'Humphrey Catskill: Remembered', by Matt Gillick
Session Transcript
Medium: Audio cassette tape
Location: Harrisburg, PA at the office of Dr. Samuel Ogilvy (DO)
Date: Recorded Tuesday, May 19, 1997
Patient #67: Jane Sestero (JS) (née Catskill)
(Recording begins.)
DO: Good afternoon, Jane. Please, take a seat.
(Recording picks up JS sitting on leather couch. DO breathes deep.)
DO: First off, I want to say that I’m very glad you decided to come back. I know our last session was hard.
JS: (In a whisper) Yes. Your assistant must be tired of looking at me blubber in the lobby every time. I hope I wasn’t too much trouble.
DO: Not at all, Jane. Really…not a problem. (Pause.) May I say something to get the ball rolling? I’ve noticed a pattern.
JS: Um…Okay… (Sound of body shifting on couch.)
DO: I’ve noticed every time we approach an emotionally strenuous topic, you apologize for even bringing up that topic. I saw as much during our last session. It’s a common defense mechanism, so let me make this clear: You don’t have to apologize for anything you say in this room. It’s held in the strictest confidence and will only be disclosed if I believe you to be a potential harm to yourself or others. You’ve been through a lot and I think you should feel comfortable saying whatever it is you feel like saying. The goal of these sessions is to take control of your story, so you can finally accept that you did what you needed to do. We’ve been scratching the surface of some intense material and I don’t want any inhibitions to keep you from sharing.
JS: I do that? I haven’t noticed. I guess sometimes I get into this—what did you say last time—mode? Maybe it’s because of my job: apologizing for keeping people on hold. As if I’m sorry the caller didn’t get ahold of my boss right away and they have to talk to me instead.
DO: So, let’s talk about your job first, then. You’ve been working the front desk at this realtor in Mechanicsburg for…what is it…eight months now? How’s it going?
JS: Well, it’s gotten a lot better. I mean, I thought—you know—with everything that happened…that talking to strangers would be difficult. But turns out I’m much better at it than I thought. I’m not sure how assistants in big cities can handle all those incoming calls. How long can you keep someone on hold until they hang up? (Air conditioning turns on. Snaps.) It’s much slower than New York, but everything seems slower once you leave New York. I get most of my tasks done by lunch, but maybe that’s because I haven’t adjusted to living in a smaller town yet. It’s been years, but it’s hard taking the bustle out of a city girl, you know? (AC snaps.) But, yeah, the job’s great. Not too stressful. Mostly, I’m just waiting by the phone for someone to call about buying a home or renting a property. I think my best day, so far, was last Friday. There was this woman from Philly. A mother. She said her son was going off to study at Elizabethtown in the fall; asked if it’d be crazy to rent a nearby apartment for visiting on the weekends, or maybe her son Jack could use it if he got a job in town after he graduated. Her name was Reggie. She told me the idea popped into her head when she read this article in the Times about the Russian Space Station. You hear about that story, doctor? These Russian astronauts—cosmonauts? Anyway, they have to go up there and replace this oxygen tank. According to Reggie, we—the Americans—are helping them. It’s supposed to be incredibly dangerous. She kind of went off, telling me how it was stupid to help them because they used to be our enemies and all. She got on a roll, talking about the Cold War, Sputnik, but then she caught herself, and said she was rambling—Ha! —Kind of like what I’m doing now! Sorry. (Pause. Sigh.) Oh, shit. There I go, apologizing again. Anyway, it’s silly…this is silly to talk about.
DO: No need to apologize. And I was the one who asked you about your job, so please, go on about you and Reggie’s conversation. We have plenty of time.
JS: Well, Reggie was really nice. She told me she was reading the story in the Times while eating a bagel when her son stomped downstairs with a basketball in his hands, the same basketball she got him when he made the freshman team. She almost broke down over the phone. Said that with her son going off to school and these young men going off into space, she immediately thought about their mothers and how worried they must be that their sons are going off into the unknown. I know, doctor. Believe me, even she thought it was silly to compare the two. I mean, Elizabethtown is only a few hours away from Philly, but I see her point. (Pause.) Where was I going with this? Reggie was calling about apartments, yes. I went through some files and found a few places. Reggie asked if I could come to the showing. She forgot I was a secretary. I don’t know if many people listened to her in the way I did, and that made me feel, well, good. But what made me feel great was after I put her on hold, James, my boss, was standing behind me. He told me I did a good job, and that I have a future in real estate. Gift of gab, he said. (Pause. AC snaps.) But being a clerk is all I can handle at the moment. But it was nice to hear.
DO: Are you sure? The way you’re describing what happened…well, seems like you get quite a bit of enjoyment from it. I can see it on your face. Wouldn’t you want to help out families like hers?
JS: (Clears throat.) Well, I don’t think I’m comfortable with that yet. There wasn’t much to it. I was mostly letting her go on and on about space and the Cold War. Seems like she had a lot more on her mind than just her son…her son. (Pause.) No, I think I was getting more of a kick out of her yammering. After I hung up, I got to thinking…what is space? My mother used to call it the heavens.
DO: Growing up, was your family religious?
JS: Oh, very much so. Catholic. Italian Catholic. Old-school Italian Catholics from Mineola. That’s Long Island. When we landed on the moon, it was all we talked about when I was a kid. My mother would say going up there meant we were getting closer to God. I still think space is something like that. How we’re always trying to find Him out there. Maybe He is out there. But what would we do if we ran into Him? Have you ever thought about that, Dr. Ogilvy? Of what you would say to God if you were out there, in the dark, starry skies, and just found Him?
DO: I’m not sure what I’d say. (Pause.) Permit me to make another observation, Jane.
JS: Um, sure. Kind of feels like I’m being examined, to be honest. (Sound of hands rubbing leather couch.)
DO: My observations are only so we can allow you to practice more self-awareness and practically apply it to how you navigate the world. Let me say that I believe you have very selective passions, symptomatic of this desire to control narrative. I can see you’re a bit confused with my point, so I’ll explain it a little differently. Whenever you want to talk about something—or not talk about something—you dig in on the subject you’d rather discuss. When I brought up the subject of family, you immediately went back to the subject of space and put it in the context of your childhood. Over the course of our sessions, you seem willing to discuss those instances of family, but not about your own as a mother. Last session, we made progress in discussing your married life at length. But there’s more, I’m guessing, and we’ll get into that. (Sound of pen tapping legal pad.) Now, you’ve mentioned that you had a son—
JS: Have a son, doctor. I have a son.
DO: Pardon me. You have a son. What was his name again?
JS: (Barely audible) Humphrey. His name’s Humphrey…
DO: (Sound of pen scratching legal pad.) And how long has it been since you’ve last seen him?
JS: Nine years. He’ll be thirteen in a few months…he was four. I don’t know if he remembers—Wait, what are you writing? Doctor, what are you writing down?
DO: Just a few shorthand notes, Jane. Nothing more.
JS: Would you please stop doing that? It makes me uncomfortable.
DO: I’m only keeping track of our conversation. There’s no need to get upset.
JS: I told you that I don’t like it when you write stuff down.
DO: I don’t remember you ever saying—
JS: Well, I did. My son, it’s—it’s a really complicated matter, it’s more complicated than you might realize. No one has the slightest clue of what I went through, of what he went through, of what he’s going through. It’s been nine years, doctor. Now, I open up to you and you’re taking notes, writing things I can’t see. I just don’t think that’s fair.
DO: Okay, Jane. (Sound of DO rising from chair and placing legal pad on desk.) Let’s move on. Since you’re still adjusting to your new life, having started a new job less than a year ago, how’s your social life been? Are you seeing anyone?
JS: I don’t see much of anyone. I mostly stay in my apartment alone or smoke a cigarette on the balcony with a book or maybe the occasional drink.
DO: No, I meant to ask if you’ve been dating anyone.
JS: Oh dear, no! I’m still a married woman. That would be a sin. I’m Catholic, haven’t you been listening?
DO: Yet it’s been nine years—
JS: It’s still a sin. I left, but I’m not going to be unfaithful.
DO: Even after all that happened? You’ve said that he used to hit you…
JS: (Blank tone) Yes, he did. But he’s still my husband.
DO: Hmmm, I see. And do you still love him?
JS: I love the fact he gave me a son. But I could never love him after all that.
DO: Yet you still feel committed to him simply because he’s your husband. So, may I ask about when you decided to leave him?
(Sound of shifting on leather couch.)
JS: Doctor, I—I’d rather not. I don’t think I can. (Shallow breathing. Begins to hyperventilate.) I had—to leave him—because—I felt like I had no choice and—
DO: Jane…Jane… Remember our breathing exercise? Look at me…that’s right…Put your shoulders back…inhale…do it with me now. (DO and JS breathe in, wait for a beat, breathe out slowly.) Very good. Now, do it on your own.
(JS breathes in, waits a beat, then breathes out.)
DO: Let’s focus on Humphrey for the time being, then we’ll do the Newton’s Cradle exercise as we get into the more intense subject matter. I think that will help.
JS: Yes, let’s talk about Humphrey.
DO: So, whenever you think about him—
JS: Whenever I think about him? I think about him every day.
DO: Then let’s start by giving a general description, so we can start immersing ourselves in the dynamics of that day, the day you left your husband. You know how I said last week that we can’t keep dancing around the root causes—
JS: Fine, fine. (Deep breath extended exhalation.) If you think it’ll help, I’ll try. Sometimes I have trouble remembering what he looks like. His face gets blurrier every day. I know he isn’t four, but I try to remember.
DO: It’s been nine years. You’re being unfair to yourself. How about we start with the basics? (Pause.) Based on the last time you saw Humphrey, how old was he?
JS: Four. (Continues to breathe in and out. AC turns back on. Snaps.)
DO: What color is his hair?
JS: Let’s see, it’s brownish, almost dirty blond. But it isn’t full yet, you see. It’s thin, wispy. Like his hair is already thinning. Only a hint of…what is it? That swirly thing at the top of your head. It looks like those paintings where you can see the brush strokes.
DO: Thinking about that, what’s the first word that comes to mind?
JS: Beautiful. Such a beautiful head. I remember when he was three, we needed to cover his head in the summer with a Yankees bucket hat.
DO: What about his eyes?
JS: They’re blue. Almost teal. One time, I thought he had cataracts because I saw these yellow dots in his eyes. They floated around the blue. I was so worried that he was going blind, or his liver was shutting down. That’s what happens when your liver shuts down, right? I drove him to the hospital, but the doctors said it was completely normal. I must’ve made quite a scene. I remember never taking my eyes off him in the emergency room. Like he would disappear if I looked away. Full disclosure…I was no saint when I was with him, but I did the best I could as a mother. I wasn’t a great wife either.
DO: You mean you were unfaithful?
JS: No, doctor. Drinking was my thing. Drinking a lot. Humphrey always had a problem latching, so I’d pump, then I’d drink. Once I pumped, I could drink. More than I should. I was alone with the baby all the time, so what else was there to do besides watch TV with a cocktail? I mean, there are only so many ways you can rearrange dishes in a cabinet, right? Only so many ways to fold and unfold laundry. This routine carried over after he moved onto solid foods. It helped pass the time. I was drinking that day, the day I saw those yellow splotches in his eyes. This doesn’t make me a bad mother, right? (Scratches leather couch.) Oh, I see…it’s not your job to determine that. You’re not a philosopher, you’re a psychiatrist. Here I go again, trailing off. I know, I know…diversionary tactics, unconscious deflections. But yes, Humphrey’s eyes are beautiful. Whenever I think of those eyes, I think of that moment in the emergency room, me checking my breath, hoping the nurses wouldn’t notice.
DO: Now, did Humphrey ever get to see how you were when you drank?
JS: Oh, I’m not sure there was any avoiding it. There was a lot of drinking. Every mother in town—hell, even my mother drank when she was alone with us. But it was fine, in the beginning. Right after he was born, we’d get together—the mothers and I—and sit around someone’s kitchen table with the babies on our laps. Humphrey’s cries would get so bad. But to answer your question: yes, I’m sure he saw. However, I don’t think it stopped me from doing what I had to do as a mother. Bottom line, there was drinking. It passed the time.
DO: I would venture to say that you used alcohol in order to not feel certain things. To cut yourself off. Fair?
JS: Fair.
DO: Okay, with that established, do you now feel comfortable enough to dig into what happened that day?
JS: The day I left my husband? I don’t know. Do you really think we should do this now?
DO: Ultimately that’s your decision, Jane. I think using the Newton’s Cradle to get you into a relaxed-enough mindset will help. I think talking about your son helps you describe your past life in more detail. But I think we can do better if we try.
(Chair swivels. Sound of Newton’s Cradle placed on table. Marbles rattle.)
DO: Now, it’s just like last time, I take one marble on a string, pull back, and let go. The energy from the swinging marble goes through these marbles until it reaches the one on the other end, causing it to bounce up and swing back. I’m going to use this as the baseline sound for our guided meditation. Like a metronome to get you into the rhythm of telling your story. First, we’ll set the scene, put ourselves in the event, build up to the moment in question, then address it head-on. Alright?
JS: Okay. If you think it’ll help.
(Sound of JS shifting on couch, sliding hands on leather. Breathes deeply. Lets out a long sigh.)
DO: Great. (Newton’s Cradle begins to click back and forth.) Now, I want you to lean back…there you go…try to relax…listen to how the marbles go up and back. I’m going to get you started on what to envision, and then you’ll take over. Whenever we move outside the context of the event, I’m going to direct you to stay in the event itself. You very well might relive the event and it may come off as especially vivid, but we can stop anytime you want. I only ask that you try. Think of my voice as a guide, an echo. Okay? Now, close your eyes. Focus on my voice and the Newton’s Cradle…each click elevates you. Back and forth, it sends you upward, out of this room, out of this building, off the ground, and into the air. Each click gets fainter as you continue to rise into the sky. You can still hear the clicks, but they begin to fade away. Further and further, they fade away. You’re above the clouds now. You can barely see the ground below you. And all you see above you is a vast blue. You’re able to breathe just fine. You can no longer hear the Newton’s Cradle as you continue going up and up and up until you see past that ribbon of blue, and above is a great blackness with the stars guiding your way. You find yourself moving in orbit across the atmosphere. How are you feeling, Jane?
JS: I’m feeling…light. Well…I don’t feel much of anything.
DO: The first thing you do is look out to see the rest of the stars with the earth behind you. You see the constellations, the fabric of the Milky Way. Satellites pass by. Some rusted, some blinking, some spinning aimlessly. You turn to face the earth. You are floating, looking down. Below, you see how dark and blue the earth is. You can see clouds, storms forming. You see how green the forests are. You see the jagged mountaintops and their white summits and how dry and brown the deserts are. (Pause.) Up there, no one can see you. No one can judge you. You are up there; free to think and say whatever it is you like. Not a thing to keep or hinder you, not even friction, you are seamless…Remember to breathe in…good…now breathe out…slowly. See how easily you breathe in and out as you continue to look down. And as you look down, your eyes catch this speck that looks familiar. You see it jut out ever so slightly into the deep blue. A darkish, brownish patch of green. Do you see it?
JS: I do.
DO: You begin to make your way back to earth. You cannot hear the Newton’s Cradle, even after you reach the border of the earth’s atmosphere. Do you want to go down there?
JS: (Barely audible) Yes.
DO: You move down, below the clouds, taking a deep breath in…then out. As you focus your gaze, you see it. Just like you remembered: Mineola. Do you see it?
JS: I do. Hasn’t changed. I see my neighborhood.
DO: Describe it to me, Jane.
JS: (Unintelligible.)
DO: Jane, would you please speak up?
JS: (Whispering) Doctor...I don’t know if I can. I see it but I don’t know—
DO: Speak it into existence, Jane. Remember, you control this story because you came out on the other side of it. What do you see as you float above Mineola?
JS: (Volume increases) I see…I see…right below my feet, yes, I see it. Where I lived my whole life. I see the bustling road of Jericho Turnpike with all the shops: the laundromat, the Chinese takeout spot with the pork dumplings. Right next to it is the drugstore. (Pause.) I knew every inch of that drugstore since it was the only place I was able to go off on my own. Humphrey needs his vitamins, I’d say. I knew every aisle, what was out of stock—they never had enough flower seeds or paper towels. I remember when I’d come back and Humphrey’s father would be waiting for me on the front porch, ready to ask where I’d been, who I’d been with. Who do you think you are, fucking someone under my nose, he’d ask me…Vitamins, huh? Diapers, huh? He never believed anything I said even if I told him the truth, that I needed to be alone. You must think I’m a retard, he’d say. (Deep breath.) I see Herricks Road Park and if you turn right it becomes Wilson Boulevard. On Wilson, you got side-streets before hitting Emory Park. And in the middle of Wilson Boulevard, there’s an intersection, a stop sign leading to my street…Latham Road. The day is so clear, there isn’t a cloud in the sky, not even a bit of smog. It must be spring, it was spring. It was a spring day on 211 Latham Road. April 9th, 1988. I’m getting lower to the ground.
DO: Could you describe Latham Road to me?
JS: It—it’s just like every other street in town, but I’m not sure what it looks like now. You don’t really know the difference between each street unless you’re from the area. They all look so similar. It was a suburb, the type they built after the war. Rows of houses so perfectly separated from each other. It was much newer looking when I was younger. Each house looked the same aside from its paint job. I remember the colors being so bright when I was a kid. You needed to squint your eyes on a sunny day, they were so bright. There’d be brick red, yellow, even purple. But it all collected this grayness over time, you know? By the time I was grown, it was all pretty faded. Wear and tear does that to a neighborhood.
DO: So, let’s focus on the day in question. April 9th. What were you doing that day? We don’t want to dive right into that moment yet, so what’s the first thing you remember?
JS: Let’s see, I remember being in the drug store. I brought Humphrey with me. I wanted to do get some seeds and do some gardening. Mineola prided itself on manicured front lawns, garden fences, flower beds by the front porch. Every week in spring, the drugstore had a new batch of flower seeds, but I couldn’t make anything grow. Other than making sure Humphrey was okay, everything seemed to be going wrong, or I was doing something wrong, and believe me, his father would let me know about it. Still, I tried even though I knew I was a terrible gardener. There’d been quite a bit of drinking by then, as you know. Gardening and drinking went hand in hand for me. To get specific on that day, it must’ve been early afternoon or late morning. Humphrey had on these denim overalls and a white T-shirt underneath. Like he was a little Rosie the Riveter. I had on this knee-length pinstripe sundress. On our way there, he made this buzzing sound with his lips, like he was an airplane. He’d go ahead of me, looking back from time to time to make sure I was still there. He stretched his arms out and flapped. Look at me, Mommy! he said. I’m an air-rain. It was the cutest thing. Mommy, mommy, look at me! I’m an air-rain! He was so adorable; I didn’t have the heart to correct him. I laughed all the way there and he laughed too. As I was shopping around, Humphrey went to the corner by the cash register and played on the ATARI console. Gatika or Galagoo, something like that. (Sigh.) Anyway, I was in line, watching my boy mash on the buttons, jerk around the joystick, and…wow…come to think of it…wow…I almost forgot about him.
DO: Did something happen at the drugstore? Ran into someone you knew? An old boyfriend, perhaps?
JS: It was someone I knew. He was standing in front of me in line, waiting to check out. His name was…what was his name…Ah! Raymond Buck. That’s it. Yes, he was in front of me. I hadn’t seen him in…well, I couldn’t remember. Had to be at least three years. He divorced my neighbor, Ally, right around the time Humphrey was born. She’d come by the house and watch Humphrey. More of a drinking buddy. Ally and Ray didn’t have kids of their own, but she always wanted to watch after my boy if I had someplace to be—back when I felt I could go places. Whenever I went to hers, I’d sometimes see Raymond going from room to room. Quiet man, never said much other than Hi, there. Ally would say that he traveled for work, a salesman of some kind. Before they finally separated, I heard all kinds of rumors—you know—little whispers through the grapevine that people could hear them screaming at each other at all hours of the night. After the divorce, I never saw Raymond again…until that day in April, waiting in line with a bottle of aspirin in his hand. (Sighs.) I barely recognized him, he looked so thin, much thinner than I remembered. Only way I could make him out was because he had this minor case of alopecia on the back of his head. A faded, creamy bald spot. I had to say something. I tapped him on the shoulder and saw that his face was a lot less full, less inflamed than before. He looked fit. Like he’d been working out. He wore this light plaid shirt with jeans that fitted around him rather than on him like the clothes were a half-size too big. He gave me this big smile, recognized me right away. He’d gotten a little gray. I say to him, Raymond Buck! How in the world are you? We have the customary small talk of how we’d been, what we’d been doing. I must’ve lied through my teeth because my mouth was getting sore with all the smiling. He was lying too as most neighbors do. Kept saying how nice I looked, how that sundress suited me. Kind of him, but I could see the juice stain on my sleeve. But once we got past all the Hi’s and how-are-you’s, I felt this weight, this compulsion to ask. I don’t know, I hadn’t seen him since Humphrey was born and I had to find out what he’d been up to. I knew neither of them kept the house. I asked what in the hell he was doing back Mineola. He told me he was giving a talk at the Hempstead Community Center. He was really open with me, told me his whole story. That he had lost his sales job soon after Ally signed the papers. Too many times drinking on the job. Best thing that could’ve happened to him. Long time coming, he said. He bounced around and ended up as a manager of a little bike shop someplace in Oregon. He then got onto the 12-Step program which helped him quit the sauce. He’d been three years sober, and some top members thought it would be a good idea for him to give a talk at the new AA meeting center in Hempstead since he was from the area. I felt happy for him, I guess.
DO: You guess? You seem to be holding back.
JS: (Hums. Taps fingers on couch.) Well, I don’t know. Don’t get me wrong, I was happy for him. But the way he talked about drinking—to him it seemed like a curse, something that weighed him down. Made it sound like drinking was just plain bad with no middle ground. I felt called out…like a blazing hot spotlight shined directly on me as he went on about his journey. I was talking to a completely different person from who I knew. Not that I knew him well to begin with, but it’s strange to see someone go through such a transformation and you just stay right there. Makes you feel stuck. (Pause.) Then he asks me what I’m up to. I point to Humphrey at the arcade game. He said my husband and I must feel so lucky to have a such ball of sunshine. I don’t know what I said or how I answered, but the next thing I remember is him taking this card out of his pocket. Tells me, that if I ever need anything, to give him a call. He wrote the number of the hotel he was staying at. At first, I thought he was trying to…you know. He must’ve seen the look on my face and he immediately said he wasn’t implying anything. We shared a nervous laugh. His card read Speaker and AA Advocate. I don’t know what sobriety does to people like Raymond, but—to me—they have this strange power around others. Raymond saw my face, how bloated it was, how spaced out I was, the stain, my twitching eyebrows, or the fact I didn’t take off my sunglasses when I was in the store. He must’ve intuited what I was going through. Maybe not all of it, but enough to know I was drinking quite a bit. A superpower of some kind; it’s scary being able to read people that well. People like Raymond, they know the look. Before I could react, the cashier called him over. Last thing he said to me was to consider coming to the meeting tomorrow afternoon, and maybe we could grab a coffee afterward. Then, like that, he was gone. I can’t believe I almost forgot him. (Sighs. Hums. Newton’s Cradle continues to tick.) Nine years…
DO: And can you remember what you did when you got back to your house?
JS: I would have to say— (Sound of hands squeezing leather.) I don’t know why I’m getting this emotional about a house I haven’t seen in years. (Voice cracks.) Just…it’s gone. I can’t see it anymore. I can’t see what makes it different from any other house. It—it wasn’t even a home. It wasn’t a place I’d call home. I don’t think anyone would call it a home.
DO: Do you think drinking was to numb what was happening, and you’re now beginning to realize the gravity of the pain because you’re more or less sober now? Is this triggering?
JS: This whole session is triggering. But you’re right about the drinking, except it didn’t make me a bad mother. (Slight sob.) I made sure Humphrey was fed. I made sure he was clean, but I needed it. I don’t know when it started but one day…I felt adrift and kept feeling that way. I felt myself getting further away from who I was, but I just needed to keep drinking. Like I could find it again after just one more. In the months leading up to that day, when my husband would come home from a shift, I’d put Humphrey in the living room with the TV turned up loud. Then I’d get to washing the dishes. Then he’d come in and… (Long pause.) Doctor Ogilvy, I don’t think I can do this. I don’t want to see it. We should move on. Change the subject.
DO: Jane…maybe we should take a step back. Reorient ourselves—
JS: No…let’s move on. It’s not like I was completely innocent. I mean, what am I complaining about? I was drinking too. (Shortened, nasally breaths.) He was a good man when we first met. His father used to hit him. He told me that after our first bout, you know. He’d beg me for forgiveness: him sliding on his knees toward me, hands out, begging me to forgive him, saying he was sorry, crying even. I’d be hiding behind a cabinet or against a closet door. I’d stand there listening to how sorry he was, how he needed help, begging me to help him. That dark look in his eyes would go away. It was like he was sober again and the drunk had flushed out of him. And I would go downstairs and make myself a drink and take it all down while Humphrey would look into the TV watching Sesame Street. He would stare at me all confused, even cried at first when he saw the bruises on my face. That is until he got used to it. He would just watch me make my drink…I mean, what type of mother would let that—
DO: Jane…Jane. We’re going around in circles. I think we should really step back and set the scene so we can get back to the specific day.
JS: But, doctor, I was the one who left…he didn’t. I always said that I would never be the one to leave. That I was the one who had to save this family. That I could fix him. I needed to fix him. (Cries.) Every day was a struggle for me to retrieve some version of the man I married. I didn’t want to accept the fact that he was gone. Long gone. Gone the first time he hit me. But with Humphrey—what was I going to do? I knew every jagged edge of that man, and I was just so sure I could find him again, that bright young man who ran into me at the Easter luncheon—
DO: We’re not here to justify the actions of someone who isn’t present. Remember, I am here to help you address this and I know it’s hard. But please, guide me through these moments. Tell me everything you can remember from the time you got back to the house. Stay within the event as much as you can. Start with the basics: what you were doing, what part of the house.
(Long pause. Sound of hands rubbing on couch, fingers picking at the buttons. Newton’s Cradle continues to click.)
JS: Okay. Stay in the event. April 9th, 1988. (Deep breath.) Once we got home, I went to the kitchen to make myself a drink. As if my conversation with Ray never happened. Then, Humphrey and I went to the backyard. He was playing with a soccer ball, making noises, stomping around, pretending to be a monster pushing a big boulder through a city. With a drink in one hand, I took my newly bought lilac and daffodil seeds out and went to my flower bed by the fence. Well, it wasn’t much a flower bed, just this mulchy mound and a few pots that were never used. I went to the side yard to grab the bag of soil. I didn’t know what I was doing, and I was rather sauced by then, so I guess I was in the mood to make a mess. Maybe to convince myself that little Janie didn’t just loaf around and drink all day with baby Humphrey. The bag was so heavy that I couldn’t lift it off the ground, so I dragged it. Humphrey was now kicking the ball up against the fence. Ponk. Ponk. Really kicking away at it, and here I was dragging this big smelly bag and…I don’t know how it happened, but the bag must’ve caught a sharp rock and tore. I didn’t notice, so I kept pulling until I made it to the fence. Only then did I realize that there was this long tail of soil behind me. It was all over the yard, nowhere near the flower bed. (Pause. Chuckles slightly.) Great! Now the yard smells like cow and I can’t even plant my lilacs. I was fed up and, just like Humphrey with the soccer ball, I kicked the bag up and down the yard. Humphrey saw me and copied every one of my movements. Dirt got all over my sundress and we started picking up mud and throwing it around. I gave up and poured myself another drink, sat in the backyard, and watched my son roll around in the dirt. Then, I looked at my watch. 4:30. His father was going to be home in the next hour. (Stammers. AC turns on. Turns off.) I throw Humphrey into the bath, making sure he doesn’t track any mud. I clean him up and plop him in front of the TV before running upstairs to take a shower myself. His father wouldn’t tolerate a dirty son, nor a messy wife. But I knew I didn’t have to worry about the backyard because he’d be too drunk to notice. Then—(Pause)—well…no…that’s silly.
DO: What? You can say it. Please.
JS: Okay, this going to sound ridiculous, but here goes. When I went upstairs to the bathroom, I brought my purse with me and flung it on the bed before I realized I forgot to zip it up. My lipstick, my checkbook, old receipts, everything fell out, including that card Raymond Buck gave me.
DO: And?
JS: I pick up that card and I thought, Hmm…maybe I should follow up on his offer. I remember holding that card in front of the bathroom mirror, wearing my dirty pin-striped dress, grass stains all over, makeup rearranged in a way where I looked like a clown in a coal mine. I looked different. Not good, but different. To the point where I didn’t need to recognize myself. I thought I could be someone else, just for one day, maybe. That I didn’t need to be that wife all cooped up, ready to be told what I did wrong or how I was just so, so wrong. Maybe I will go to that meeting, I thought. Why not? I could drop Humphrey off Christine’s—my next-door neighbor—and tell her I’m going for a swim at the Y. Maybe I’ll go to Raymond’s talk. Would I join the program right then and there? No. That wasn’t my thing. Still, there wasn’t any harm in going. Why not, right? When I stepped into the shower, I thought of running into him after his talk and saying if he was still interested in that coffee. That would be it, though. No hotel nightcap—nothing like that. For a moment, I was happy to simply imagine doing something else. Something beyond 211 Latham and my shitty flowerbed. But the thought soon dried up. I mean, what would Raymond say if he saw how I had to cake foundation to cover up my right cheek? What would my husband say after seeing me all made up after coming back home? Still, it felt good to think about it. I even had this outfit picked out in my head: an orange, fur-like sweater and a pair of blue-wash jeans. Nothing impressive, but casual. I know, it’s silly.
DO: Not silly at all, Jane. Seems to me you were trying to cope with your situation by fantasizing. There’s nothing silly about that. (Pause.) Now, I sense we are about to approach the moment, the moment you finally left your husband. Don’t worry if you get emotional or get worked up in the process, but I want you to focus on this moment as precisely as you can. Don’t hold anything back but try to stay on track.
JS: (After one more deep breath,) After showering, I started washing the dishes at the kitchen sink, scrubbing hardened cheese off these plates his mother had given us as a wedding gift. That was the only point of contact I had with his mother or really anyone else by that point. Except for those drugstore excursions, I was cooped up. Barely left the house. I had quit my job at a finance company in the city shortly after getting married. Then, I got pregnant with Humphrey. Come to think, that’s when it really—and I mean really—got started. I hadn’t gone into the city for two years and I hadn’t seen my own family in I couldn’t tell you how long. (Voice lowers.) With the drinking, the hitting, and taking care of Humphrey, I was a mess. But no one knew. Or no one wanted to know. We’d gotten into a routine, but I could feel how nervous Humphrey would get when he’d see me doing the dishes, watching me from the TV room because not too long after…his father would come in, normally just stinking of it. Even when I was stinking of it, I could smell it on him. And that’s when it would happen if he was in a bad mood—but by April 9th, it seemed to be his only mood. He’d come up behind me, practically pinning me to the sink, and lean in, right by my neck, and say in my ear: What in the fuck do you think you’re doing; asking me if I was ungrateful, if I was trying to disrespect him. When I wouldn’t answer, that’s when it would start. But when I did answer, it turned into a thing anyway. Sometimes he’d take whatever I had in my hand and…get to it. Wash brush, rolling pin, wooden spoon. I could’ve fought back; I know I should’ve. It could have stopped. (Pause. Sniffles, then coughs.) I could feel how nervous Humphrey would get leading up to these moments. He would stare at me for hours, it seemed, peeking from around the corner to check on me. He’d pretend to be watching TV. On that day—April 9th—I remember he was watching some kind of Western. Those cheesy gunshots kept going off. Pow…pow. Maybe it was a John Wayne. He was sitting on the floor. Never in his father’s chair. I remember this because the sun would shine through on the other side of the house facing the kitchen window before it hid behind our neighbors’ houses, past our white picket fence. Yes, doctor, a white picket fence. It was only for a few minutes, but I remember how—when it shined through—everything the light caught was given this incredible yellowy-orange like we’d been covered in tangerines. The pink kitchen tile became tangerine. The table, the chairs, my bottle of Stoli by the sink, everything drowned in tangerine. Everything the sun hit cast a long shadow throughout the house and into the hallway leading to the front door, into the living room. It would creep over the wooden box of the RCA TV and shine onto Humphrey’s little eyes. Big blue eyes. He was so beautiful. But then I’d see this glob of sweat on his forehead. He never said a word about it. How could he have known? It was all he knew, so why ask? When his father would come back from wherever he came from, the screen door would screech loudly, something he always promised to fix. He’d stop and stare at me, standing in the doorway. I’d see Humphrey looking into the kitchen, waiting to see what would happen. By this time, his drinking had gotten bad enough where he wasn’t even saying I deserved it anymore. He’d just grunt out something and when I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply, he’d start up again. They’d cut his hours at the factory and we were falling behind on payments. Somehow, he thought it was my fault he hurt his back. When he came home that day, April 9th, I remember very clearly looking down at the kitchen tile. I felt him getting closer as his breathing picked up. I stared at this big crack in the tile that was this one time when I was scrubbing a meat mallet and his father barged in. Said I was a no-good cook and grabbed my wrist, causing me to drop the mallet onto the floor and boy did he notice that. You can—(Shivered breathing)—You see my nose? How it’s crooked to the left? I thought about taking that meat mallet and banging it on the floor, opening up the crack, bang away at it so it would expand, become a fissure, an opening I could fall through, and keep falling so I could finally hide and feel the quiet. Then, he grabbed me and I was back at the kitchen sink.
(Extended silence.)
DO: But what happened when he arrived on that day?
JS: I remember he was standing behind me, towering over me. (Volume rises throughout.) I was about half-a-bottle deep, so, when he kept talking about how I was disrespecting his mother, chipping away at the good plates, I didn’t answer him. He told me to turn around and look at him. Look at me, he said. Look. At. Me. But I knew I’d only make him angrier if I showed him my face. He would unload on me anyway, so I didn’t turn around. He stuck out his neck, above my right shoulder, breathing through his nose, and asked me how many times he would have to teach me before I got it through my thick head that I needed to wash the fucking dishes the right way so the—the—(Muttering.)
DO: Jane, Jane, can you hear me? Jane, remember to stay in—
JS: He said, Look. At. Me. Bitch. Jane, you better ffuuccking look at me when your husband’s speaking to you. That’s when he turned me around and grabbed me by the arms and started shaking me. But I kept looking away, I didn’t want to see the sunshine on his face. That was all Humphrey and I had. We only had the sunshine and if I saw it on him, I’d see nothing but his face. I didn’t say anything, so he gave me a quick one to the chin. (Pause.) Looking to my right, I saw my boy staring into the kitchen. The TV went pow…pow…pow. The moment I saw him…my son…I went limp and didn’t realize I still had a plate in my hand. It broke as I tried to brace myself before hitting the floor. Humphrey kept looking at me, trying so hard not to cry. He was shaking, like the tears bounced inside, bruising him. I wanted to crawl to him, to hold him, to protect him—if I could just get to him—but then I felt his boot on my back. His dirty boot pressed against my back. Then he closed the door in Humphrey’s face. Kept me from seeing my son. Normally he wouldn’t—you know—care about whether Humphrey saw or not. Let the boy watch how to be a man, he’d say. Certainly won’t learn anything from you. So, when he closed the door, I thought to myself…Janie, this is it. This is the day you’re going to die. I looked at my hands. They looked pretty cut up from the broken plate. My palms, my elbows. I was messed up. I felt him grab me under my arm and lifted. I could barely stand…I remember looking at my hands, all the blood coming out, like it was pumping, and it had this carrot color in the sunlight. He said to me, I told you for the last time…you’re going to look at me and answer for what you’ve done. He kept going on and on about the fact I was drunk. He was drunk too, but that didn’t seem to matter. (Pause.) Doctor, I want Humphrey to know the me before all the drinking. I didn’t like any part of myself. I don’t want him to only remember that about me. But what else was there? He was so young. Because I…(Pause. Newton’s Cradle continues to click.) I fear he only remembers that bottle of Stoli and me not fighting back. Just taking it. (Sobs)—Why in the hell would he want to know me after what I did, after what he saw—but I want to because every day I think about how alone he must be, how I couldn’t be strong enough for him. Not strong enough to take him with me. I wouldn’t blame him if he hated me—
DO: Stay in the event, Jane. What happened after he forced you to your feet?
(Newton’s Cradle continues to click. Sound of JS scratching scalp.)
JS: He…lifted me. (Quieter) And he pushed his nose against mine. Face to face. Like I said, I thought this was it, so I wanted to have one more drink. I was resigned to the fact I was going to die, but I wanted to finish that bottle in his face. One last fuck you. I opened my mouth to ask him but ended up praying to the Virgin Mary, of all things. I don’t know where it came from! It came out of my mouth as if the words were put inside me. I asked her to help me get through this, that if this was a test of my faith to please, please keep me safe. Keep my boy safe. Then he grabbed my bloody hands—it stung so bad. I yelped like a dog and he started mimicking me. Barking. He laughed, saying that there was no other side and even if there was…he’d find me, and hunt me down. (Louder) There was nothing that could take me away from him. Can you imagine, doctor, a man telling you that there was no God as he was ready to unload on you, a man who said in a church—in front of God—that he would be with me forever and stay committed and…well, that’s when I thought he was for sure going to do it…finally overdo it. Down by his side, I heard a jingling—his car keys—right before he hit me with them. The Stoli bottle shattered. Somehow, the keys slipped out and fell into the sink. Losing his balance after swinging at me, he then said, Now look at what you’ve done, making this big mess…you expect me to clean this for you? He stomped on the broken glass, shaking the house. Worthless, he called me, pulling my hair. Then I turned around to face the sunset. I felt the back of my head getting warm. I didn’t want Humphrey to hear me cry. I just wanted him to keep watching the movie. Stay in the living room, sweetheart. Stay there. Don’t come out until I say you can. But I couldn’t even get those words out. I heard the TV getting louder like Humphrey knew what was happening and wanted to drown it all out. What else could he have done? (Pause.) I saw it was nearly dark out—you know the way the sky has that last streak of blue and gold coming together? I wanted to reach out and touch it; it’s hard to explain, but I had this image of a rope where the blue meets that disappearing orange. I wanted to grab hold of it, so it could pull me up, up, and away, but then I felt him pull my hair back. Now I was staring at the ceiling. I felt the damp bristles of his face, but I wouldn’t look at him. He told me I was so weak and that he really settled when he married me, how good I had it, and how I’d never learn. He even said I could take a swing at him. Make it even, he said. Mutually assured, he kept saying. Come on, you really want to do this? You really want to kill each other? Look at me. And I heard the word No come out of my mouth. No…no…no—no. I couldn’t remember the last time I denied him anything. It was like I wasn’t even saying it. So, he turned me around, saying goddammit I would look him in the eye. And then I saw, over his shoulder, my son in the foyer by the front door, holding a teddy bear—a Christmas gift his father’d given him from a secondhand store. He looked confused, sucking his thumb like he’d been crying. I then received a knee to the stomach. I leaned over, grabbing onto his denim factory jacket, trying to hold myself up. I couldn’t breathe, but then he elbowed me in the back of my head. He kept telling me to look at him. Look. At. Me. You don’t have no common sense do you, woman? Then he grabbed me and flung me over to the window by the fridge. The blinds made this click, clicking sound before I sunk to the floor. I looked for my son, but he wasn’t there anymore. He was under the kitchen table. (Sniffles.) As soon as I was curled up next to the fridge, I saw him watching me. Then I got a blow from a cookbook. I put my arms up, trying to look my boy in the eye and protect myself at once. (Pause.) With hit after hit, the blinds swung and bumped against the window. Humphrey was shaking and—and—well, doctor, I don’t know what happened next, or how I stood up, or how I got him off me. I guess you could say I blacked out. But when I came to, I wasn’t totally back, if that makes sense.
DO: Please, explain. Try to, at least.
JS: I don’t know. It wasn’t me who woke up, but I felt like it was me, just not the me from before. It felt like my mind had gone into another person’s body who walked through our front door to see what the commotion was and saw the broken plates, broken glass, the fridge, Humphrey under the table. Something had clicked out of me. I looked at myself with all that broken glass, and blots of blood everywhere: along the counter, the blinds. It felt like God was letting me see so I could finally have some perspective. But I was numb to what was happening…like I was observing from far away.
DO: So, you felt outside yourself?
JS: It was more like I had lost myself, where I was separated from the event, watching him hit someone else with a cookbook. Pages started to fall out, falling everywhere. I couldn’t hear anything. (Phlegmatic breathing. Newton’s Cradle clicking.)
JS: Doctor, this is really hard. (Gulps.)
DO: How did you get him off you?
JS: Thing is, I don’t know. But I remember seeing myself getting hit. Then I turned and saw that Humphrey was at my feet—not, like, at my own feet but the…what do you call it? The phantom me. Like he was staring at a ghost. I peered into his eyes, into those large pupils and there was nothing but black. Dark. And then…I came to. Felt like a second later. Or it might’ve been five minutes, I don’t know. I don’t know how I stood up. He must’ve thrown me to the other side of the kitchen, and I recovered my balance. I swear I heard Humphrey whimpering, Mommy…Mommy… (Pause.) Like he was asking, What are you doing, Mommy? What is happening to you, Mommy? When I came to, I saw his father had backed up. His hands were up, telling me to calm down and not do anything stupid. I saw that his shirt was ripped, and little streaks of blood were across his belly, little cuts all over. And you want to know the first thing I thought? That it would take me forever to clean the blood off that shirt. Then I noticed the knife in my hand, dripping at the tip. Honest to God, doctor, I don’t know how it got in my hand. Humphrey was in the foyer screaming…screaming so loud. Just mommy…please…mommy. He had grown so used to his father having his way, he must’ve thought mommy couldn’t fight. I saw it in the way he looked at me, that there was no way mommies could fight back and—I mean—until then, I didn’t know I could fight back. Something took over me. My husband was talking all soft about calming down, that he was sorry; he’d had too much to drink, that we both had too much to drink. I started feeling around the sink—still pointing the knife at him—and quickly looked for the car keys. (Sobs.) I wanted to run to the front door and scoop up my boy, so we’d drive away together. We had nowhere to go, but we would drive until the gas ran out and we’d be far enough away from him. But I had to look into the sink and fish out the keys, and when I turned back, Humphrey was standing behind his father, poking his head out from behind his legs, sucking his thumb, staring wide-eyed at the knife in my hand. Then, his father said I needed to calm down. Me! I was the one who needed to calm down. Look at what I was doing to our son, he said. Jane, you need to realize what you’re doing, you’re hurting our son. He really said that to me… (Quieter) He was gone. Humphrey was gone! Holding the keys in my hand, reaching out with the knife, I told my husband to stay back and gave one more look to my Humphrey. I told him with my eyes to come to me, but he didn’t move. Why didn’t I say it? All I knew was I needed to get out of that house. I backed away, pointing the knife at him the whole time, got to the front door, and went outside.
(Extended pause. Silence except for Newton’s Cradle’s clicks.)
DO: Do you remember what happened next? Is that all you remember?
JS: No…it gets worse. I make my way out the door and see the front yard. The sun was setting, and everything had this gray about it—like Latham Road had become a shadow of itself and the people walking the street, walking their dogs, rolling around in their electric wheelchairs, lugging their groceries from the corner store, they’d all become shadowy. Then everything got bright like I’d been underground for days. It was blistering white, almost hot. But then about a second later, I see this dark thing coming up to me, and it’s Christine, the next-door neighbor. I notice that I still have the knife in my hand and drop it on the porch. Christine jumped, startled at the clang of metal hitting concrete. She asked if I was okay. She’d heard some noises and thought to come over and check in. (Stuttering) And, then—Lord—she saw the cuts on my arms. T-t-that’s when she got quiet and started backing away. And soon enough I saw the neighbors gathering around, right up to the property line. Some were coming from across the street. They must’ve heard it. They were ready for the whole affair to spill out into the open, but w-would any of them d-d-d-do anything—no. No, I d-don’t think so, because it was clear to me that they’d heard it all before. The screaming, things breaking, me crying, Humphrey crying, but none of them had done anything. Now they were all cozied up to my white picket fence so they could see it all unfold. They were watching like it was a play…I mean I couldn’t believe it. Then I literally shoved Christine out of the way and walked to the driveway so I could get in the car. We had an 82’ Sierra with dented-in doors—mostly his doing when he’d overserve himself—always knocking the door against the garbage bins. Anyway, Christine keeps asking me, Jane…Is everything okay, Jane? Jane, is everything okay? (Pause.) I didn’t say anything. I felt hot. Dizzy. I wanted to get in the car, and then I heard the screen door open. And you know what he was doing, doctor? He was crying. Crying, doctor. The man was crying, devoid of that dark look he gave me while he was having his way in the kitchen. He was the one who was crying. I knew he wouldn’t do anything with this many people watching, but he didn’t come out begging me to come back either. No. None of that. Those crocodile tears were just a show. (Volume increases.) No, he yelled at me, barely able to stand up; staggered, screaming: Why’d you have to do it, Janie? Why’d you have to go and sleep with him? How could you do that to me? Oh, he said it so loud. Loud enough for everyone on Latham to hear. What’s the matter? he said. He made sure I looked like a whore in front of the whole neighborhood. He went that low. The good Italian Catholic wife a whore? He kept saying—practically on his knees, biting his upper lip: I thought you loved me, I thought you loved me…They didn’t see my cuts, they didn’t see the bruises. They didn’t see my elbows dripping with blood. No, that would be too complicated for them to accept. They only saw a whore because that’s convenient. And no one stepped in! They just watched as he kept crying, making his way to me. What’s the matter with you? I thought you loved me, he said over and over. He said it enough to the point where I thought I went blind because I couldn’t see anything, I just remember yelling. No. No. No! No! No! I felt his hand on the back of my head and he said something I couldn’t make out and spit in my eyes. I then heard a voice yell out, Hey! and he backed away, looking at me like he wanted to kill me. I took the opportunity to get in the car and back out. But as I was pulling out, I saw Humphrey staring at me through the kitchen window. His eyes looked so blue. That was the last I saw of him. He didn’t follow me. I then rushed to my parents who gave me some money, then I drove to the bus depot and left the car. And that’s how I ended up here…in Harrisburg. End of the line. (Deep breath.) And I feel like I’m not just miles away from Mineola, but years away now. I don’t know what it looks like anymore: if the corner store is still there, if the Johnsons still lived across the street, and if their dog Twiggy still played in the front yard. I don’t know because I feel erased from it. No one has my number. Humphrey may not even remember me, or his father put ideas in his head about how awful I was. But I can’t be that awful. Sometimes I feel like I’m being punished.(AC fan turns on.)
DO: Punished, you say. How so?
JS: Even though I’m far away and there’s no way he can get to me, I still don’t have my child. I don’t have my son. Isn’t that a punishment for leaving him?
DO: But who would be punishing you, Jane? —(AC snaps, Newton’s Cradle continues to click)—Who do you think is punishing you and why?
JS: Well, I suppose because I’m away, I can’t see my boy. I can’t see my family, my friends—without the possibility of running into him. And I know he thinks I’ll come back. He thinks I’m weak. That I’m not strong enough. He believed those things he said to me. That’s how I know he wouldn’t ever move out of that house. He’ll never leave Latham Road, just in case I came back. Knowing that has to be a punishment.
DO: Again, who do you think could be punishing you? Giving you this anxiety?
JS: Well…well…it can’t be just one person. It would have to be God, right?
DO: You think God is punishing you for leaving your son?
JS: For abandoning my duties as a mother, yes! God says you can’t abandon your children. I did that and now I’ve been forced to live like this: afraid. (Pause.) I’ve tried to call and check in on Humphrey, but every time I hear his father’s voice, I hang up. Even when it’s Humphrey answering the phone, his voice doesn’t sound like it used to. There’s something dulled in it. It doesn’t sound like him, and I’m terrified to figure out who he is now… (Blows nose.) I lay up in my apartment every night and just let myself try to go to sleep, but it doesn’t feel like sleeping because I’m back in Mineola, at the kitchen sink, waiting for him to come home every night. How is that not punishment? How’s that—uhm, Doctor Ogilvy?
DO: Yes?
JS: Would you please stop that thing? (Newton’s Cradle stops.) And if you don’t mind, I’d like to stop now. (Leather couch shifting. Floor creaks.)
DO: Of course, Jane. Our time’s up anyway. So, uh, we’ll pick this up next week. (Pause.) Now, do you need to call someone to drive you home or—
JS: No, doctor. Really, thank you. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.
DO: Of course. See you next week. (Swivel chair squeaks. Office door opens, closes. DO sighs. Scratches on legal pad. Recording concludes.)
Matt Gillick is from Northern Virginia. He is a co-founding editor of Cult. Magazine. He is working on a novel. More published work at mattgillick.com.