Read Online Murdering Mr. Monti: A Merry Little Tale of Sex and Violence by Judith Viorst - Free Book Online Page B
Book: Murdering Mr. Monti: A Merry Little Tale of Sex and Violence by Judith Viorst
Read Free Book Online
Authors: Judith Viorst
Ads: Link
contracting botulism from canned foods that had been improperly sealed). When Josephine’s allergist strongly recommended psychotherapy, Mr. Monti found her another allergist. When Josephine’s Aunt Minnie strongly recommended psychotherapy, Mr. Monti quit talking to Aunt Minnie. And when I, in a moment intimate enough to tempt me to try a constructive intervention, also recommended psychotherapy, Mr. Monti almost put on his trousers. “If my daughter’s got problems,” he finally said, in a very unloverly voice, “let her tell me about them. Why should I pay good money to some jerk who’s going to teach her to hate her father?”
• • •
But then, in April and May, as the conflict between her father and Wally intensified, so did Josephine’s rituals and rashes. In addition to which she lost—and she was a skinny girl to begin with—seventeen pounds. Just as the doctors were talking about putting Josephine in the hospital, Mr. Monti tuned in to a local talk show. And there was Dr. Phony (excuse me, Foley), a genuine certified psychotherapist, assailing the “disconnectedness of our perniciously individualistic society” and denouncing the current focus on independence and separation as “a psychoanalytic plot against family life.” His message—that all neuroses stemmed from a failure to respect parental authority—spoke directly to Mr. Monti’s condition. And when Mr. Monti learned thatDr. Foley had a private practice in Washington, his joy was complete. Herr, at last, was the therapist for Josephine. Here was the man who’d be able to restore his daughter’s psychological health, while also restoring her to her father’s arms.
Three days a week, from 2 P.M. until 2:50 P.M., Josephine had therapy with Dr. Foley, driven into the District and back by one of Mr. Monti’s overpaid flunkies. The flunky would go for a snack at the diner on upper Connecticut Avenue, just a few blocks from where Josephine got shrunk, and my job—on that August day—was to intercept her before she started her session and somehow talk her into seeing Wally.
“Mrs. Kovner, hi, what are you doing here?” Josephine nervously asked me, as I came hurrying over to her in the lobby.
I had given my Josephine tactics a considerable amount of thought and had opted for the Grand Emotion approach. “Wally needs you,” I said to her, gripping her thin arm. “Please—he’s waiting around the corner. Please come with me.”
Can I be frank with you? If I’d had my choice, I would not have been trying to coax Josephine into coming with me to see Wally. She was not the kind of girl I wanted for him. It’s true that she was good. She was kind. She was loving. She was probably even intelligent. And she was—in her wispy, wraithlike way—quite beautiful, But when I thought of what I’d consider the ideal woman for Wally, I thought “feisty.” I thought “zesty.” I thought “competent” and “savvy.” I thought “fun.” I didn’t think of someone who suffered from fear of botulism, had a tormented attachment to her father, andmight, in my view (despite my deep commitment to growth and change), be a permanent basket case.
Don’t imagine I didn’t wonder why Wally had chosen to fall for a permanent basket case. Don’t imagine I didn’t have a few theories. But also don’t imagine I would ever refuse, if Wally asked for my help, to help him to achieve his heart’s desire, who was—at the moment—chewing on a cuticle and shaking her curly head in a slo-mo “no.”
“I can’t,” she wailed. “I can’t see Wally right now. Tell him I’m really sorry, but I can’t.”
The elevator arrived and Josephine, showing more backbone than I would have predicted, got in and pressed the button for the third floor. I was right behind her. I waited a moment and then I asked, as we rode up to Dr. Foley, “Maybe you at least could tell me why.”
The door opened at 3 and an ancient woman hobbled on just as
• • •
But then, in April and May, as the conflict between her father and Wally intensified, so did Josephine’s rituals and rashes. In addition to which she lost—and she was a skinny girl to begin with—seventeen pounds. Just as the doctors were talking about putting Josephine in the hospital, Mr. Monti tuned in to a local talk show. And there was Dr. Phony (excuse me, Foley), a genuine certified psychotherapist, assailing the “disconnectedness of our perniciously individualistic society” and denouncing the current focus on independence and separation as “a psychoanalytic plot against family life.” His message—that all neuroses stemmed from a failure to respect parental authority—spoke directly to Mr. Monti’s condition. And when Mr. Monti learned thatDr. Foley had a private practice in Washington, his joy was complete. Herr, at last, was the therapist for Josephine. Here was the man who’d be able to restore his daughter’s psychological health, while also restoring her to her father’s arms.
Three days a week, from 2 P.M. until 2:50 P.M., Josephine had therapy with Dr. Foley, driven into the District and back by one of Mr. Monti’s overpaid flunkies. The flunky would go for a snack at the diner on upper Connecticut Avenue, just a few blocks from where Josephine got shrunk, and my job—on that August day—was to intercept her before she started her session and somehow talk her into seeing Wally.
“Mrs. Kovner, hi, what are you doing here?” Josephine nervously asked me, as I came hurrying over to her in the lobby.
I had given my Josephine tactics a considerable amount of thought and had opted for the Grand Emotion approach. “Wally needs you,” I said to her, gripping her thin arm. “Please—he’s waiting around the corner. Please come with me.”
Can I be frank with you? If I’d had my choice, I would not have been trying to coax Josephine into coming with me to see Wally. She was not the kind of girl I wanted for him. It’s true that she was good. She was kind. She was loving. She was probably even intelligent. And she was—in her wispy, wraithlike way—quite beautiful, But when I thought of what I’d consider the ideal woman for Wally, I thought “feisty.” I thought “zesty.” I thought “competent” and “savvy.” I thought “fun.” I didn’t think of someone who suffered from fear of botulism, had a tormented attachment to her father, andmight, in my view (despite my deep commitment to growth and change), be a permanent basket case.
Don’t imagine I didn’t wonder why Wally had chosen to fall for a permanent basket case. Don’t imagine I didn’t have a few theories. But also don’t imagine I would ever refuse, if Wally asked for my help, to help him to achieve his heart’s desire, who was—at the moment—chewing on a cuticle and shaking her curly head in a slo-mo “no.”
“I can’t,” she wailed. “I can’t see Wally right now. Tell him I’m really sorry, but I can’t.”
The elevator arrived and Josephine, showing more backbone than I would have predicted, got in and pressed the button for the third floor. I was right behind her. I waited a moment and then I asked, as we rode up to Dr. Foley, “Maybe you at least could tell me why.”
The door opened at 3 and an ancient woman hobbled on just as
Similar Books
