Out of This World Read Free Page A

where the road skirts the garden wall and the entrance. There are solid metal gates, replacing the former wrought-iron ones which used to give a glimpse of the house. The dog warnings. And perched in discreet but strategic places above the wall and the barbed wire, the cameras.
    You could say I put you there, Frank. So if you feel like a prisoner too, you can blame me. But perhaps it doesn’t feel like a prison, perhaps it just feels like a well-guarded home. And it’s where you always wanted to be. For thirty-odd years you were my alibi, my decoy. You were part of my scheme, though you probably assumed – I know you assumed – I was part of yours. No, unlike Ray Evans, I was never the innocent victim. No saint. Just your usual bastard. A bad father and, some people would say, a bad son. But I was a good husband for seven years to Anna. And if she were still alive I might be sitting where you are now. I might never have become Harry Beech the photo-journalist, theex-photo-journalist. I might have done all that: become what you are, what Dad was. Just for her sake. Just for simple, selfish love’s old sake. So perhaps you should thank me.

Sophie
 
    But doesn’t it get to you, Doctor K? Other people’s minds. Other people’s mess. How do you feel at the end of the day? Kind of dirty? Kind of tainted? Or what do you do? Put your notes away. Stretch your arms and crack your knuckles. Cut off. Fix a drink maybe and make some calls. Look out from your window over the chasm of 59th Street.
    Do you think of me when I’m not with you? Do you have thoughts?
    Okay, so, like you tell me, I’m not so dumb. I know I’m just one of many. I’m ‘File under “C” for Carmichael’. Not ‘S’ for Sophie. This fast, promiscuous life you lead. A gigolo of the psyche. Rule number one: make each one of them feel special, make each one of them feel they’re the only one. (A subtle and mature gigolo, with silvery temples and a dry, seasoned style. Old enough to be my – )
    ‘Let’s talk about you, Doctor K.’
    ‘Oh no, Sophie.’
    A shake of the head, a wag of the finger, a patient smile. Like a gentle, kindly schoolmaster. Rule number two. ‘You do the talking, Sophie. I’ll ask the questions. Yes, it’s a tough deal, isn’t it? You have the work to do, and I’m the one who getspaid. But isn’t it nice to have someone who’ll listen, who’s there to listen? You don’t need to know about me. Just think of me as a hired listener. Just think of me as two ears and a notebook.’
    I bet you give the same patter to all the girls. Make the same wisecracks. I bet you take them all for walks in the Park, buy them tea and let them slip their hands through your own well-crooked, well-tailored arm.
    ‘If Central Park is the Garden of Eden, Sophie, it is surrounded by the Fall of Manhattan.’
    (A leather-bound notebook. And two very cute ears.)
    What do I know about you? You’re married? Have kids? You’re divorced? You like little girls? Or muscular young men?
    But maybe you’re right. If I knew only a little more about you maybe I wouldn’t think of you as Mister Calm, as Mister Wonderful, as Mister Well-adjusted and Oh-so-civilized, gazing out with your Martini, over this most anxious city on earth.
    Look at these men in their fifties, jogging, red-faced, round the Park. They look so ill, they look so desperate. They look so in need of punishment and penance. Not you, eh?
    You have it both ways. You see and you’re not seen. You take a good long peek, but you remain immune.
    (But don’t you think about me, just a bit?)
    What you never know will never hurt you. Is that it? And what you know, you can’t ever unknow. Though you can have a damn good try. But when you try to remember what it was like long, long ago, you can’t ever do it without knowing the things you were going to find out later, without seeing yourself like those people in dreams you try to call out to and warn, and who never hear you.
    Poor Tim, poor