Ted

Ted

I go back to the bar with the lights in the trees where I met the butter-haired woman with the blue eyes. It is a warm day so I sit out back at a long table and breathe the smell of barbecue and think of her for a while. There’s country music playing from somewhere, mountain music, and it’s nice. This is the date we should have had. The real one didn’t go well. Don’t think about that.

Around me, men mill and flow. They are focused, energy comes off them, but no one’s talking much. Once again there are no women here. I wish I could keep that part of my brain turned off, to be honest. I feel bad about what happened with the butter-haired lady. The day is warm and calm begins to steal through me, almost as if I were in a waiting room. I drink six or seven boilermakers. Who’s counting? I will be walking home later. ‘Didn’t drive here. That would be irresponsible!’ I realise I am speaking aloud, and people are looking. I sink my face into my beer and keep quiet after that. Plus I remember now, I sold the truck a while ago.

As dusk falls more men arrive. After their shifts, I guess. There is a lot of to and fro but people leave me alone. I begin to understand why there are no women here – it’s not for them. What would Mommy have said if she saw me in a place like this? Her mouth narrowing with disgust. It’s against science. I shiver. But Mommy can’t see you, I remind myself. She’s gone.

I don’t realise how drunk I am until I get up from the bench. The lights in the trees burn like comets. The dark hums and time stops moving, or maybe it’s going so fast I can’t feel it any more. That’s why I drink, I say to myself, to control time and space. It seems the truest thought I’ve ever had. Faces tip and slur.

I wander through the pools of light and dark, across the patio, past the tree. I’m looking for something I can’t name. I see an outbuilding squat against the sky, a lighted doorway. I go through it, and find myself in a mineral-smelling room with plank walls and lined with urinals. It’s full of guys laughing. They’re passing something small from hand to hand and telling a story about a friend who has a horse. Or who is a horse. Or who does horse. But then they go and I am alone with the peaceful dripping and the bare bulb swinging in the air. I go into the stall and bolt the door so I can sit down in peace with no eyes on me. It’s the butter-haired woman’s fault, coming here has reminded me of her and that is why I’m upset – normally I am cautious, I only drink this much at home. I have to get out of here, I have to get to my house. But just at this second I can’t figure out how to do that. The walls pulse.

Two people enter the bathroom. Their movements and words have furry edges, they’re very drunk – this is obvious even to me.

‘They belonged to my uncle,’ a voice says. ‘And were my grandfather’s before that. And his father’s. And his father wore them in the War of Northern Aggression. So just give them back, man. The sleeve-links, I mean cufflinks. I can’t replace them. And they were red and silver, my favourite colours.’

‘I didn’t take anything from you,’ a voice says. It’s familiar. The tone sets my sluggish synapses firing. There is an idea in my brain but I can’t seem to have it. ‘And you know I didn’t. You’re just trying to make me give you money. I see straight through you.’

‘You were sitting beside me at the bar,’ the cufflinks guy says, ‘I took them off for just a second. And then they were gone. That’s a fact.’

‘You’re unstable,’ the familiar voice says, sympathetic. ‘I understand that you don’t want to believe you lost those cufflinks. You want someone to blame. I understand. But deep down, you know I’m not responsible.’

The other man starts crying. ‘Please,’ he says. ‘You know it’s not right.’

‘Please stop visiting your delusions on me. Go find someone else.’

There’s a thud and a crack. Someone just hit the tile. I am curious by now, and that feeling is cutting through the drunk. Plus, I am nearly certain that I know who the second voice belongs to.

I push open the stall door and the two men look at me, startled. One has his fist pulled back, about to hit the other, who lies on the floor. They look like the cover of a Hardy Boys book or a poster for an old movie. I can’t help laughing.

The bug man blinks up at me. He has a smear of dirt across his nose. I hope it’s dirt, anyway. ‘Hi, Ted,’ he says.

‘Hey,’ I say. I give him my hand. The guy who lost his cufflinks and knocked him down is already out the door. Sometimes, very occasionally, my size works in my favour.

I help the bug man off the floor. The back of his shirt is slick and brown. ‘Ugh,’ he says, resigned. ‘Maybe we should go. I think he’ll be back, maybe with friends. He seems to have those, inexplicably.’

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’

The road is a tunnel of amber light. I can’t remember which way my house is and it doesn’t seem very important. ‘What shall we do?’ I ask.

‘I want to drink some more,’ the bug man says. We walk towards a lighted sign in the distance. It seems to advance and recede as we approach but in the end we get there – it is a gas station, which sells beer, so we buy some from the sleepy man who minds the store. Then we sit at the table on the roadside, by the pumps. It’s quiet. Only the occasional car goes by.

I give the bug man a paper napkin. ‘There’s something on your face,’ I say. He cleans himself up without comment.

‘We’re having a beer together,’ I say. ‘It is so weird!’

‘I guess that’s right,’ he says. ‘This kind of thing is not supposed to happen between therapist and client, obviously. Are you going to keep coming to see me, Ted?’

‘Yes,’ I say. Of course I’m not.

‘Good. I was going to bring this up at our next session, but you should give me your real address, you know. For our files. I checked and the one you gave me isn’t even a house. It’s a 7-Eleven.’

‘Made a mistake,’ I say. ‘I get numbers wrong sometimes.’

He just waves a hand as if it’s not important.

‘Where do you live?’ I ask.

‘That’s not how it works,’ he says curtly.

‘Why did that guy think you had his cufflinks?’

‘I’m not sure. Can you imagine me stealing them?’

‘No,’ I say, because I really can’t. ‘Why did you pick your job? Isn’t it boring, listening to people for hours and hours?’

‘Sometimes,’ he says. ‘But I’m hoping it’s about to get much more interesting.’

We drink together for a time, I don’t know how long. We say things but they’re all lost in the ether after that. Occasionally the lights of cars sweep white across our faces. I feel very fond of him.

He leans in close. ‘Lots of people saw us leave together, tonight. The guy in the gas station is looking at us right now. He’d remember you. You’re pretty memorable.’

‘Sure,’ I say.

‘So let’s talk honestly,’ he says. ‘For once. Why did you stop coming to see me?’

‘You cured me,’ I say, giggling.

‘That was quite some stunt, impaling yourself with that pen.’

‘I have a high pain threshold, I guess.’

He hiccups, gently. ‘You were pretty shaken up. You left in a hurry. So you didn’t notice that I followed. You like to keep your home private, don’t you? But it’s harder to muffle sound. Children’s voices are so penetrating.’

The darkness is shot through with a hectic red. The bug man suddenly doesn’t seem as drunk as before. A terrible feeling begins in me.

‘She’s not really your daughter, is she?’ he asks. ‘Just as your cat isn’t really a cat. You thought you were so subtle, leading me onto dissociative identity disorder. But I read people for a living, Ted. You can’t fool me. DID is caused by trauma. Abuse. Tell me, what’s the real reason Lauren – or Olivia, if you prefer – doesn’t leave the house?’

I make myself laugh. I make myself sound drunk and friendly. ‘You’re so smart,’ I say. ‘Did you follow me to the bar tonight?’

‘It was really bad luck that guy came into the bathroom,’ the bug man says, dreamily. ‘You would not have known otherwise. I’ve been watching you for a while.’

I have been careless and blind. I let him see who I am.

‘You broke into my house,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t that neighbour lady, like I thought. But you made a mistake. You used different nails.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, there,’ he says, sounding injured. If I didn’t know better, I would believe him. ‘Ted, this is an opportunity. We can both benefit.’

‘How?’ I ask. ‘I can’t pay you more money.’

‘There can be money for both of us!’ he says. ‘The thing is,’ he leans close, ‘I was meant for more than a crappy little practice, listening to middle-aged housewives talk about how they’ve lost their self-esteem. I was top of my class, you know? I had that little hiccup, true, but I got my licence back, didn’t I? I deserve more than this. What’s the difference between me and those guys on the bestseller lists? Opportunity, that’s all.

‘When I met you, I knew I’d found something special – my case study. I had been posting those ads for cheap therapy for months. My dad used to say, if you wait long enough, evil always shows up. I think you can give me what I deserve. You’re at the centre of my book, Ted. Don’t worry, no one will ever know it’s you. I’ll change your name – Ed Flagman or something. I just need you to be honest with me – really honest.’

‘What do you want me to say?’ I wish he would stop talking. I’m going to have to do something I don’t like.

‘Let’s start at the beginning,’ he says. ‘The girl, Lauren, or Olivia, whatever you like to call her. Is she the first?’

‘The first what?’

‘The first of your “daughters”,’ he says. I can hear the quote marks around the word. ‘Is that the right word? Daughters? Wives? Or maybe you just call them kittens …’

‘You’re so dumb,’ I say, furious. ‘I thought I was the dumb one!’ But he’s smart enough to be dangerous.

His bloodshot eyes narrow. ‘Why do you go to that bar, Ted?’ he asks. ‘For your cat?’

I take him in my arms. ‘Don’t try to tell me what I am,’ I whisper in his ear. He gives a terrified belch. I hug him and hug him, panting and gripping tighter until I feel the sawing crack of his rib-cage and the bug man seems to turn to water. His hand unclenches. Two small objects fall onto the table, catching the light. It is a pair of cufflinks, silver, inlaid with stone as red as blood, picked out gleaming under the neon. I stare at them for a moment. ‘You’re just a thief,’ I say into his ear, squeezing. ‘You steal everything – even thoughts. You can’t even write your own book.’ He moans.

There is a shout from behind me and someone comes out of the store; the sleepy man who sold us the beer.

I drop the bug man and he slumps onto the table. I run across the road into the welcoming arms of the woods. Branches whip my face, I stumble, ankle-deep in leaf mould. More than once I fall but I don’t stop, I push myself up on the slippery forest floor and I run and run towards home. The roar builds, stacking up in my throat, but I don’t let it out, not yet.

The front door closes behind me. I lock it with trembling hands. Then I ball my fists and I scream and scream until my throat is sore and my voice hoarse. Then I take a couple of deep breaths. I shove two yellow pills into my mouth and swallow them dry. They stick in my throat, clicking like two little stones. I choke them down. The bug man wasn’t dead, I don’t think. I have to pray he wasn’t. There is no time for feelings, and no time for fancy preparation. We have to go.

I pack quickly. Sleeping bag, tent, lighter. Water-purifying tablets, a coil of wire. I gather all the canned food in the house. It’s not much. Peaches, black beans, soup. After a moment of staring at it, I seize the bottle of bourbon and add it to the pack. I shove my warmest sweaters in. When the pack is full I put two jackets on, one over the other, and two pairs of socks. It will be too warm, but I’ve got to wear everything I don’t carry. I put all my pills in my pockets, rattling in their amber tubes. If ever there was a time to keep calm, this is it.

Then I go to the garden and dig up the knife. I shake it free of earth and hang it on my belt.