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Authors: Sarah Andrews
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secretary and bullied her into scheduling a half hour of the man’s time for what was certain to be a world-beating informational interview. She set me up for Tuesday of the following week. So much for connections.
By noon, I had drunk all of Betty’s coffee and had given audience to every little thought that was on her mind that day, which included five pet peeves about her nearest neighbors and some ingenious thoughts concerning how to get even with each, such as showing bulimic raccoons how to access the neighbors’ trash cans.
The phone rang at 11:56; it was for me. “It’s some probe,” Betty purred, handing the thing to me. “Says she’s returning your call. Something you haven’t told me about your mental state, Em?”
I smiled gleefully. “Yeah. I’m a paranoid schizophrenic insomniac with an itchy trigger finger. I can only sleep soundly after a good kill. Did you know your locks can be picked with a credit card?” Into the phone I said, “Hello?”
There was a pause. “Ms. Hansen?” asked a soothing voice.
“Yeah. Um, yeah, this is Em Hansen speaking.”
“This is Geraldine Wharton. You called about making an appointment?”
“Yes. I’m doing a screening for a friend. She’s just a kid, so I’m trying to find someone for her. She’s having a … um, posttraumatic stress reaction,” I stuttered, trying to remember the exact words Melanie Steen, Ph.D., had used.
“Yes, I work with that. Can you tell me a bit more?”
“Ah …” I looked pointedly at Betty, who just smiled. “Well, she’s lost her memory of the event, and her grades have gone into the toilet, and her dad asked me to find someone who could help. The person she’s been seeing for the last six months didn’t pan out. I wanted to come meet you, and—”
“I’d really have to meet the client,” asserted Geraldine. “I charge eighty dollars an hour. I can set something up for her in two weeks.”
“No thank you,” I replied, then said my good-byes and
hung up. Cecelia Menken did not need someone who was bent on cutting her away from what herd she had.
Betty smiled winningly, hopeful that I would talk. I smiled back blandly and asked which way the bathroom was, figuring to return some of the coffee I’d borrowed.
The afternoon ground on. By 7:00 P.M., six psychologists had called back. Their calls always came in a few minutes before the hour, and I quickly became comfortable wandering out of earshot of the phone and helping Betty with yard work between the hour and ten till, when psychologists were apparently busy with their patients. I made appointments to see the ones with nice voices and manners and openings within the next week; others, I discarded.
“How many did you call?” Betty asked.
“A dozen, I think.”
“Pretty good batting average,” she commented, looking over my shoulder at my list. “Want some dinner?”
“Sure. Why, what would have been a bad batting average?”
“Oh, usually you don’t hear from them for days.”
I was about to inquire, How do you know? when I caught myself and instead asked, “What’s for dinner?”
Betty looked thoughtful, scratched her head a moment, and said: “Raccoon.”
ELEVEN
C ONTRARY to my best resolutions, I continued reading Miriam Menken’s journals that evening, when I was next alone in my room under the eaves at Betty’s house. I was driven by a potent mixture of prurient interest and what I hoped was a saintly wish to find that the advantage-taking Chandler had met an early demise.
Okay, so the journals called to me like a box of chocolates. The fact was, I’d known a few men like him in my days at Colorado College, and they still held an allure, a have-not’s wish for status and, well, debauchery. They were the trust-fund babies, the good-looking boys with lots of charm and little discipline who probed about endlessly for fresh, naive, vulnerable young flesh to exploit. And I? Well, I had been some of that naive young flesh, but I
By noon, I had drunk all of Betty’s coffee and had given audience to every little thought that was on her mind that day, which included five pet peeves about her nearest neighbors and some ingenious thoughts concerning how to get even with each, such as showing bulimic raccoons how to access the neighbors’ trash cans.
The phone rang at 11:56; it was for me. “It’s some probe,” Betty purred, handing the thing to me. “Says she’s returning your call. Something you haven’t told me about your mental state, Em?”
I smiled gleefully. “Yeah. I’m a paranoid schizophrenic insomniac with an itchy trigger finger. I can only sleep soundly after a good kill. Did you know your locks can be picked with a credit card?” Into the phone I said, “Hello?”
There was a pause. “Ms. Hansen?” asked a soothing voice.
“Yeah. Um, yeah, this is Em Hansen speaking.”
“This is Geraldine Wharton. You called about making an appointment?”
“Yes. I’m doing a screening for a friend. She’s just a kid, so I’m trying to find someone for her. She’s having a … um, posttraumatic stress reaction,” I stuttered, trying to remember the exact words Melanie Steen, Ph.D., had used.
“Yes, I work with that. Can you tell me a bit more?”
“Ah …” I looked pointedly at Betty, who just smiled. “Well, she’s lost her memory of the event, and her grades have gone into the toilet, and her dad asked me to find someone who could help. The person she’s been seeing for the last six months didn’t pan out. I wanted to come meet you, and—”
“I’d really have to meet the client,” asserted Geraldine. “I charge eighty dollars an hour. I can set something up for her in two weeks.”
“No thank you,” I replied, then said my good-byes and
hung up. Cecelia Menken did not need someone who was bent on cutting her away from what herd she had.
Betty smiled winningly, hopeful that I would talk. I smiled back blandly and asked which way the bathroom was, figuring to return some of the coffee I’d borrowed.
The afternoon ground on. By 7:00 P.M., six psychologists had called back. Their calls always came in a few minutes before the hour, and I quickly became comfortable wandering out of earshot of the phone and helping Betty with yard work between the hour and ten till, when psychologists were apparently busy with their patients. I made appointments to see the ones with nice voices and manners and openings within the next week; others, I discarded.
“How many did you call?” Betty asked.
“A dozen, I think.”
“Pretty good batting average,” she commented, looking over my shoulder at my list. “Want some dinner?”
“Sure. Why, what would have been a bad batting average?”
“Oh, usually you don’t hear from them for days.”
I was about to inquire, How do you know? when I caught myself and instead asked, “What’s for dinner?”
Betty looked thoughtful, scratched her head a moment, and said: “Raccoon.”
ELEVEN
C ONTRARY to my best resolutions, I continued reading Miriam Menken’s journals that evening, when I was next alone in my room under the eaves at Betty’s house. I was driven by a potent mixture of prurient interest and what I hoped was a saintly wish to find that the advantage-taking Chandler had met an early demise.
Okay, so the journals called to me like a box of chocolates. The fact was, I’d known a few men like him in my days at Colorado College, and they still held an allure, a have-not’s wish for status and, well, debauchery. They were the trust-fund babies, the good-looking boys with lots of charm and little discipline who probed about endlessly for fresh, naive, vulnerable young flesh to exploit. And I? Well, I had been some of that naive young flesh, but I
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