guy. He hadnât said a word against Mohammad or expressed any opinion on any matter at all. He was known to cheat at poker and a few people held it against him but I doubt they would shoot him.
Yes, said Dr. H.
He did once put his arm around Lourdes when we were covering the convention in Anaheim.
And? said Dr. H.
I didnât mind, said Mike Wilson. I didnât own her.
Uh-huh, said Dr. H.
You want to prescribe something for me? asked Mike Wilson. I have no objection to mind-altering drugs.
How much are you drinking? asked Dr. H.
Not enough, said Mike Wilson, not as much as when I was in Kuwait.
Iâll prescribe something, said Dr. H., but think of it as a thin blanket, hardly enough to keep out the frost, not enough to keep your heart pumping, just enough to let us talk.
All right, said Mike Wilson. But nothing was all right.
Lourdes wore her hair loose and long. It went down to the middle of her spine. It was dark brown and soft and her nose was too wide and too long but her eyesight was perfect and she missed nothing. She could get angry quickly and just as quickly her anger turned to lust or affection, or song. I could bring you a photograph, said Mike Wilson.
Just tell me, said Dr. H., I prefer your words.
Lourdes liked to frighten me by swimming too far out in the sea. She was a good swimmer but sometimes I could hardly see her and the waves were high and loud.
Lourdes ran every morning in the park. She often smelled of sweat and soap and her legs were strong enough to hold me down on the bed and no matter how I struggled she wouldnât let me up until Iâ. Mike Wilson stopped. This was not the sort of thing you talked about.
Dr. H. said, Tell me more about her.
Mike Wilson stopped talking. He felt a great pressure on his chest. Was he having a heart attack? He felt a hot flash on his face, a grief came over him and there were no words to describe it, no words that he could form in his throat, his non-cooperating tongue was still and he would have been weeping, if he was the sort of man who wept, instead he coughed, he shook his head from side to side, he seemed to have let out a sound, perhaps a sigh, but it was involuntary, and he rejected the sound he heard coming from his own body.
There was silence in the room. The analyst waited and the patient knew the analyst was waiting and he wished he could speak but he couldnât.
The analyst said, What would Lourdes have wanted for you after her death? Did you talk about it?
Mike Wilson said, She said she wanted me to be happy.
And did you believe her? asked Dr. H.
I donât know, said Mike Wilson.
It was six months later when Mike Wilson told Dr. H. that his second son, Ivan, had been out of touch with his parents
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