By Blood (13 page)

Dreams: I could not tell if I was waking or sleeping. The fever spiked and sweated down, spiked and sweated down, and the rest of the week I recall only as episodes of shaking chills and the misery of drenched, cold sheets that no one comes to change. I spent the dark hours floating on the rim of sleep and wandered through daylight in a haze, during which time I could not tell what was real—that knocking at my door right now: Was it my neighbor come to complain about the stolen newspaper? Or a phantom remnant of a dream, flotsam that had drifted by on the verge of sleep? The knocks came again. And again. They must be real, I thought. I dragged myself to the door. No one. The empty beach, the leaden sky, the restless back of the ocean, rising and falling like a great beast, from here to the rim of Asia—source of the scourge that had laid me low.

I played the radio. Day and night. It was my only contact with the world. The landlord had left behind an old, wooden, fabric-fronted radio, some of the fabric torn. The tuner often drifted between stations, so that everything I heard emerged out of static and returned into it, almost in rhythm with my fever, the static seeming to bury me under storms of snow just as the shaking chills grabbed hold of me. Talk shows, panel discussions, news—I tried to hear anything that was broadcast live, anything that chattered on. Even the stations full of shouted commercials: no matter, as long as it was a living announcer who did the promotion, reciting now, in this moment, if only to hear the yelp of humanity. Then the radio tuner would drift, and I would be cast off again into the emptiness of electronic noise.

Through the shivering curtains of static came whispers of strange reports, horrors and chaos, murders, women forced to watch their boyfriends knifed to death, then killed themselves by multiple knife thrusts, killed slowly, painfully, so that they had time to feel each assault and know they were going to die. Murders as trophies: random shootings of white people by black men in some bizarre organization where they earned “wings” for killing whites. Political murders: underground groups plotting bombings, assaults, robberies. The heiress Patty Hearst: kidnapped. I had been lost in my own wanderings since my arrival in San Francisco, not even pausing to glance at newspaper headlines. Were these emissions from my radio true events or figments of my fevers?

The radio reports faded in and out, so I could not learn who was speaking, and exactly of what. But their reality gained favor as similar stories drifted in over the hours: couples on lovers’ lane killed in their cars; the knife murder, the same woman, tied up and speared over and over again, as if the world could not get enough of her horror. Taunting letters sent to the local newspapers by the killer, daring the police to catch him, his name hidden in cryptograms still undeciphered, his signature a circle and cross: rifle crosshairs. The Zodiac, he was called. All this was transmitted to me in peripatetic fragments, blinking lights diffused in fog: the letters, the ciphers, the crosshairs, the count of the victims—thirty-seven, the killer claimed.

Also fluxing through the hiss, in single words and phrases, were speculations about the killer’s identity: Loner. Voyeur. Fear of women. Obsessional. Meticulous. Compulsive. Abused. Family history. Abuser. Mental illness. Dysfunction. Sexual. These words floated at me and hovered in the cold air. Then, in one stunning moment of transmission clarity, the static vanished and the speaker said: We believe he may be connected with a university, since the first attack happened near a college campus.

The breath froze in me. I shivered with a chill that did not come from my fever. Was this a description of … myself? In terror, I wondered if I was indeed the brutal killer; if in blacked-out hours I had committed such horrid crimes and then cleansed them from my memory; if I had indeed become what I had always feared my obsessions would make of me.

No, I told myself. No! I had been accused of … not that, not yet, please God. But what would keep me from it? The university had forced me to take a leave while they investigated. How far had I gone? I swore: I had touched no one! But once the complaint was lodged, I understood the fear I had aroused—no, “aroused” is not the right word; the correct description is the fear I had “created.” For the object of my attentions had no reason to be afraid of me, had every reason to rely upon me as a trusted guide and advisor. And therefore there was no question of any “arousal.” There was only the terrible darkness within me, which he had seen and, rightly, feared.

Only the patient can save me, I thought. She is all that is still decent in me. She is my trial, my test. I will not harm her! As long as I can hear her voice; as long as she makes her way to Room 804 to tell her story; as long as I may be near to her; as long as I may know what happens to her—I will be all right, she will be all right. We have nothing to fear.

Wednesday came again, the patient’s last session before the holiday break. If I did not go to the office I would not hear her voice again until the end of the holiday break. How I needed her! How I ached for her! Yet my fevers and coughs continued—I could not go. My damp bed was my prison.

I turned off the radio. But the night did not give me rest. Again I skimmed the rim of sleep, tortured by images that grew more violent by the hour.

When Thursday morning came, I knew I could stay home no longer. I could not remain alone with my crows circling me, with their taunting call,
Her! Her! Her!
I resolved to go to the office. The sound machine would play; its whir would hide my stifled coughs. The patient would be gone, but still there was my dear office—its polished marble, varnished fruitwoods, balustraded stairways—all I had to help me.

I bundled myself in sweaters and rode the N Judah. I debarked at Market and New Montgomery Streets, and the gargoyles came into view. Soon the entry was before me, the whiteness of the lobby: a bleach against the stain of my dark thoughts.

But then there came a shock.

A guard was stationed in the lobby!

The marble reception desk had been empty all these months, and now suddenly there stood a tall, well-built black man, wearing a black suit and tie, no insignia on him, but his stance and demeanor leaving no doubt that he was a security officer.

He turned as I entered; he stared at me. His skin was dark brown and smooth, his face absurdly handsome: a doo-wop crooner’s face, a
teenage-idol
sort of man. At the same time, there was something menacing in his look, all the more frightful because I could not precisely locate the threatening feature in his almost-pretty face. Perhaps it came from his bearing, which was erect and muscular, or his powerful-looking hands, which he held clasped before him.

You will sign in, sir, he said to me in a commanding bass, indicating the sign on the desk that said, “All Visitors Must Check In at Reception.”

But I am not a visitor, I replied. I am the tenant in Room 807.

I pointed to my name on the building roster that hung behind him.

He turned to it, then back to me, his face absolutely impassive. And for several seconds we stood beneath the ogling cherubs, he towering above me, as he weighed my veracity.

May I have identification, sir? he said.

I was affronted, yet frightened. I retrieved my university identification card. He looked at it, at me, then finally handed back the card.

Go on, sir, he said, his face still showing no emotion, waving me toward the elevator that had just arrived, which I entered guiltily, as if I truly were an imposter invading the building for illicit purposes.

My hands shook as I performed the delicate act of opening my office. I could barely control my breathing as I took my customary seat at the desk. My haven, my welcoming lobby with its whiteness and goodness—assailed! A hostile force had arrived without warning. I would have to pass by the man every day, twice in and twice out, including the luncheon I normally took in a nearby cafe. Perhaps I could arrive very early and leave very late, and not go out for lunch. But what were his hours? Did he come on duty at four in the morning, five, six, seven? Leave at four, five, six? And for what reason had he been hired in the first place? Perhaps there had been an incident, a robbery, a shooting—a murder!

In this manner did I prosecute my madness, pursuing it vigorously, for the fearful stories that had emanated from my radio seemed to have followed me to the office, where, in my absence, a sudden need for security had apparently appeared: murderers circling us, bombers plotting, kidnappers tracking their prey. With only the fiercest self-control could I calm myself. I told myself that all downtown buildings of any size had guards or receptionists; ours had been the odd one; and now we were simply like everyone else.

No sooner did I still myself when there arose yet another impediment to my peace. The sound machine was whirring; above its rustle came the clicks and hushes of Dr. Schussler’s Germanic speech—but what image of her should I hold? Again I was horridly double-minded, as I had been with the patient. Was this Dora a young woman of little experience, or the woman of a certain age I had first envisioned? Was there a long skirt or a mini; flat shoes or heels; flowing hair or bun? The two visions, each the inverse of the other, flashed in my mind like those double neon signs lighting one set of words, then another. I would go insane, I thought, if I could not pick one image—or perhaps construct a third possibility—in any case be released from this migrainous flashing in my head.

The old one! I decided. Nylon stockings—young women no longer wear nylon stockings. The slish and slide were the evidence! As for the consultation she was seeking, that did not mean she was a beginner, a young woman starting her practice. A therapist can be incompetent at any age—I, of all people, should know that. And slowly the old Dora Schussler reestablished herself, from the shoes and stockings up: sensible heels, nylons, mid-length skirt, blouse, face of a decent-looking woman of sixty, gray hair, bun.

I passed the day in feverish reverie; the hours slipped away; darkness pressed against the windows. I looked at my watch: nearly eight o’clock. The guard was surely gone for the day. I heard Dr. Schussler’s seven o’clock patient leave, and, once the eight o’clock was safely installed, I planned to make my exit. So it was that I sat bundled in my sweaters, coat, scarf, and hat, despite the steam that clanged through the radiators.

The next patient arrived. I stood. I went to the door and was about to take the door knob in my hand, when suddenly the sound machine fell silent. And a deep alto voice said:

Thank you for seeing me tonight.

My dear patient!

I am glad you could come on such short notice, said the doctor.

(And there I stood before the door, bundled up for the cold!)

Sorry about yesterday, the patient said.

(What had happened yesterday while I lay in my sickbed?)

The doctor made a reassuring sound.

(The door was still open; they stood so near me, naked to the corridor.)

Of course I’ll pay, said the patient with a laugh.

(Had she run off again in midsession?)

I’m a little drunk, she said.

Dr. Schussler did not immediately step back from the doorway.

We went out for drinks after work, she went on. One too many, that’s all.

The doctor remained standing at the opened door.

If not for the coming break, she said, I would ask you to leave right now.

Oh, yeah, the patient said a little sloppily.

Are you all right? asked Dr. Schussler.

Oh, yeah, said the patient. I’m fine, great, terrifically all right.

Two or three seconds passed.

Come in, the doctor said.

Dr. Schussler closed the door, and the patient fell into her chair with a great sigh of the leather cushion.

What is happening? asked the doctor.

The patient seemed to shuffle her feet on the carpet. A driver in the street below leaned on his horn.

Shit! said the patient. What the hell’s wrong with that guy?

The horn went on.

Really. What the fuck is wrong with him?

The horn continued; then stopped.

I have something to tell you, said the patient.

Yes?

You won’t believe it.

Yes?

Last Friday night … I went to this Jewish—what do they call it? Temple.

She stopped; again shuffled her feet against the carpet.

Oh, my, said the therapist. And how was that?

I was late. I took a seat on a back pew—pews! What a surprise. Didn’t expect that. Not sure what I’d thought Jews would sit on—benches?—but there were pews, like church.

She paused.

And of course there was no bleeding Jesus. But otherwise … Big domed building. Ladies dressed up in mink coats. Organ. Playing hymns! Same old chorus of middle-aged women with their vibratos wobbling from here to the next county. Except for the tiny bits of Hebrew—transliterated, so you don’t even have to know it—
ba-ruch
something something
bow-ray pa-ree
—that can’t be right,
paree
, like Paris. Except for those Hebrew bits, Mother would have felt right at home. I could just see her taking the coffee and tea afterward—no milk, though. Something about kosher. But what could be not kosher about milk I have no idea. Coffee-Mate. Terrible stuff!

You stayed afterward for coffee? asked Dr. Schussler.

Why not?

Did you meet—?

No one. No one talked to me. Except to say good
shabbose
—is that how you say it—
sha-BOSE
? Mother. Right at home. But my grandfather—she gave a laugh—I don’t even know him, never met him, but couldn’t stop thinking about what Mother told me. How much he would’ve hated the place. Too well lit. Too much light on the subject. Needed his
mysterium tremendum
. Mass in Latin murmured in the dark, misted by incense. Everyone kneeling before the crucifix, Jesus hanging over them, suffering, sacrificed, bleeding his dark red human blood, blood they drink in communion—how primitive is that! Body of Christ, body of Christ.
Corpus Christi
. CORPUS. The scum group that took me in then bounced me out. Banished me, like they banished Father.

Then she fell silent. For some thirty seconds, there were only the honking horns in the street, the cough of the radiators.

I don’t want to be a fucking Jew, the patient said at last.

Jewish
, said Dr. Schussler. Somehow it is better to call someone
Jewish
than a
Jew
.

All right. I don’t want to be fucking
Jewish
. Happy now?

Dr. Schussler sighed. It is very difficult for us to do our work if you come here after drinking.

Oh, I know.

We can’t—

I know, I know. We were having fun, is all. That last round. That’s the one I shouldn’t … I know.

The radiators clanged.

What am I going to do? the patient went on. I don’t want to be Jewish, but I don’t even know what that means. Like I said, I’ve never even known a Jew—fuck! A Jewish
person
. Is this going to be some PC thing, like we can’t say gay anymore but only gay-lesbian-bisexual?

I am not familiar with that stricture, said Dr. Schussler, so I cannot reply to your question.

No. Really. Are you going to correct me every time I say
Jew
?

You can say
Jew
whenever you like.

All right. Good! There. One thing a little easier. So I’ll say it again: Jew. I’ve never been close to a fucking Jew.

The therapist shifted in her chair, crossed and recrossed her legs.

Well, of course you went to a boarding school, she said finally, but perhaps there were Jewish children in your neighborhood?

Oh, no, said the patient. Our neighborhood had covenants.

Covenants—as in the ark of the?

The patient laughed. Obviously you haven’t lived anywhere with a homeowners’ association. Conditions, covenants, and restrictions—C, C, and Rs. Rules of the association.

I do not—

No Jews.

Ah.

No Jews, no blacks, no Hindus, no Mexicans. Not even Catholics were allowed.

I see.

Even by the time the covenants became illegal—

There was history, supplied the therapist.

Yes. Right. History. People lived where they lived.

A fait accompli, said Dr. Schussler. And what about college? she went on. You went to a big university.

A sorority.

And I might suppose no—

No Jews. Right. Fuck! No
Jewish women
. It wasn’t a rule—

Just history.

Yes. Right. History.

Then graduate school, said Dr. Schussler. Your Wharton M.B.A.

Many, many, many, many Jews, said the patient. Goldbergs and
Co-hens
and Levines and Steins from here to kingdom come. A sea of men with black hair, big noses, and eyeglasses. I had no idea, when I decided to go into business, that I would be joining a Jewish club.

The doctor gasped.

Something wrong?

Dr. Schussler coughed. No. Something in my throat.

You’re sure?

The doctor coughed again. A little bronchitis, she said.

It’s the “Jewish club” business you’re reacting to, isn’t it? It’s like I said there’s a Jewish cabal, right?

What is your opinion?

Shit! Here we go again!

Dr. Schussler said nothing.

Dammit, won’t you tell me what you think! Well, who gives a shit what you think. Goddamn PC business in the lesbian world about who’s working-class and who’s not. Can’t even say what you think. It was a goddamn club. All that talk of being a
mensch
, all those holidays they took off, everyone knew all about them but me. High holy days. Passover. The one where they eat outside in a—what?
Soo-kah
? Those little beanies they wore.
Kippah. Yarmulke
—do you have any idea what the difference is between a kippah and a yarmulke? I moved out west to get away from it. I may not be in the center of the markets anymore. I may have to get up at five a.m. to watch the tickers. But at least I’m away from all that.

The therapist took a breath, then released it. But did you not tell me, she said, in this very room, that you came out to San Francisco to meet women?

I—

To be part of—

Well—

The sexual revolution, the gay revolution.

Yes, said the patient.

Yes.

So? asked the patient.

So perhaps you are doing a bit of backward revisionism. You are startled by the news your mother gave you. You are having trouble assimilating it. And so you are trying to reject it, in whole cloth, by revising your history, trying to see it as a rejection of Judaism itself.

Humph, the patient said.

Rich Jews, brainy Jews, large noses, eyeglasses, Jews running the business world, said the doctor. These are stereotypes, as I am certain you know. Dangerous stereotypes.

I told you I didn’t really know any Jews. Stereotypes—that’s all I have.

Do you really want to rest with these ideas? asked the doctor. Do you not wish me to challenge them?

And I didn’t like Jewish women any better than I liked the Jewish men of Wall Street. Charlotte used to drag me to all those meetings. Noisy, pushy Jewish girls, shouting slogans.

Noisy, pushy: These are more stereotypes, said Dr. Schussler.

Stereotypes usually exist for a reason, you know.

The doctor sat back and heaved a great, defeated sigh.

But why are you doing this to yourself, dear?

The patient snorted. So what am I supposed to be doing to myself?

Making yourself out to be so hateful.

This gave the patient pause. When she replied, it was with a softened voice:

But I am hateful, don’t you see? I am full of hate. I was brought up to hate Catholics and Jews, and then I find out I may be Catholic, then no, it’s even worse than that—I’m a Jew! For godsakes, what am I supposed to feel?

The doctor waited for the patient to go on. After her client said nothing for several seconds, she said:

I am afraid you can only feel this bewilderment for now. I am afraid there is no recourse but for you to feel it.

Feel it, echoed the patient.

It seemed, for the moment at least, that the therapist was not doing such a bad job after all, for the patient now sighed heavily, balancing on the rim of her emotions, about to “feel it.”

When she suddenly exclaimed:

But what was
that
?