“Bullshit!” Finch shouted. “That’s just pure evasive bullshit.”
“It most certainly is not,” my mother said. She tossed her cigarette on the floor and mashed it out with the toe of her sandal. “I am not getting in the middle of this.” She brushed imaginary lint off the front of her black turtleneck.
Hope said, “Dad, you’re overreacting. Leave Deirdre out of this. It’s between you and me.”
“You,” he said, pointing at her, “stay the hell out of this.”
Hope shrunk against the back of the sofa.
“What do you think, young man?” he said, looking to me.
“I think you’re all crazy,” I said.
“That’s the spirit!” he said, with a chuckle. Then he turned to Hope. “Go back and mind the telephones, make fresh coffee. Do your job like a responsible woman. Just because you’re my daughter doesn’t mean you can take advantage of me, sleeping all day long.”
Hope got up off the sofa. “Come on, Augusten,” she said, leading me out into the front room.
“What was that all about?” I said, once Hope was sitting behind her receptionist’s desk. I leaned against the window ledge and looked out at the traffic eight stories below.
“Dad’s just trying to help your mom,” she said. “He’s not really angry with me.”
“It seemed like he was pretty angry with you.”
“Nah. He’s just trying to help your mother get in touch with her anger. Your mother represses her anger and it makes her very sick.”
The office was stuffy, hot. There was a fan in the window that was blowing out. I wanted to turn it so it blew into the room, but Hope insisted that it was better to blow the hot air out of the room, as opposed to sucking the warm air in. “I hate my life,” I said.
“No you don’t,” Hope said, absently stacking a pile of insurance forms on her desk. She reached for the Wite-Out.
“I do. It’s so stupid and pathetic.”
“You’re a teenager. You’re supposed to feel your life is stupid and pathetic.”
I walked over to the small table next to the sofa and made myself a cup of hot water with Cremora. My mother would be in there for hours. “Why aren’t you married?”
Hope gently brushed Wite-Out onto one of the forms. She answered without looking up. “Because I haven’t met a guy that’s as great as my dad.”
“What do you mean by that?” I said.
Hope held the page up to the light and checked her work. “I mean that most guys are jerks. I haven’t met one yet that’s as emotionally and spiritually evolved as my father. I’m holding out.”
“How old are you?” I asked her. Hope and I were becoming friends. I thought that even if her father wasn’t a psychiatrist and even if my mother wasn’t seeing him constantly, we’d still be friends.
“I’m twenty-eight,” she answered. She blew on the page.
“Oh.”
For a while, we just sat in silence; me drinking my Cremora and Hope painting insurance forms with Wite-Out. Then I said, “He doesn’t really use that room for . . .”
“Hmmm?” she said, glancing up.
“Your father. That room of his. He doesn’t really . . . it’s not his Masturbatorium, is it?”
Hope shrugged. “Probably, yeah.”
“That’s so disgusting,” I said.
“What’s disgusting about it? Don’t you masturbate?”
“Huh?”
“I said, don’t you masturbate?” She looked at me with her head tilted slightly to the side, waiting for my answer. As if she’d merely asked me the time.
“Well, it’s different. It’s not . . . I don’t know.”
“How is it different?” She was strangely intense.
“I’m not a doctor.”
“What? You don’t think doctors masturbate?”
“That’s not what I mean. I just mean, it’s weird to have a room. You know, a Masturbatorium or whatever.”
“I don’t think it’s so weird,” Hope shrugged.
“So you’re not married because you’re waiting for a guy with a Masturbatorium?” I asked.
“Very funny.”
I tried to recall if I shook his hand when I saw him. I couldn’t remember so I said, “Nature calls,” and excused my-self to the bathroom to scrub my hands in scalding hot water.
IMAGINE MY SHOCK
A
S WE MADE A LEFT TURN ON PERRY STREET, MY EXCITEment peaked. “Look at that house,” I said, pointing out the window. It was a pristine white Victorian with a slate roof and widow’s walk on top. “I bet it’s just like that one. I bet it’s even nicer.” I pictured a silver Mercedes 450 SL parked sideways in the crushed clamshell driveway, roof down, M.D. plates glinting in the sun.
My mother was having an emergency session with Dr. Finch, a session at his home. Now I would finally get to see it. Hope had told me all about how much fun it was. “There’s always someone around, always something fun to do,” she’d said. I couldn’t believe it had taken so long for me to finally see where he lived. Visiting the personal residence of John Ritter would not be more exciting than this.
A doctor’s house.
I had dressed up in pressed gray slacks, a crisp white shirt and a navy blazer for the occasion. At the last minute, I added a gold-tone ID bracelet.
“It’s just down here,” my mother said. “On the right.”
The street was lined with immaculate homes, each more stately than the next. Perfectly trimmed hedges, double fireplace chimneys, tall front doors painted glossy black, porches fronted with latticework. It was a protracted-jaw, New England money street. “This is nice,” I remarked. “I’d love to be a doctor.”
“I imagine a lot of the Smith professors live on this street,” my mother said. Smith College was just past the center of town.
And then up on the right, I saw one house that did not belong. Instead of being white and pristine like all the others, this house was pink and seemed to sag. From a distance, it looked abandoned. In a neighborhood of whispers, it was a shriek. “That’s not it, is it?” I said warily.
My mother hit the blinker and slid the car over to the side of the road. “That’s it,” she said.
“It can’t be.” Utter disbelief.
“That’s it, Augusten,” she said. She killed the engine and tossed the keys in her bag.
“Wait,” I said, feeling panic. “That can’t be it.”
“That’s Dr. Finch’s house,” she said, finally.
We got out of the car and I shielded my eyes from the sun as I scanned the house. The pink paint was peeling off, exposing veins and patches of bare wood. All the windows lacked shutters and were covered with thick plastic, making it impossible to see inside. And the lawn—at least what was once a lawn—was nothing more than firmly packed earth that had the look of heavy foot traffic. Parked crooked in the driveway with the nose touching the corner of the house was an old, gray BuTck Skylark. It was missing all its hubcaps.
My mother walked across the dirt to the front porch and I followed. She rang the doorbell, which generated a strange and very loud electric buzz. I pictured wires deep inside the wall crossing, then sparking to make this sound, which was reminiscent of a chain saw in the distance.
Nobody answered the door, but I could make out the distinct sound of running from inside, a tinkle of piano keys and then a crash.
She hit the buzzer again, holding it.
A moment later, the door opened and a hunchback appeared. It was a lady hunchback with kinky, grayish, almost purple hair. She was holding an electric can opener, the cord dangling to the floor.
“Hello, Deirdre,” the hunchback said. “Come in.” She stood back and waved the can opener in the air, indicating our welcome. She resembled a candy cane without the red stripes. She leaned forward, head down, as if trying to assume the crash position in an airplane while standing.
My mother said, “Thank you, Agnes,” and she stepped inside.
I foll
owed. The lady reminded me of Edith Bunker from All in the Family, except with really bad posture.
“Hello,” the hunchback said to me. “You must be Augusten. Am I pronouncing your name right? Uh Gus Ten, isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” I answered with practiced courtesy. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“I’m Agnes, Dr. Finch’s wife. You two make yourself at home and I’ll go get the doctor.” She turned and walked down the narrow, creaky hallway that was next to the stairs.
My mother turned to me. “Stop making that face,” she whispered.
The house smelled like wet dog and something else. Fried eggs? And it was such a mess. The runner I was standing on was so threadbare that it appeared to have melted into the wood floor beneath it. I stepped around my mother and peered into the room on my right. It had tall windows and a large fireplace. But the sofa was turned over on its back. I stepped around to look into the opposite room. It was also a mess, strewn with clothes, newspapers and a colorful plastic Big Wheel.
“No doctor lives here,” I whispered to my mother.
“Shhhhh,” she whispered, gripping my arm firmly. “Behave.”
I glanced down at my pressed polyester slacks and saw they had already collected lint. I plucked the strange animal hair off my knee and let it go, watching it float to the floor. And then looking at the floor, I saw more fur. There was fur everywhere, streaking across the carpet, gathered in thick balls in the corners against the wall.
I’d never seen such squalor. That people lived here was shocking enough; that a doctor lived here was just unthinkable.
“I’ll wait in the car,” I said.
“You will not wait in the car. It’ll be hours. And it’s rude. You’ll stay here and get along with the Finch children.”
A moment later, two ratty girls came running down the hallway, side by side. They both had long, greasy, stringy hair and dirty clothes. They were Vickie and Natalie; I’d met them before at the doctor’s office. Natalie was a year older than me, thirteen. Vickie was fourteen. Natalie was okay, but Vickie was weird. She didn’t even live at home. Natalie told me she lived with a bunch of hippies.
“Hi, Augusten,” Natalie said sweetly.
Immediately, I didn’t trust her. “Hi,” I said back.
“You’re all dressed up,” Vickie smirked. “Going to church?” She giggled.
I hated her already. She wore shredded jeans that seemed to be held together by embroidery thread in all the colors of the rainbow. There was a patch of a pot leaf stitched onto the knee.
“Deirdre?” The doctor called from somewhere within the house.
“Yes, Dr. Finch,” my mother shouted back. “I’m near the front door.”
“Come on,” Vickie said. “We’re supposed to keep you occupied.”
And with that, they led me away.
We were young. We were bored. And the old electroshock therapy machine was just under the stairs in a box next to the Hoover.
“C’mon you guys, it’ll be fun,” Vickie said, pulling at the stuffing that was leaking from a hole in the sofa’s arm.
Natalie reached into the tube, then wedged a quarter-inch of Pringles into her mouth. She chewed noisily, spilling crumbs down the front of her striped halter-top. She wiped her hands on her bare knees. “I hate Charles Nelson Reilly. Who the fuck is he, anyway?” she asked.
“You guys,” Vickie whined.
I brought my hand to my head. I liked how smooth my hair felt under my palm. It comforted me. I also liked Match Game. “Let’s just watch this,” I said.
Vickie pulled a long clump of stuffing out of the arm and flicked it onto the floor. “Barf. This show sucks.” Their cat, Freud, immediately leapt off the bookcase and pounced on the stuffing.
Natalie raised the tube up to her lips and tipped it, sliding the last of the crumbs into her mouth. She tapped the bottom and it sounded like a small drum. Then she threw the tube at the cat.
He bolted, the stuffing caught in his hind claw.
Vickie snickered.
I exhaled and accepted the fact that my pants might lose their crease. I said,“Did your father really use that thing anyway?”
Vickie jumped up out of her chair. “Yeah, he used to shock people and everything. C’mon, it’ll be a wicked blast.”
Natalie rolled her eyes and turned to me. “We might as well, there’s nothing better to do.”
It was hopeless to protest. Although I hadn’t known Vickie and Natalie for very long, I had already learned that I had no control over anything that happened when I was around them. Once, at the doctor’s office, they opened the window and threw sardines down at people on the street. They would have thrown the coffeemaker out the window too, if Hope hadn’t stopped them just in time.
Gene Rayburn placed his hand on the contestant’s shoulder in a consoling fashion and I got up off the sofa and followed Vickie and Natalie into the hallway.
Vickie turned on the light. It was a bare bulb, attached to a gilt bronze fixture bolted to the wall. The walls in the hallway were covered with brown burlap. I found the burlap a fascinating and original wall treatment, and I didn’t mind at all that it was ancient, peeling and dusty.
“Whoa, look at this motherfucking thing,” Vickie said as she dragged the box out from under the stairs.
Natalie kicked it gently as if to check for signs of life.
I leaned forward and peered into the box. It resembled my father’s shortwave radio, except it had wires coming out of it. And two large dials. “It’s weird,” I said, intrigued.
“Help me carry it,” Vickie ordered, bending over.
Natalie and I both leaned over and took the other end. Although Natalie could easily have done it herself, I felt I had to help her, to be useful. We carried it back into the TV room and set it on the floor in front of the couch.
“Now what?” Natalie said.
I absently brushed at the front of my dress slacks.
“Okay now, you guys. We gotta set it up. So Augusten, you’re the patient and Natalie, you’re the nurse.”
“I’m not gonna be any cunt-licking nurse,” Natalie snapped.
“Well you sure-as-shit are not gonna be the doctor.”
“I’ll be the patient. He’ll be the nurse,” Natalie said.
I felt my face flush, both horrified and certain that I would be the nurse. “I’ll be the nurse,” I said, just wanting to get on with it. “I don’t care. Let’s just start.”
“Nursy,” Natalie teased.
“Should I take this off?” I said, meaning my navy blazer that I had worn because I was visiting a doctor’s house.
Vickie scowled. “That thing is so queer. You should just chuck it.”
“Why are you always so dressed up anyway?” Natalie said.
“I don’t know,” I said. I was instantly mortified and slipped the blazer off, tossing it carelessly onto the wing chair.
Natalie dove onto the sofa, stomach-first, then turned on her back. Her arm hung off the couch and the back of her hand touched the floor. “What’s wrong with me then?”
“Here,” Vickie said, lifting up the machine.
I picked up the other end and we hoisted it out of the box.
“What’s wrong with me?” Natalie, cried louder.
We set the machine on the floor and Vickie kicked the box out of the way. It knocked against the TV. “You’re psychotic,” she said.
Natalie grinned. “Okay, I can be psychotic. I’m a paranoid schizophrenic.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Just like Dottie Schmitt.
Vickie made a face. “Oh, God. She’s disgusting. Did you know she’s so filthy that Agnes has to peel her bra off for her?”
Natalie gasped. “Where did you hear that?”
“It’s true, Agnes told me herself.”
“Who’s Dottie?” I said.
“And then Agnes has to scrub under her tits with a sponge to get rid of all the scum.” Vickie shrieked, grossing herself out.
They laughed.
“Who is she?” I said again.
“She’s one of Dad’s crazy patients,” Natalie said. “You’ll meet her.”
I will? I thought. Why?
This is when Poo Bear ran into the room, naked and shrieking. Poo was about six years old, the son of Vickie and Natalie’s older sister Anne. His small penis jiggled and his laughing mouth was ringed with purple jam.
“Hey, Poo,” Vickie cooed at her little nephew.
“Poo Bear,” Natalie said, sitting up. “What’s a doin’, pooin’?”
He paused in front of the TV and slapped his arms against his side. “I’m a can opener,” he said.
I could smell his feet from across the room.
“You’re a can opener?” Natalie said tenderly. “That is soooooo cute.”
“What’s that?” he said, pointing to the machine.
Vickie said,“That’s Dad’s old shock therapy machine. We’re fooling around with it. Wanna play?”
He smiled shyly and grabbed his little penis with his hand. “I dunno.”
“C’mon, Poo. You’ll have fun. You won’t get hurt, I promise,” Natalie said.
“Yeah, you watch us first, then you can play. Okay? Just watch,” Vickie said.
Natalie lay back on the sofa and closed her eyes. “Ready,” she said.
Vickie then kneeled in front of the sofa. Gently, she picked up a wire and arranged it around Natalie’s head. She placed the end of the wire against Natalie’s ear. She tucked another wire under Natalie’s neck. Then she pretended to plug the machine in by stuffing the cord under the sofa. Next she placed her hand on the dial. “Nurse,” she called.
“Okay,” I said.
“Come here,”
I kneeled down next to her. “What should I do?”
“The patient may scream, so you’ll need to place the bite guard in her mouth.”
“Okay, where’s that?”
“Just use a pencil,” Natalie said, looking up.
“Shhhhh,” Vickie scolded. “You can’t talk.”
Natalie closed her eyes again and opened her mouth.
I reached over to the table beside the sofa and grabbed a pen. “Will this work?”