All of Us (ARC) Read online

  ALL OF US

  dilemma, whether she likes it or not. I am, as you know and as you taught, ever the manipulator, never the manipulated.

  Motto of the story: under no circumstances should you draw your sword on a jaded psychologist.

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  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  MARTHA

  I’ve been chosen to confront the adversary. Another

  example of the family coming together in the face of

  a threat. We know what’s on the line. The danger’s now

  coming from two sides. Daddy and the doctor. Victoria

  can’t get beyond the injustice. Kirk cannot put aside his rage.

  Serena hasn’t the fortitude. Eleni’s never learned to restrain her tongue.

  So, here I am, sitting across from the always-dour Tanya

  in Halberstam’s waiting room. My appointment should have

  started ten minutes ago, but Tanya offers no excuse and no

  apology for the delay. Sit, wait, be patient.

  I don’t know exactly how it happens, but Tanya turns to

  me a few minutes later. Her face expressionless, she says,

  “You may go in now.”

  I find Halberstam on his feet. Posed before one of his

  precious objects, the lacquered box with the gold fish.

  Recently, he’s taken to remaining on his feet through much

  of our appointment, often with his back turned. When he

  does approach, I associate the posture forced upon me by

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  the tilted chair with fear. I’m find myself leaning away, as if ducking a blow.

  I assume the position without being asked. Halberstam

  ignores me for a minute as he repositions the box. “I want

  to try a different approach this time, if you don’t mind,

  Martha.”

  I nod and spread my hands, though he’s not looking at

  me. “I’m all ears.”

  Halberstam turns to me, his face all the more threaten-

  ing for its friendly expression. His eyes are crinkled, mouth turned slightly upward.

  “Why are you here, Martha? What do you hope to gain

  from therapy? What does Carolyn Grand hope to gain?”

  I’m tempted to say nothing, to throw it in his face. But

  that wouldn’t be true. We do have a goal and that’s to dump

  his ass without getting ourselves committed in the pro-

  cess. Fortunately, when it comes to therapy—and especially

  bullshit therapists like Halberstam—I’m no virgin. I know

  exactly what I need to say.

  “Two roads, Doctor. No third way. Either integrate the

  personalities into one, you might say a reconstructed Caro-

  lyn Grand, or eliminate those who prevent us from keeping

  a simple dental appointment.”

  “Too general, Martha. Specifically, why are you here in

  this room at this time? Is it merely because the court ordered you into therapy, then hired me to provide it? You’ve told me that you cannot work because you cannot show up for work

  every day. Some identity or another inevitably takes control, whereupon you vanish for two or three days, whereupon

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  A. F. CARTER

  you’re fired. And yet, you’ve managed to keep all of your

  appointments with me.”

  I don’t hear a question, but I respond with the company

  line, the one our Legal Aid lawyer’s already told the court.

  Still, the words ring so hollow I want to cringe.

  “We know we need help, Doctor. Without therapy we’ll

  never meet our goal.”

  “Which is?”

  “To have a life, a real life. Like Pinocchio becoming a real boy.”

  Halberstam retreats to his desk and takes a seat. He fumbles in the center drawer of his desk, but his hand comes out empty.

  “Let’s explore that for a moment. How do you pay your rent,

  Martha? Where does the money come from? Specifically?”

  One thing about our doctor, he knows where to insert

  the probe. I’m to be shown the extent of our dependence.

  But there’s no room for a lie here. Halberstam already knows the answer.

  “Two hundred dollars comes from our disability check.

  The rest from a Section Eight voucher.”

  “And the food you eat?”

  “A hundred dollars in food stamps, plus cash from our

  disability check.”

  “And the laundry, who pays for the laundry? And the elec-

  tric bill? And the cable bill. You do have cable, don’t you?”

  “Basic.” Despite my best intentions, I explain, “You can’t

  get any reception with an antenna. Not in that part of Brooklyn. We tried, believe me.”

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  “I’m more interested in who pays for these things. Who

  pays for your clothing, your haircuts, your toothpaste, your therapy?”

  “The government.” There, I’ve said it. I’ve said what the

  bastard wants to hear. I’ve submitted. “The government

  pays for everything.”

  “That’s correct. At present, Carolyn Grand is a dependent

  ward of the state. You say that you wish to become indepen-

  dent, but as I speak to you, I see little evidence to support that assertion. Last week, Victoria, who you claim to be a

  separate, independent identity, launched a tirade directed at me. She accused me of being a voyeur and called me a fucking bastard.” His smile, when he pauses, is cold enough to be a sneer. “My apologies, I’ve got that wrong. It wasn’t Victoria who cursed me. It was still another identity, Tina, who I’ve been waiting weeks to meet, but who vanished in an instant

  and hasn’t been seen since. Convenient, yes? Carolyn Grand

  propositions an undercover police officer. Carolyn Grand

  curses her therapist. But Carolyn Grand need never assume

  responsibility because she doesn’t exist. And let me be quick to add that the language Tina used hardly seems that of a

  cringing nine-year-old, a little mouse. Something’s wrong

  here, very wrong.”

  I don’t argue the point because I agree with him. I was

  present when Tina went off on Halberstam. Her tirade was

  on point, every word cutting to the bone. The only problem

  is that a nine-year-old couldn’t have made it.

  “Do you find that surprising, Doctor? That Tina’s fear

  should conceal her rage?”

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  “No, I find it convenient.”

  If there’s something to be said here, I don’t know what it

  is. Besides, the truth is right in front of his face. I’m wearing a pair of cargo shorts, a plain, white T-shirt, black athletic shoes, no socks and no makeup. My hair’s pinned close to

  the side of my head and my legs are unshaved. How likely is

  it that I proposition strangers on the street? Male strangers.

  “You say,” Halberstam continues, “that you want to work,

  but you can’t. When was the last time you looked for a job?”

  “A year ago.”

  “Did you find one.”

  “No.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because Eleni took the body for a long ride.” I can’t bring myself to supply the details and I conclude with a sh
ake of

  my head.

  “A character in a book I read a few months ago,” Halber-

  stam tells me, “described himself as a half-assed Catholic.

  ‘I’m trying,’ he said. ‘Only not too hard.’ That’s you. That’s Carolyn Grand. Despite everything, you live a comfortable

  life, a life that allows your body to be taken for long rides, no obligations to be met. The government check is in the mail.”

  I finally gather a response, this one true. “Yes, some of

  us are content. Serena is too fragile to work. Eleni is unconcerned with obligations of any kind. Not Kirk, though. And

  certainly not myself or Victoria.”

  “Another excuse from an identity that isn’t available.

  It’s just too easy, especially for a woman with a tested IQ

  in the very superior range, a woman more intelligent than

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  ninety-eight percent of the general population. But except

  for a free ride, what has it gotten you? That’s the question I keep asking myself.” Halberstam returns to the center

  drawer of his desk, but this time he’s clutching a sheet of

  paper when his hand emerges. “I spoke to Kevin Powell,

  your father’s parole officer, earlier this morning. Your father admits to seeing you in Prospect Park, but claims he never

  came within a hundred yards of where you sat. The other

  part, about following you home, he denies.”

  My anger boils up, spills over. “Let me ask you a ques-

  tion, Doctor. Do you consider the word of a sadistic pedo-

  phile equal to the word of his primary victim? I say primary because there were many others out on the edge.”

  This time Halberstam’s smile is genuine, the delighted

  smile of twelve-year-old boy who’s just ripped the wings off a butterfly.

  “I’m not judging you, Martha. But Victoria, when she

  recounted the incident, told me that her father did not

  approach her. True, she said he remained fifty yards away,

  not a hundred, but the separation was nonetheless substan-

  tial. In any event, only Kevin Powell has the power to charge your father with a violation of the terms of his parole. My

  function, at this point, is to relay information.” He raises the sheet of paper and waves it as though claiming a territory.

  “This letter is from your father. It’s addressed to his daughter, Carolyn Grand. Believe me, I’ve given the matter a lot of thought. I think it’s best if I read it aloud.”

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  A. F. CARTER

  Carolyn. I wanna call you my darlin’, but I know I got no right.

  Probably, I shouldn’t even be writin’ this. I don’t know what my PO’s gonna say when I show it to him. Maybe he’ll ship me back to prison, which I deserve anyway, but it’s worth the risk. I feel like I won’t ever get it right until I make some kinda peace with myself. I know you hate me and you should. You should hate me as much as I hated my own father, who treated me like I did to you.

  I never had much education, comin’ here from Missouri after I run away, but I’m gonna put this as best as I can. When I got took to jail and then prison, I fought everyone, even sometimes the COs.

  My rage wouldn’t cut me no slack, no way, and I was a drunk, too, plus puttin’ anything up my nose that would fit, which didn’t help.

  There’s more drugs in prison than on the street.

  They put me in solitary twice, thirty days, sixty days, but when that didn’t work, they just left me there, alone in a cell. About two years in was when the haunting began. There was me as a kid and what my father did to me. And there was you and what I did to you.

  This come on me slow, like a feelin’ that something’s wrong, but over the years it wouldn’t stop growin’, just become bigger and bigger. Altogether, I spent fifteen years in solitary, and the two ghosts were my whole life by the end. What happened, what I did. I didn’t want it to be, only I couldn’t make it go away. After a time, I broke down. I’d get to cryin’ and I couldn’t stop. And there was no one gave a damn except the guy in the cell across the pod who called me a faggot.

  I came around after a while, got stronger, the two ghosts now as much a part of me as my two eyes. But it still took another year before Admin decided that I was no longer violent and let me out of 104

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  solitary. After that, I went straight into therapy. I didn’t care what kind of therapy, substance, antiviolence, sex offender. I wanted an answer to a question I didn’t know how to ask.

  Carolyn, I am deeply sorry and deeply ashamed of what I done to you. I don’t seek forgiveness, don’t even ask it of the Lord, because what I done can’t be forgiven. That I now believe. But I want you to know this. Nothing of what happened then was your fault. You were born under a bad sign named Hank Grand, and I hope with all my heart that you’ve escaped.

  The session concludes as Halberstam returns the sheet of

  paper to his desk drawer. I get up to leave but can’t resist a final jab. “Tell me, Doctor, which do you think is true? That my father’s remorse is genuine? Or that the bastard’s figured out what therapists want to hear?”

  “Like you Martha, you and your sisters?” Halberstam

  shakes his head. “If I’m to help you,” he finally says, his tone weary, “I must take you out of your comfort zone.”

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  CHAPTER TWENTY

  SERENA

  Hank Grand’s become the excuse, the gun held to my

  head by the prunes, no, you can’t have the body, not

  even for a minute, not even if you remain indoors because

  he might come knocking and you’re too weak to resist. I

  see my terrifying, necessary death everywhere. I see the big pushout, see the dug grave soon to be filled, see the graveside empty of mourners, goodbye and good riddance, whatever

  did we need that one for?

  The prunes have murder in their hearts, always have, the

  purges relentless from earliest times, the knife in the back, the poison at the bottom of the glass. But in the end, they

  don’t control the body, our decision maker hidden, always

  hidden, pronouncing life and death, existence and obliv-

  ion, its criteria unknown. So, here I am against the wishes

  of Victoria and Martha, who imagine themselves to have

  real power, out the door, into the street, skipping down the block. I’m wearing the harem pants I lucked upon in a Salvation Army thrift store and a T-shirt bearing the likeness of the photographer Margaret Bourke-White. Semi-reclined on

  a chaise lounge in a bathing suit, she holds a kitten against 106

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  her chest, the contrast alluring, here gentle, but at work a warrior, the first woman combat photographer.

  Bourke-White sought her own truth as I seek mine today

  on the streets of New York, the air saturated, scattered drops of rain as warm as blood falling across my face as I hustle up Flatbush Avenue to the Brooklyn Museum. I like to wander

  through the exhibitions at the museum, barely glancing at

  the individual pieces, the sculptures, the paintings, my goal only to draw breath after the endless hustle, like stepping

  into a Sixth Avenue church at rush hour, a familiar world

  closing behind you, a new world unfolding.

  The museum charges $16 for admission, but the charge is

  merely suggested, a donation in support of a worthy cause. I shake
my head as I walk past, then drift to the stairs and up, the only soul climbing, for all the rest it’s elevator up, steps down. The galleries are crowded this afternoon, kids from

  summer camp looking like they’d rather be somewhere

  else, I don’t see my father until I’m in a gallery created from the museum’s storage area for expensive objects rich people can’t find room for in their own homes. The exhibit is a maze of stacked glass cabinets, the panes reflecting reflec-tions, images originating from everywhere and nowhere,

  yet I see him clearly, three or four levels deep but somehow looking at me, directly at me, measuring, measuring, who is

  it I find here, name the name of her soul.

  I flee, my flight steady, a stroller’s flight, looking here, looking there, but never stopped, thinking if I don’t turn

  around I won’t discover the torn fabric, the rent garment.

  The Egyptian room attracts me naturally, this homage to

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  the fear of death, of oblivion, not all the gold in the Nile val-ley enough to make life sweet, but then I happen upon the

  oddest of oddities, a woman seated, one leg raised while

  a standing man feeds an enormous cock into her vagina.

  Egyptian pornograhy. Eleni would take these figures into

  her tomb if she were pharaoh, but I’m initially embarrassed

  and I instinctively look up at the painted ceiling, a soft blue circle filled with humans and animals and gods. I want to

  rise, to join these bodies, but I can’t, my body now weighted with the heavy hand of my father as it drops to my shoulder.

  “Hello, Carolyn. Hello, darlin’.”

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  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  TINA

  “Hello, Daddy. I knew you would come for me.”

  “That’s right. It just had to happen, you and me.

  What are we without each other?” He leans in until I can

  smell his breath, the alcohol stench so familiar.

  “How you’ve grown, little girl, grown to a woman. Me,

  I’m an old man with nothin’ to do and nowhere to go. Except

  to you.”

  I send up a hopeless prayer, but I have no faith. Daddy

  looms above me and there’s nothing I can do, not now, not

  before. His hand reaches out to gently stroke the side of my face, once, then again. I’m supposed to run, but I can’t move.

  I’m frozen forever.