Part 9 (1/2)
Fanshawe waited, hunched over on the bench with his foot tapping. Minutes seemed to tick by; his paranoia made him think they were doing it on purpose. Eventually the line clicked, and Dr. Tilton's voice came on.
”h.e.l.lo, Mr. Fanshawe-I'm sorry to keep you waiting. I was tending to a chronic patient in need-a unipolar depressive suffering from delusions of morbidity and suicidal ideations-”
Fanshawe ground his teeth. Was she trying to make him feel guilty for bothering her. I don't care who you're tending to-I'm paying more. Before he could speak, she added, ”I'm very much hoping that you've successfully removed yourself from the-”
”-from the purveying environment, yes, I have. I'm in some out of the way town in New Hamps.h.i.+re, a tourist spot, and-and...”
Her voice sounded dry. ”Yes?”
Fanshawe's nervousness rose up in a sudden wave. ”I...had a relapse, I- s.h.i.+t!”
”That's astonis.h.i.+ng, Mr. Fanshawe, and quite disappointing especially considering how well your out-patient therapy has gone thus far. Don't tell me you actually purchased a pair of binoculars...”
”No! I didn't, but then-my G.o.d-I found a pair, here. It was in this display-”
”Display? What are you talking about?”
Fanshawe could only release what seemed a string of ordered babble. ”This town, it's...kind of odd. There's this Colonial theme or something, and a bunch of witchcraft stuff, you know, for tourists like in Salem.”
Somehow the image of the woman's stern expression slipped through with her words. ”Mr. Fanshawe. What does witchcraft have to do with your problem? Not only were you supposed to remove yourself from the purveying environment, you were supposed to banish any implements-such as binoculars-from your proximity.”
A lump appeared in his throat. ”I-I found them in this display full of old relics, and-and...I borrowed them...”
”You stole them?”
”I-I-” He winced and ran a hand through his hair. ”I-yes, I guess I did, but, I swear, it wasn't conscious, I don't remember doing it. I felt like I was in some sort of trance, and next thing I knew it was in my pocket.”
Tilton's voice sharpened. ”It's called an appositive fugue-state, Mr. Fanshawe, which is a result of undue stress factors as well as other more nebulous things. This led you to drop your conscious guard. Seeking out the implements of purveyance is no better than willingly putting yourself into a purveying environment. We've discussed this.”
He looked up, glimpsed some attractive women crossing the street, then grit his teeth. ”I know, I know. I just...lost control. I couldn't help it.”
”That's a loser's excuse. Addiction therapy only goes so far. There must come a time when the patient must harness his own free will if he truly wants to reclaim his life. You will return the binoculars immediately-”
”Actually, they're not binoculars-it's a looking-gla.s.s, like, er, a s.h.i.+p's gla.s.s, I guess you'd call it. One lens, like a miniature telescope. It's very old, and-”
”Don't circ.u.mvent the subject, Mr. Fanshawe; it won't lessen my extreme disappointment in any way. The exact nature of your object of purveyance means nothing. You will resist the impulse to solicit your paraphilic symptoms. You must make this effort, Mr. Fanshawe, and you must make it now.”
”I will, I swear.” He felt ludicrous, pathetic. ”I just...needed someone to talk to. Christ, it's not like I can talk to just anyone about-about...this.”
”I should think not. You've no one to blame but yourself for this mishap. It's all up to you. If you fail, there's only one suitable recourse left: chemical intervention.”
Fanshawe gulped.
”You've already been caught once,” the doctor reminded, ”and I'm sure that was an experience you'd just as soon not repeat. You're like a gambling addict, Mr. Fanshawe. Some irregular synapses in your brain have habituated you to whatever thrill it is you get from looking into innocent women's windows...”
”You would put it that way.”
”At this point, the only thing besides drugs that can potentially correct this synaptic anomaly is the positive reinforcement of learned behavior. You must relearn your mental health by making a concerted commitment via your free will. I'd think it would be rather easy for someone like you.”
Suddenly he felt steaming in angst. ”Someone like me? You mean a pervert, I guess, huh? A peeper?”
Tilton laughed, a rarity for her. ”Goodness, no! Someone like you: a good man, an attractive man, not to mention a very successful man. Most patients with your problem have nothing going for them, but you? You have everything.”
”Gee, I guess that's a compliment-”
”Not much of one, Mr. Fanshawe. The best way to relearn your normalcy is to do what normal people do. But if you're unwilling to pursue this avenue, I think it would be in the best interest of both of us for you to find another therapist.”
”I'm filled to the brim with confidence, doctor.”
”You need to be, otherwise, you'll probably wind up back in jail, and how much confidence can you expect to have there?” She paused, perhaps deliberately. ”Is there anything else, Mr. Fanshawe?”
He cringed where he sat, struggling with a thought. ”Well, yes, uh, a question. Do people with my problem-”
”Chronic paraphilia? Scoptolagnia?”
He frowned. ”Yeah. Do they ever have...you know, hallucinations?”
”No. Why do you ask?”
Suddenly, no force on earth could make him tell her what he thought he'd seen last night. He was afraid of her reaction. ”Well...it's nothing. I just had a bad dream last night, that's all.”
”I don't believe you, Mr. Fanshawe, but that's neither here nor there. When you're ready to tell me whatever else it is that's bothering you, then call my office.” Another pause. ”Mr. Fanshawe? Did you hear me?”
”Yes, I'll...I'll call.”
”Goodbye, Mr. Fanshawe.”
”Yes. Uh, bye.”
Fanshawe put his cell phone away, his face pulled into a fierce smirk. ”f.u.c.king behaviorist. Why do I continue to pay to be insulted by that woman?”
But moments later, as he began to stroll the quiet street, he did feel better. Around one corner, he spotted the Travelodge pool but winced and turned away.
He sputtered. Dr. Tilton had said he was a ”good man.” He didn't feel like a bad one but... Would a ”good man” want to look in windows? Would a good man do what I did last night on the hill? Maybe I just think I'm a good man-a defense mechanism-but I'm really a bad man...
His hand drifted to his jacket pocket, and felt that the looking gla.s.s was still there. s.h.i.+t...
Good man or bad, he couldn't lie to himself. He wished he could flee to the hillocks right now and peep at all those tempting bodies at the pool; and stare, stare, stare into all those windows.
Hunk of s.h.i.+t. Just when he'd started feeling better, here came these waves of contemplations, to bring him right back down again...
And next?
He pa.s.sed the pillory.
He smiled falsely at a middle-aged couple, waited for them to move along, then bent to inspect the ancient punitory device. There was nothing there, on the wood or the pavement below, to indicate that the device had been sullied or occupied in any way. An elderly man walked by with a cane, perhaps one of the professors. ”G.o.d, that thing makes me sick to my stomach. They say it's real, been here hundreds of years. G.o.d knows how many men and women were tortured in it.”
Off guard, Fanshawe stood up straight. ”Yes. I guess the good old days weren't that good.”
”Disgusting to think the authorities back then put people in that blasted contraption. It's evil if you ask me.”