Crack-Up Read Free Page A

challenge, the satisfaction of public service—I came up with those reasons on my own.   Doctor Shields came up with my having an unconscious desire for a socially acceptable way to express my paranoid tendencies.   And I’m sure he’s right too.   Think about it.   I’d chosen a career in which I got paid to worry, basically.   The perfect career for me. (Almost.)
    So there I was in my bathroom, scooping pills back into the bottle.   Risperdal is a common anti-psychotic medication.   I could not—and I cannot—keep the madness at bay without it.   With it, the mystery of the naked flight attendant remained.
    What’s happening to me ? I wondered.   Usually, if it was time to adjust my medication, I’d go a few days feeling agitated for no reason, or fuzzy-headed, and maybe Sarah would point out that I was brooding, or avoiding eye contact with her, or claiming that someone had it in for me somehow, and then I’d know enough to head for the psychiatrist’s office straight away.
    But I hadn’t been agitated or fuzzyheaded.   And Sarah hadn’t given me any warning signals.   And I hadn’t been suspecting others of any dark, sinister plans.   Though I had to admit I didn’t like the looks of that new maid, what’s her name.
    “Were you aroused?” Sarah asked me in the kitchen after hearing my bizarre story.   She was freshly showered and puttering in her white maternity dress, checking on the overcooked-smelling stew and dinner rolls, not looking at me.
    “Uh, yeah,” I said, squirming on my stool by the butcher block table.   “She was stark naked, and very close to me at times.   All I lacked was a roll of dollar bills.”
    “I mean,” she said, stopping, staring, “were you aroused before you saw her with her clothes off?”
    “No,” I said.   “I was preoccupied with John Helms.   I might’ve noticed she was attractive, that’s it.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    Her tone let me know she thought I wasn’t being entirely truthful.   Which I wasn’t.
    “The important thing, Sarah, is that my meds don’t seem to be working.   I’d better go see Doctor—”
    “What did she look like?”
    I sighed.   We’d been together long enough for me to now guess with clairvoyant accuracy what her next six or seven questions would be, and what my own answers would be too.   But there is no skipping ahead in a marriage, is there?   Husbands and wives have litanies of their own.   I sipped my chardonnay.
    “She was average height,” I said at last.   “Slender.   About your age, I guess.   Dirty blonde hair.   Nice complexion.   Pretty face.   Kind of heart-shaped.”
    “Tits?”
    I shrugged.   “Maybe your size, when you were about fifteen years old, I imagine.”
    “Ass?”
    “Same answer.”
    “Shit head.”   Sarah can’t help cursing a lot.   Not only is she married to me, but she’s also native to Southern California , where beauty is to be seen and not heard.   Or so it seems.
    “Daddy!”   Ellie barreled in from outside, holding a baggie full of dog shit.   “Look, I scooped the poop!”   She held the baggie up for my inspection.   It was soiled some on the outside.
    “Good job.”   I tousled her hair.   “But try to get it all inside the bag next time.”
    “Okay.”
    I took hold of the baggie with a thumb and a fingertip and a dainty wrist.   “Now go wash your hands.”
    “Yes, Daddy.”   Ellie skipped off toward the downstairs bathroom.   I followed her bounce until she was out of sight.
    “Was it selfish,” I said to Sarah, “bringing her into the world?   I mean, given the genetic risk—”
    “That again?   Now?   With another on the way?”
    “I’ve got to see Doctor Shields as soon as possible.”
    “You said it would be alright,” she said as I headed for the trash can in the garage.   “You said the odds the kids would get it were what?   Six to one against—”
    The kitchen phone rang.   Sarah answered.   I turned to see if