me.
“Forgive me, but I find that a purposefully dispassionate—no, let us say dissociated—appraisal of a human tragedy,” she said in her mother-knows-best voice.
I felt properly rebuked, improperly perverse. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I meant, the good news for Karen is going to be what makes it a problem for the police because there was precious little to see. No blood, no fearsome dying. All you could see was a painted face, and then it slipped down inside his costume. His headpiece stayed on top and the costume still stood up. It almost all looked unchanged. Much less violent than TV cartoons, to tell the truth.”
Quentin Reed’s mouth curled into a beneficent I-have-compassion-and-pity-for-your-unbelievable-ignorance smile. “I’m sure you’ll agree that a six-year-old is a much more vulnerable spectator than you would be. And death is so final, so absolute.”
Not a whole lot of room for debate there. What could I retort? That now and then there were temporary deaths? She’d have me shrink-wrapped in a white jacket within seconds. So I smiled, nervously, agreeing with who knew quite what. However, even if she’d said something grossly incorrect, how can you convince a serenely self-assured, certified mentally healthy professional that you are fine if she doesn’t think so? The more intense the protests, the more smugly superior the pro becomes. Nonetheless, probably because I am demented, I pushed on. “We didn’t see the shooting. We didn’t see his wound. The actual crime probably didn’t take place anywhere near where we were. The wind and momentum and maybe tradition kept him moving, possibly for blocks. We only saw him slide—”
“Yes, yes,” she said. “You’ve made that clear. I must say that I’m not only worried about Karen, but about you. Perhaps more so. You are in serious denial. You’ve been on what was intended to be a happy, bonding outing and instead, you’ve witnessed a hideous murder.”
“I’ve been trying to say that we didn’t witness the—”
“And you have the maturity to comprehend its full significance,” she barreled on. “Not only was the man murdered, but so were your dreams and hopes for the day.”
Were the two things equal? One dead man versus my soured plans?
“It isn’t healthy to stuff feelings,” Quentin Reed said. “Makes you sick.”
Was she actually Beth’s friend? Did they talk this way to each other all the time? And weren’t shrinks supposed to listen ? “Doctor,” I began, then I had a thought. She was going to be peering into Karen’s psyche. “Your specialty—your branch of medicine…that’s an M.D.?”
Quentin cleared her throat.
“In…?” I was being rude, but so was she, reaming my brain with a pickax and without invitation. “Child psychiatry?”
“A D.P.M. actually. I was originally a podiatrist.”
A foot doctor, indeed.
“Of course, I then got a master’s in therapy.” From a diploma mill, I’d be willing to bet. I flashed my sister a look. Was she listening? Horse-the-dog clomped back down the stairs, his rump wiggling with each step. My mental health didn’t trouble him in the least, and he came over and sat on my feet.
“Sweetie,” Beth said over-brightly, in a tone she generally reserved for her children. I understood how mentally mature she considered me. “Why so resistant? Why not take advantage of Quentin’s presence?”
The rock-bottom truth is that I believe that stuffing and stifling selected feelings can work toward the general good, also known as civilization. Not stifling leads to freeway snipers, mail bombs, and talk shows. Be honest, who’d you rather have across the table for the long haul? Queen Victoria or Geraldo?
What’s so great about mental health, anyway? For starters, what would it do to literature? What kind of novel would a self-actualized Anna Karenina produce? What play would be left if Quentin Reed had worked through Macbeth and his lady’s power
“Forgive me, but I find that a purposefully dispassionate—no, let us say dissociated—appraisal of a human tragedy,” she said in her mother-knows-best voice.
I felt properly rebuked, improperly perverse. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I meant, the good news for Karen is going to be what makes it a problem for the police because there was precious little to see. No blood, no fearsome dying. All you could see was a painted face, and then it slipped down inside his costume. His headpiece stayed on top and the costume still stood up. It almost all looked unchanged. Much less violent than TV cartoons, to tell the truth.”
Quentin Reed’s mouth curled into a beneficent I-have-compassion-and-pity-for-your-unbelievable-ignorance smile. “I’m sure you’ll agree that a six-year-old is a much more vulnerable spectator than you would be. And death is so final, so absolute.”
Not a whole lot of room for debate there. What could I retort? That now and then there were temporary deaths? She’d have me shrink-wrapped in a white jacket within seconds. So I smiled, nervously, agreeing with who knew quite what. However, even if she’d said something grossly incorrect, how can you convince a serenely self-assured, certified mentally healthy professional that you are fine if she doesn’t think so? The more intense the protests, the more smugly superior the pro becomes. Nonetheless, probably because I am demented, I pushed on. “We didn’t see the shooting. We didn’t see his wound. The actual crime probably didn’t take place anywhere near where we were. The wind and momentum and maybe tradition kept him moving, possibly for blocks. We only saw him slide—”
“Yes, yes,” she said. “You’ve made that clear. I must say that I’m not only worried about Karen, but about you. Perhaps more so. You are in serious denial. You’ve been on what was intended to be a happy, bonding outing and instead, you’ve witnessed a hideous murder.”
“I’ve been trying to say that we didn’t witness the—”
“And you have the maturity to comprehend its full significance,” she barreled on. “Not only was the man murdered, but so were your dreams and hopes for the day.”
Were the two things equal? One dead man versus my soured plans?
“It isn’t healthy to stuff feelings,” Quentin Reed said. “Makes you sick.”
Was she actually Beth’s friend? Did they talk this way to each other all the time? And weren’t shrinks supposed to listen ? “Doctor,” I began, then I had a thought. She was going to be peering into Karen’s psyche. “Your specialty—your branch of medicine…that’s an M.D.?”
Quentin cleared her throat.
“In…?” I was being rude, but so was she, reaming my brain with a pickax and without invitation. “Child psychiatry?”
“A D.P.M. actually. I was originally a podiatrist.”
A foot doctor, indeed.
“Of course, I then got a master’s in therapy.” From a diploma mill, I’d be willing to bet. I flashed my sister a look. Was she listening? Horse-the-dog clomped back down the stairs, his rump wiggling with each step. My mental health didn’t trouble him in the least, and he came over and sat on my feet.
“Sweetie,” Beth said over-brightly, in a tone she generally reserved for her children. I understood how mentally mature she considered me. “Why so resistant? Why not take advantage of Quentin’s presence?”
The rock-bottom truth is that I believe that stuffing and stifling selected feelings can work toward the general good, also known as civilization. Not stifling leads to freeway snipers, mail bombs, and talk shows. Be honest, who’d you rather have across the table for the long haul? Queen Victoria or Geraldo?
What’s so great about mental health, anyway? For starters, what would it do to literature? What kind of novel would a self-actualized Anna Karenina produce? What play would be left if Quentin Reed had worked through Macbeth and his lady’s power
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