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"Any family or friends in Denver, or locally…?"
"I said nobody."
Adrienne nodded. "If you change your mind, I'll be happy to take care of it for you. And convey any message you might like to pass along."
"Even if it's obscene?"
She maintained a level gaze, even returned his earlier wry smile. "I'll let discretion play the better part of judgment."
"Just checking. Probing the bounds of your honor." For a moment his gaze roved about the room, this cheerless and spartan chamber, and through his eyes she sought the human being behind them. When he wasn't looking at her, wasn't playing the role of guardian at the gate of his privacy, he seemed to drift upon small painful currents within. If only she could see him free and unencumbered, observe how he moved, how he sat. How he might enter a room and commandeer it for his own, or find its most sheltered corner and make it his harbor. The body told much … but his was silenced. And in its restriction, it was as if his eyes were compensating by what they communicated, like sharpened hearing to the newly blind.
But this she knew: He would not be the type who found it easy to ask for help. Which didn't mean he was not without other questions: "How old are you?"
Adrienne saw no harm in answering. "I'm thirty-four."
"Baby boomer, huh?"
She couldn't help but smile. "Just barely. In that bulging demographic chart that looks like a pig in a python, I'm pretty much at the pig's curly little tail." And on that cusp, Adrienne supposed, she did not truly belong to the body proper. Cut off the pig's tail, and it may squeal, but it will never miss the thing. She was a vestigial appendage, with no generation to call her own. She lived in the temporal gulf between those who came before and those who followed.
"The boomers," he said. "Our civilization's last big gasp of self-indulgence. At least I know my place."
"And where's that?"
"I'm with the people on the side, holding the shovels." Clay Palmer cleared his throat. "Are we through?"
"Yes. I think that's enough for now." Adrienne stood, put away her notebook. "About all we've done this morning is introduce ourselves. We've talked a bit about last night … but there's a lot that led up to last night that we never touched on. I think we should, and … I hope you feel the same. And I hope you'll want to continue talking with me later this weekend."
"Maybe," he said. "But no touching. I don't really like being touched. No touch therapy."
"All right." Adrienne nodded. Interesting: could indicate a past history of abuse, emotional withdrawal. "I think we can work around that."
He raised his hips and torso, pushing up off his shoulders until his body surged against the restraints. The twin casts lay along his sides, chunky anchors of white plaster. "Can you do something about getting these straps off me?"
She would first have to get an authorization from Ferris Mendenhall, the psychiatrist who oversaw all Ward Five treatment, but her own recommendation would be that Clay no longer needed to be restrained, for his own protection or anyone else's.
Still, not to forget: He had broken his own hands and used the ends of snapped bones to lacerate three faces. What damage might he be capable of inflicting with those casts, if he set his mind to it?
It was nearing eight o'clock, and Mendenhall should be in by now. It was his call.
"I'll look into it immediately," she said.
Sometimes it was a relief to defer responsibility.
Two
Adrienne was back in her own driveway by nine o'clock that morning, sitting behind the wheel for several moments after killing the engine. On the dry wind rode the creeping burn of the day. An all-nighter — sleep in her office notwithstanding — and still she found something decadent about dragging wearily in at this hour. Only the motivations had changed over time. Fifteen years ago it would have been the inevitable final surrender after a binge. Now, just more overtime devoted to a
"Any family or friends in Denver, or locally…?"
"I said nobody."
Adrienne nodded. "If you change your mind, I'll be happy to take care of it for you. And convey any message you might like to pass along."
"Even if it's obscene?"
She maintained a level gaze, even returned his earlier wry smile. "I'll let discretion play the better part of judgment."
"Just checking. Probing the bounds of your honor." For a moment his gaze roved about the room, this cheerless and spartan chamber, and through his eyes she sought the human being behind them. When he wasn't looking at her, wasn't playing the role of guardian at the gate of his privacy, he seemed to drift upon small painful currents within. If only she could see him free and unencumbered, observe how he moved, how he sat. How he might enter a room and commandeer it for his own, or find its most sheltered corner and make it his harbor. The body told much … but his was silenced. And in its restriction, it was as if his eyes were compensating by what they communicated, like sharpened hearing to the newly blind.
But this she knew: He would not be the type who found it easy to ask for help. Which didn't mean he was not without other questions: "How old are you?"
Adrienne saw no harm in answering. "I'm thirty-four."
"Baby boomer, huh?"
She couldn't help but smile. "Just barely. In that bulging demographic chart that looks like a pig in a python, I'm pretty much at the pig's curly little tail." And on that cusp, Adrienne supposed, she did not truly belong to the body proper. Cut off the pig's tail, and it may squeal, but it will never miss the thing. She was a vestigial appendage, with no generation to call her own. She lived in the temporal gulf between those who came before and those who followed.
"The boomers," he said. "Our civilization's last big gasp of self-indulgence. At least I know my place."
"And where's that?"
"I'm with the people on the side, holding the shovels." Clay Palmer cleared his throat. "Are we through?"
"Yes. I think that's enough for now." Adrienne stood, put away her notebook. "About all we've done this morning is introduce ourselves. We've talked a bit about last night … but there's a lot that led up to last night that we never touched on. I think we should, and … I hope you feel the same. And I hope you'll want to continue talking with me later this weekend."
"Maybe," he said. "But no touching. I don't really like being touched. No touch therapy."
"All right." Adrienne nodded. Interesting: could indicate a past history of abuse, emotional withdrawal. "I think we can work around that."
He raised his hips and torso, pushing up off his shoulders until his body surged against the restraints. The twin casts lay along his sides, chunky anchors of white plaster. "Can you do something about getting these straps off me?"
She would first have to get an authorization from Ferris Mendenhall, the psychiatrist who oversaw all Ward Five treatment, but her own recommendation would be that Clay no longer needed to be restrained, for his own protection or anyone else's.
Still, not to forget: He had broken his own hands and used the ends of snapped bones to lacerate three faces. What damage might he be capable of inflicting with those casts, if he set his mind to it?
It was nearing eight o'clock, and Mendenhall should be in by now. It was his call.
"I'll look into it immediately," she said.
Sometimes it was a relief to defer responsibility.
Two
Adrienne was back in her own driveway by nine o'clock that morning, sitting behind the wheel for several moments after killing the engine. On the dry wind rode the creeping burn of the day. An all-nighter — sleep in her office notwithstanding — and still she found something decadent about dragging wearily in at this hour. Only the motivations had changed over time. Fifteen years ago it would have been the inevitable final surrender after a binge. Now, just more overtime devoted to a
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