Текст книги "The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty"

Автор книги: Amanda Filipacchi

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I haven’t taken my eyes off of them for a second. My words were painful. Yet they had to be said—because they were the test I came up with last night. I wasn’t very optimistic that it would succeed in its purpose of provoking the killer into betraying him/herself. And I think I was right. The only purpose it seems to have served is to make us feel really awful.

I scrutinize my friends’ faces to try to catch any trace of emotion, any quivering lip, any distress, because I know the killer cared deeply for Gabriel and I’m certain my words must have inflicted particularly acute pain on him or her.

But as I contemplate these people, no single reaction stands out. They all display attitudes that could be used against them. Jack sighs and looks down. I ask him what’s up. He says he agrees with me, that the killer should have prevented Gabriel’s death, but that it can be hard to prevent such things.

Georgia also looks suspicious because she’s staring at me fixedly, her jaw clenched.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask.

“Because I agree with you, too. You would think the murderer could have stopped this suicide if he cared about Gabriel.” But she says this a bit stiffly, which makes me narrow my eyes. Yet I move on.

Penelope acts perfectly normal, which is questionable in itself.

And Lily is wiping tears from her face, which is either shady or completely understandable.

We discuss whether or not we should request the help of the police.

“We can’t tell the police,” Georgia says. “KAY is sick and needs to be protected by us. I know you may take offense at this, Lily, and I’m sorry about it, but I care much more about KAY not rotting in prison than Strad staying alive.”

“You’re right, I do take offense at that,” Lily says softly.

Jack, who—perhaps because he’s a cop—has been looking especially glum since hearing me read the letter, says, “Telling the police would be one easy way to find out which of you is the killer. Unless the killer took extreme precautions, all the police would have to do is match each one of you against the forensics from that crime scene two years ago. But the price of finding out would be high—not only for KAY, who’d end up in prison, but for the rest of us, who’d lose her. I can’t see myself sending one of you to prison for life.”

Georgia exhales loudly with relief and clasps her hands. “You feel as I do, sweet Jack!”

“What kind of cop are you, to think this way?” Lily says to him.

“A cop who’s very fond of every single one of you,” he replies, gazing at her steadily.

Penelope asks him: “Aren’t you afraid that the killer, who must be a psycho, could be dangerous not only to Strad but to anyone, including us? Personally, I’m going to be afraid now of being alone with any single one of you.” She pauses thoughtfully. “That’s not to say I’d be capable of turning any of you in. I wouldn’t be.”

Jack says, “Keeping the killer among us is a risk, but I don’t see what other option we have. We just have to hope she cares as much about us as we care about her.”

“I feel very differently from you all,” Lily says. “I would rather see one of you go to prison than see the man I love get killed.”

“The man you love,” Georgia scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Has the man you love been wonderful to you the way we have been? Have you developed a close, loving relationship with the man you love the way you have with each of us? Would the man you love do anything for you the way we would? Does he love you at all, even just as a friend?”

Lily’s hard expression softens with this reminder of our devotion to her.

“And yet you want to take this to the police?” Georgia asks her.

“Yes, I want to. But obviously I can’t.”

Now it’s Georgia’s turn to soften. She smiles and puts her hand on Lily’s arm affectionately. “Aw, so you do feel the same way we do.”

“No.” Lily removes her arm. “I have another reason. If we bring the police into this, it’ll ruin my chances with Strad. The police will reveal everything to him. They’ll tell him that for years I’ve been so in love with him that one of my friends is ready to kill him to bring me peace and free me of my obsession. I’d be so embarrassed if Strad knew any of this. I could never face him again. And he’d be so horrified, he’d never want to face me again either, I’m sure.”

In the end, we are unanimous: we will not take this to the police. We will protect Strad ourselves on the evening of his possible murder. The only thing left to do is figure out how to go about doing this.

We’re aware the killer can kill Strad without physically being with him. KAY can have Strad killed by a hired gun. Or plant a bomb that will be scheduled to explode during the four-hour window. Or countless other more ingenious ideas.

So it quickly becomes clear to us, for all sorts of reasons, that on the evening of the 27th, making sure that no one from our group will be with him won’t be enough protection. Strad must not be left alone. He must be actively protected.

My friends say we should all be with him. That’s the part I find weird.

“I understand why we can’t leave Strad alone that evening,” I tell them, “but I still don’t understand why I can’t protect him by myself. Gabriel made it clear I’m the only one of our group you can all trust. Strad and I could be alone in this apartment, and I wouldn’t let anyone in, and no one would have access to him.”

“I don’t feel good about you being alone on that occasion,” Jack says. “I’d want to be there to protect you. You never know what the killer cooked up. I understand you can’t be sure that I’m not the killer so you’ll want either all of us there or none of us there. So it has to be all. We can control whichever one of us is the killer, if she tries anything.”

Georgia says, “And the other problem is that Strad isn’t likely to want to spend an evening alone with you, Barb, in your apartment, unless it’s a date. And wouldn’t it be weird vis-à-vis Lily if you were to have a so-called date with Strad? And would Strad even want to go on a date with you? No offense, but your disguise may not be the kind of look he’s into. He thinks it’s your real appearance.”

Penelope says, “And another good reason for having us all there is that if an attempt is made on Strad’s life, we’ll get to see who among us is the killer, which we’d like to know anyway.”

I finally reluctantly relent. We will all protect Strad.

The location we pick for the evening with Strad is my apartment, which I will make killer-proof for the occasion.

Before everybody goes home, I make one final request. “I want to know if the killer among you has changed his or her mind about murdering Strad. After you leave here today, I’d like you, KAY, to call me and press any digit on your phone one time if you no longer intend to kill Strad, and three times if you still do. You don’t have to speak to me or reveal who you are. Just beeps. One beep is no. Three is yes.”

“You do realize we should protect Strad regardless of the answer you’re given,” Jack says. “Gabriel said that KAY would put considerable effort into killing Strad on the 27th. Such effort could include encouraging us to let down our guards by pretending she no longer intends to kill him.”

“Yes, I know.”

Chapter Eight

The next day, Monday, we’re gathered at Lily’s apartment for lunch, which we ordered from L’Express.

Lily tells us that when she invited Strad to have dinner with us this coming Friday, the 27th, his reaction was, “You’re kidding me! The Creators? The Knights of Creation will be there?” Strad had read one of the silly articles about us that explained no one gets to pierce our “holy circle.” The word choice was unfortunate, though the gist of it was true.

“Is there any chance we could do it on a different night?” he asked Lily. “I already have plans for dinner that night and I’m attending a party afterward.”

“No, see, that’s the thing, it can only be on that night,” she said.

“Okay, consider me there. But, just curious . . . why only that night?”

“Oh, it’s Georgia. Who knows. She gets these ideas in her head, and it has to be that night, no other night.”

“Yes, of course. She’s an artist, quirky. Wonderful. I’ve been wanting to meet her for ages.”

Upon hearing Lily’s account, Georgia grimaces with disgust.

During dessert, we discuss the planning of the evening with Strad.

Georgia’s fear is that it will be tedious. “What will we do to kill time while we protect him?”

“You could ask him to play the violin for you,” Lily answers.

“Is he any good?”

“Not really. I think that’s why he recently decided to pursue acting.”

“Don’t make me listen to him perform a soliloquy. It will kill me.”

My cell phone rings. I answer it. I hear three beeps and then a hang-up. I stop breathing as a wave of nausea sweeps over me.

I look at my friends. “I got three beeps.”

“Oh my God,” Penelope gasps.

“Asshole!” Lily exclaims, slapping the table.

I call back the number, which has no name attached. It rings a long time, and then someone, to my surprise, picks up.

“Hello?” a man says.

“Did you just call me?”

“No.”

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Someone who answered a pay phone.”

“Where?”

“Uh . . . Forty-Seventh Street and Second Avenue. In Manhattan.”

“Outdoors? On the street?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see who just called me a minute ago?”

“No.”

“Is there anyone unusual standing around? Or anyone looking at you?”

“Uh . . . no, not really.”

“What corner of the intersection is the phone on?” Not that it matters. Not that there would be any point in rushing over there right now. I’m just being thorough because you never know in life what details will come in handy.

“Uh . . . Northeast corner.”

“Thank you.”

We hang up.

My friends all glance at one another, undoubtedly trying, as I am, to decipher who among them is the killer.

I look at Jack, yearning for his help, but uncertain he’s innocent.

I say, “I guess one of you asked someone—or hired someone—to make this phone call?”

I find the concept of someone being hired to make this phone call terrifying. It makes the whole thing seem like a bigger, more serious production: there’s personnel involved—staff! Who knows, maybe the killer has hired an assassin as well, or many, to do the dirty work. And to think that all this is being orchestrated by someone in this room, someone who is looking at me right now with affectionate eyes and a familiar face—a beloved friend. Unimaginable.

“Probably,” Jack says.

Georgia nods.

“I don’t appreciate what you’re doing,” I say to the mystery killer among us. “Don’t you care that you’re making our lives miserable, devastating our group, probably even destroying it? And don’t you care about how much you would hurt Lily, perhaps even ruin her life, if you killed Strad? Assuming she’s not the killer.”

I doubt my words are persuasive. I’m sure the killer was aware of these risks when he/she made the decision to kill Strad, and yet must have concluded Lily would still be better off if Strad were dead.

LUNCH IS OVER and we each go home. When I arrive at my building, Adam the doorman has his hands in his pockets. When he sees me, he opens his jacket and flashes me his white T-shirt on which is written “Bitch” in big red letters.

I look around. Lucky for him, no one saw him.

I spend the afternoon making preparations for the evening of Strad’s possible death, four days away. (“Evening of Strad’s death” is what we got into the habit of calling it. This isn’t a sign of resignation—it’s simply shorter than including the word “attempted,” or “possible,” but now that I think about it, calling it “Friday” would have been even shorter.) I start making things safe.

I must anticipate every trick the killer might pull.

My apartment, since yesterday, has been off limits to my friends.

This morning I placed an ad on the NYU website, looking to hire a few students to help me search my apartment for any weapons the killer might have already planted there.

I will, of course, frisk my friends when they arrive on the night of the dinner.

My brain is so muddled from stress that I haven’t been able to focus on anything except getting things safe for the dinner. My work has suffered. I’m supposed to be creating a hat that goes with the quirky green velvet outfit I finished two days ago. Ordinarily, I’d be able to come up with an original hat concept in less than twenty minutes. But now my mind has deteriorated almost to the point of asking myself, “What’s a hat?”

I take a walk down Fifth Avenue to Washington Square Park, trying to imagine every weapon the killer might think of using, and I dismiss the ones I assume I don’t need to worry about, such as a gun—which frisking would detect—and a vial of poison—which I plan to guard against by keeping my friends away from the food until it’s served. A wire to strangle Strad would be easy to smuggle in but does not worry me because getting strangled takes a couple of minutes and we’d have more than enough time to pull the killer off Strad. More dangerous are the weapons that can be used in a split second, such as blades, especially razor blades. They’re simple to sneak in and they’re quick. But perhaps most importantly, a blade was the killer’s weapon of choice the first time around.

AT NIGHT, I wake up in cold sweats. My friends are not the types to do anything very bad, much less kill someone, but I’m aware we don’t always know people as well as we think we do, and Gabriel is not the type to lie. So I try to figure out, yet again, which of my friends murdered the man from the bar.

Jack is, of course, the most obvious, mainly because he has killed before. He killed two men in the shootout with Penelope’s kidnappers, the same shootout that left him limping. In addition, he’s still very strong despite his injuries. He would certainly be capable of slitting a man’s throat if he wanted, probably far more easily than Georgia, Penelope, or Lily, at least on a physical level. On a psychological, emotional, and moral level, that’s another matter. I think back on when he first got his part-time job at the senior center, which he took soon after rescuing Penelope, when he realized he’d never be able to get back on the police force due to his limp.

After a few weeks of serving meals and asking after grandchildren at the senior center, he was feeling depressed, missing the kind of work he’d done as a police officer. That was when the seniors started getting into frequent fights—a couple of them a week. Jack broke up the fights. He thought it was strange that the fights were so numerous, but the truth was, he didn’t mind. He felt more useful and less depressed this way.

Jack had broken up six fights in the three weeks since the fights had begun. He decided to ask the director of the senior center what was going on.

“Thank you for keeping the peace and breaking up the fights,” the director said to him.

“No problem.”

“The fact that the fights are fake should not in any way diminish your sense of accomplishment.”

“The fights are fake?”

“Yes. The seniors were excited to have a hero such as yourself working here, but they were worried you would not be happy merely serving them lunch if your special skill—of keeping the peace—wasn’t used. That’s why they took it upon themselves to stage fights. It’s very touching.”

“I’m touched and humiliated at the same time. I don’t think I can continue working here, now that I know this. And I’m not sure why you told me.”

“I told you because I was afraid you’d figure it out yourself and decide to quit the job before giving me a chance to explain how important it is that you continue.”

“Continue serving lunch?”

“And breaking up fights.”

“Fake fights.”

“Yes. The seniors have never been happier. You’ve given them a sense of purpose. They think they’ve given you a purpose in life and that without them you’d be falling apart.”

“It’ll be difficult for me to continue playing along with this.”

“Yes. And therefore very rewarding. Please continue to give the seniors a sense of purpose by letting them think they’re giving you a sense of purpose. That’s a far greater gift than serving them lunch, which you do wonderfully well too.”

Jack has been happy enough at that part-time job for the past five years. The seniors love him and the feeling is close to mutual. He has no immediate plans to leave.

Sure, Jack’s willingness to go along with such an eccentric plan could be considered deviant behavior—but deviant in the most selfless and kind-hearted of ways. It shows such an endearing willingness to swallow his pride that I can’t imagine him murdering a stranger over an offensive comment at a bar—even one directed at Lily. I know I could be wrong, but nevertheless I dismiss Jack as a possible culprit for now and turn my thoughts to Georgia, Penelope, and Lily to try to remember things they’ve said or done that could be indicative of their guilt.

I don’t come up with any grand revelations.

THE NEXT DAY, I decide I must get some work done, must buckle down. I can’t let my desire to protect Strad-the-Jerk damage my career. The movie director I’m working with left me a message asking where the hat was that I said I’d send him two days ago and if everything’s okay.

No, things are not okay, but I must compartmentalize. Just because there’s a problem in one life-box doesn’t mean it has to create a problem in all my other life-boxes.

I settle down to my work, blank page in front of me, elbows on the table, head in my hands, thinking of hat for green outfit. I’ve hardly been at this for two minutes when the phone rings. I should have turned off the ringer. Forgot to.

It’s Jack, saying he just got word from the forensic handwriting expert that Gabriel’s letter is authentic.

I take this in. Jack then says there’s a special way the killer could sneak in a weapon on the evening of Strad’s death, even if I frisk everyone. And he describes the way.

After we hang up, the “way” haunts me.

I call for a meeting; I must discuss the way.

We meet for dinner at Penelope’s place on the Upper East Side. We bring sandwiches.

Before we’ve even unwrapped them, I’m anxious and hence can’t delay getting on topic: “It has been brought to my attention by one of you that women can hide weapons inside their bodies in the fashion of a tampon, and that the weapon can easily be accessed, especially when the woman goes to the bathroom.”

“Typical that a man should think of this,” Penelope mutters, looking at her shoes.

Jack seems taken aback by her guess, but doesn’t deny it. “I’m a cop! That’s why I thought of it. Not because I’m a man.”

Georgia says to me, “Men can hide weapons inside their bodies in the fashion of a suppository. Don’t tell me you’re going to explore our crevices.”

“I can’t be explored,” Penelope says softly, still gazing at her shoes.

Lily looks apprehensive as well.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I tell them. “I’m not going to explore anyone. I just want you to wear pants, that’s all.”

“You mean so we can’t whip it out in the middle of dinner?” snaps Georgia.

I nod and can’t help laughing. “Everyone will wear pants, and everyone will get frisked, over their clothes, when they enter my apartment as well as every time they come out of the bathroom. In addition, Jack kindly offered to get me a metal detector.”

NIGHTMARES WAKE ME in the middle of Tuesday night, less than three days before the dinner. Being a costume designer, I’m very aware of the nooks and crannies in clothing that can be used to hide a weapon, especially a tiny weapon such as a jugular-slashing razor blade. My fear is that the frisking and metal detecting won’t be enough, that something will be missed. I need a backup plan, a more extreme safety measure I can resort to if necessary. After some thinking, I come up with one that is not ideal because it would make us seem strange in Strad’s eyes, and we would hate for his opinion of Lily to be tarnished by something we do. So I will not use this extreme safety measure if I can help it, though it calms me knowing it will be at my disposal if I need it.

Chapter Nine

That evening, we’re all sitting around in one of the TV studio’s large dressing rooms, waiting to be interviewed live in about an hour.

Penelope breaks the silence with: “I got the result from my handwriting specialist. She said the same thing as Jack’s guy—that her analysis concluded that it was highly probable that Gabriel wrote the letter. She said that ‘highly probable’ is the official term used and means 99 percent certain, and that that’s pretty much as certain as it gets.”

We all nod quietly, not surprised.

We perk up a bit when Peter Marrick comes in to greet us. Oddly, he seems more nervous than we are. But very charming nevertheless. He has the hiccups.

“I’m so happy to meet you,” he tells us. “It’s an honor to have a group like yours on my show.”

We stand there, saying thank you and looking at him like dummies while he hiccups. We’re a bit starstruck.

“I really admire what you do,” he goes on. “I so wish I could be creative. But . . . let’s save that for the show.”

He chats with us a little more, asks if we have everything we need, then says he has to go to makeup.

Just as he’s about to leave, still hiccupping, Georgia says, “Do you need help with that hiccup?”

“I may be open to suggestions.”

Georgia says, “My method is infallible and can be used instantly. If I’m not remembered for my novels, I’ll be remembered for my Hiccup-Stopping Method. If everyone knew it, no one on earth would ever again have the hiccups for longer than a few seconds.”

What she says is true. Her Hiccup-Stopping Method is her most popular invention in our group. None of us has had a second hiccup in four years because as soon as we get our first hiccup, we use her method and the second hiccup is stopped dead in its tracks.

Georgia says, “The most remarkable thing about this method—considering how foolproof it is—is how unimpressive it sounds.”

“Really? Sounds amazing. What’s the method?” Peter asks, hiccupping some more.

“Stop moving and relax all your internal organs,” Georgia tells him.

He laughs and hiccups again. “What does that mean—relax all my internal organs? Even my bladder? You want me to pee in my pants?”

This makes me laugh, which makes him laugh harder.

“No, not to that degree,” Georgia says. “Just relax your stomach, throat, lungs, even peripheral things like your jaw and your shoulders. Do it now. Close your eyes if it helps. Let your body sort of go limp. The method works best if you use it right away as soon as your hiccupping begins, but even if you wait, like now, it’ll still work. It’ll just take a minute longer.”

Peter closes his eyes but he can’t stop laughing.

“If you laugh you’re not relaxed. Stop laughing,” she commands.

“Easier said than—”

“Don’t talk! Just relax your internal organs.”

Peter laughs some more, eyes still closed and hiccups still going.

Jack tells him, “It’s true it’s not going to work if you keep laughing.”

“Okay,” Peter says, and takes a deep breath and stops laughing.

His self-control impresses me. I’m still laughing.

He stays perfectly still. He has one more hiccup. And then he has no more.

He slowly opens his eyes. “That’s dramatic. It’s gone. How did you come up with that method?”

“I don’t know. It just came to me one day. Maybe instinct,” Georgia says.

Peter leaves the room, smiling at us before disappearing.

The segment on creativity is three minutes. At one point, in the middle of our live interview, Georgia says to Peter (and hence to the world), “I’m a very honest, blunt person, and let me tell you: My writing leaves much to be desired.”

Jack quickly adds, “Anyone with half a brain will know that what she’s saying means nothing. It’s the normal thing writers and artists say when they’re in the throes of self-doubt, which any decent writer or artist is in, much of the time. Plus, like many great artists, she’s a bit bipolar . . . I mean, not clinically, but you know . . . so don’t listen to a word she’s saying. Her writing is pure genius and everyone knows it.”

Peter nods. “What’s it like being part of such a creative circle?”

“It can be difficult,” Georgia replies. “One of us is extremely messed up. Far more than the rest of us.”

“Really?” Peter chuckles. “You?”

“No. Why would you say that? Should I be offended?”

“Of course not. But then, who?” he asks.

“We don’t know who. Hopefully one day we will.”

Peter laughs again. “You guys are just fascinating. What is it that makes some people highly creative, like Georgia, Lily, and Barb, and others less so, like, perhaps, you and me, Jack?”

We stare down at the desktop thoughtfully, until Georgia says, “We’re not at our best tonight. We’re stressed and distracted because something’s coming up in two days that we’re really dreading.”

I shoot her an alarmed look.

“What is it?” Peter asks.

“I wish we could tell you. It would make for good TV. But we can’t, sorry,” she says.

“That’s all right. Eccentricities are permitted, forgiven, and even encouraged, where geniuses are concerned.”

Georgia blushes. “Don’t look at me. I’m a lackluster writer, which is something I discovered only recently after recovering some work I’d lost.”

“I happen to know that the vast majority of people who’ve read you would disagree. I also know that a lot of people who have regular jobs have artistic aspirations they’ve neglected. This can cause a certain amount of regret for them. What advice, if any, do you have for those people? Lily, Barb, Penelope, any thoughts?”

We each come up with some banalities along the lines of: it’s never too late; no use regretting the past; pursue your dream even if it’s just five minutes a day before or after work; what’s important is making the time for it, etc.

Peter Marrick says, “Georgia’s second novel, The Liquid Angel, is about a woman whose dream is to become a great artist. One day, to thank her for saving his life, a stranger kidnaps her for nine months and forces her, against her will, to become a great artist. Do any of you have anything to say about that?”

When no one answers, I say, “It’s a story that appeals to a lot of people in artistic fields, especially people whose strong suit is not self-discipline. Lily and I have joked that what happens to the woman in that novel is not entirely unappealing. We sometimes have fantasies of being forced to work, when our own discipline is lacking.”

“Final question,” says Peter. “Is discipline enough? I have a friend, Bob, who claims he has no imagination, yet he wants to be creative. He dreams of doing some good art. Is there any hope for him?”

“No,” Georgia says. “If he lacks imagination, there’s no hope for him artistically. Imagination is the one requirement. Pretty much the only one, really. But so what? Lacking imagination has some great advantages.”

“Like what?”

“Happiness.”

“Really?”

“Sure. In a way, your friend Bob is lucky. So is my mother, who also claims she has no imagination. I think some of the sanest, happiest people are those with the least imagination. Paranoia, for instance, wouldn’t get very far without it. Life is easier without it.”

We go home after being bade a warm farewell by Peter Marrick. I’m sad I didn’t chat with him at greater length during his few attempts at talking to me and the others. I wish we could have done the show when we didn’t have a deadly dinner coming up.

WHEN I REACH my building fifteen minutes later, Adam the doorman opens my cab door for me, greeting me with: “Moonlight becomes you—total darkness even more.”

The taxi driver looks at him, startled.

I blink, at a loss for words. I’m not at my sharpest tonight. I just stare at Adam, thoughtfully. He stares right back at me, just as thoughtfully. Not taking his eyes off mine, he breaks the silence softly, dreamily, with, “When I look into your eyes, I see the back of your head.”

He’s clearly unwell. I wonder if now is the time I should try to help him.

As I’m considering this, he says, “Sit down and give your mind a rest.”

That unblocks me. “Actually, that’s a good idea, Adam. Why don’t we sit here together for a moment and talk?” I say, pointing at the little bench near the door.

The cab driver is still staring at us, which makes me uncomfortable.

Not budging toward the bench, Adam says to me, “I’m too busy. Can I ignore you some other time?”

A middle-aged couple passes us on their way into the building.

“Have a nice evening, Mr. and Mrs. Portman,” Adam says, smiling at them pleasantly.

“Thanks, Adam. You too,” they answer, smiling back.

As soon as they’re out of earshot, I say, “When would be a good time for you to listen to me for a couple of minutes?”

“How about never? Is never good for you?”

“Then let’s talk now, just for a minute.”

“Sorry, I can’t. But where will you be in ten years?”

Trusting he’ll eventually run out of comebacks, I persevere: “Adam, there’s a subject I’d like to discuss with you. It won’t take long.”

He takes two slow steps toward me until he’s closer than I find comfortable. Looking amused, he bores his eyes down into mine and says intimately, “My, my. Aren’t you a little black hole of need.”

“Just this once. That’s all I ask. It’ll be quick.”

“A quickie?”

I nod. “A short conversation.”

“Hard to resist. But why don’t we play house instead? You be the door, and I’ll slam you.”

“You’re very quick-witted and clever, Adam.”

“Your flattery repels me, Barb,” he says. And immediately he hollers “Ow!” and holds his tongue in his fingers, as though in pain.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Your very name blisters my tongue.”

I remember a similar line from my high school Shakespeare class and say, “And you’re very well read, too. Listen, I want to help you. I know a therapist. I’ve seen her myself. I think she can help you, regardless of why you’re doing this.”

“Keep talking,” he says, yawning. “I always yawn when I’m interested.”

“This therapist might be able to uncover why you act and feel the way you do.”

Looking at me thoughtfully, Adam says, “I see what your problem is. You suffer from delusions of adequacy.”

“The cause of your unusual behavior might be emotional, chemical, psychological. It might be something you’re not even aware of.”