May We Be Forgiven Part 26

A young man appears; he looks like a high-school student, but introduces himself as Dr. Rosenblatt.

"We spoke on the phone," he says, shaking my hand. "I know that last time you were here you didn't get much of a sense of the place, so I thought we'd start with a tour. The grounds were laid out by the same fellow who designed Central Park and Paris," Rosenblatt says, leading me through the main "pavilion" and out the back door.

"Nice," I say, noticing the dappled afternoon light on the rolling hills. "It's like a national park."

"We call it a campus," Rosenblatt says.

A "campus" complete with a bowling alley, golf, and tennis. All of it enough to make insanity look appealing. Tessie loves the tour; she pees and p.o.o.ps multiple times. Rosenblatt ends the tour at a part of the estate slightly off the grid-a long, low building that looks like an old upstate hunters' motel. "We use this building for a variety of purposes, including as housing for our guests. If security seems a little high, you're not seeing things. We currently have a former presidential hopeful in-house. We need to be extra cautious: paparazzi have been known to sneak through the woods and so on."

"Interesting," I say.

"We treat a full range of issues."

"Is losing an election an issue?"

"It's very stressful," Rosenblatt says. "We're known for our ability to manage high-profile clients: our remote location, low staff turnover, private airport fifteen minutes away are all on our side. A few years ago, we had a major movie star who had a face lift that got infected, ended up looking like an entirely other person, almost lost his mind."

"How'd you treat that?"

"Encouraging him to grow a beard until he felt comfortable," he says, as though it was obvious.

Rosenblatt unlocks the door, ushering me into a room that could have been designed by a Martian who read books in translation about American history: everything is red, white, or blue-or brown. All of it conspiring to seem entirely Yankee, Norman Rockwell, and good for one's health. The furniture is Ethan Allen, wooden, 100 percent made in America, a style I guess best described as Colonial-I think I'd nickname it "safe" and "timeless." The hangers don't come off the rod in the closet, there is a battery-operated electric clock, the lamps all have very short cords. On top of the dresser there's a small basket with two bottles of water, a protein bar, and some dried cranberries, in case you have to go into survival mode. And as an ironic antidote to the faux-homey approach, a large red-and-white glowing EXIT sign hovers over the door. It's all like a flashback to an America that never existed, America as it was dreamed by Ozzie and Harriet. On the night table next to the bed, there's a notepad featuring the logo of this place-an excellent souvenir if you're into the ephemera of insanity.

I think of Nixon's furniture: The beloved brown velvet lounger that he used to nap in after lunch in his "private" office in the Old Executive Office Building, around the corner from the White House. I think of the "Wilson" desk Nixon requested for the Oval Office thinking it was the one used by President Woodrow Wilson, but instead receiving the desk that belonged to former Vice-President Harry Wilson, within which, in 1971, Nixon had five recording devices installed. The desk, now back in its original location, the Vice-President's Office within the United States Capitol, has since been used by Walter Mondale, George Bush, Dan Quayle, Al Gore, d.i.c.k Cheney, and Joe Biden. I have no idea what happened to the "bugs" Nixon had wired from the desk down to an old locker room in the White House bas.e.m.e.nt. I look around the motel room and wonder about bugs of all kinds, electronic and bed-there's been extensive news coverage about epidemic levels of bedbugs.

"Are conjugal visits allowed?" I ask Rosenblatt.

"Up to the doctor," Rosenblatt says, forgetting that he is a doctor.

Noting that there is no television in this room, I ask, "Does George have a TV?"

"No television on campus, but we have movie nights on Fridays."

"At home, he has a television in every room. He can't bear to be alone. Even when he's peeing he needs someone to be talking to him. You do know he ran a network?"

Rosenblatt nods.

I go on, waxing poetic about George. "He changed the face of television. George was singularly responsible for shows such as Your Life Sucks and Refrigerator Wars, My Way or the Highway, Doctors in the Off Hours." Rosenblatt doesn't seem to be listening. I throw in a couple of t.i.tles that I make up myself as a kind of test, like Better Dead Than in My Wife's Bed, and Rosenblatt's head bobs along. "Not much of a TV guy, are you?" I ask.

"Don't own one," Rosenblatt says. "Never have. Would you like a gla.s.s of water?" he asks Tessie.

"She's more of a bowl dog than a gla.s.s half empty," I say, still on a roll. As I'm unzipping Tessie's bag and digging out her bowl, she finds the bathroom and has a nice long drink from the toilet.

"So-where did you do your medical training?"

"Harvard," he says.

"And how'd you end up here?"

"I'm an expert on electroshock," he says. "As a teenager I treated my cat for extreme anxiety with a home electroshock system, which has since been adapted for use in third-world countries."

"A lot of pet anxiety in the third world?"

"Human use," he says.

"I didn't know anyone still did electroshock."

"It's very popular," he says. "Made a real comeback as one of the few successful treatments for drug-resistant depression."

Something about the way Rosenblatt says "treatment for drug-resistant depression" makes me think of those commercials for detergent that show the detergent lifting gra.s.s stains right out of the khaki knee and was.h.i.+ng them away. I now have electroshock and Tide inexorably bound in my mind.

"I had no idea," I say. I honestly thought it had been banned as inhumane and perhaps cruel. "By the way, what does this place cost?" I ask.

"Your brother has very good insurance."

"How good?"

"As good as it gets."

"Where do people go from here, you know, when they 'graduate'?"

"Some go to other residential programs, others to a transitional facility, and some go home."

"How about jail?"

"You sound angry at your brother," Rosenblatt notes.

"Just a little," I say.

"You'd like him to be punished."

"I don't think he can be punished-at least, that's what my mother used to say."

"Really?"

"Yes, she often said, it's funny about your brother, he can do whatever he wants, because if you try to punish him he doesn't care."

"Interesting. Do you think it's true?" Rosenblatt asks.

I nod. "It's hard to make much of an impression on him," I say. "Speaking of which, when will I be seeing George?" I check my watch; it's five-thirty.

"Dr. Gerwin, who is taking the lead in your brother's care, would like to speak with you briefly, and then we'll take you to George." He pulls out a typed schedule and hands it to me. And then he hands me a second sheet-a feedback report. "If you could complete this before you depart and leave it with the front desk. The reports are graded, and we earn points, like miles that can be used for travel, shopping, or other services, depending on the grade.

"I'm about to go for a jog," he says, looking at Tessie. "I'd be happy to take the dog."

I think of Rosenblatt and his cat experiment. "Thanks, but I'll keep her with me."

Back in the main building, Dr. Gerwin and I meet in a small room like the kind of place you'd go to sign up for a gym members.h.i.+p or apply to join the navy-generic, antiseptic. We shake hands, and then immediately he pumps foaming Purell onto his hands.

"Perhaps I should as well," I say, trying to make light of it. Gerwin pushes the Purell towards me; I fill my hands with foam and rapidly rub them together. "What fun."

Gerwin looks like the actor Steve Martin; his features are somewhat rubbery, but his facial expression remains fixed, as though he has studied himself in the mirror and decided this one-a kind of tolerant but uncommitted half-smile-works best. He pulls out a manila folder and makes himself comfortable behind the small desk.

"When did you first see a psychiatrist?" he asks.

"Me?"

"Yes," he says.

"I didn't. Or I should say I don't. I've never seen a psychiatrist."

"Does it seem strange to you, to have come this far in your life without getting help?"

"No," I say.

"Moving on," Gerwin says, "your s.e.x life." And I'm not sure if it's a declarative statement or a question.

"Yes," I say.

"How would you describe it? The flavor?"

"Vanilla," I say.

"Any s.e.x outside of your primary relations.h.i.+p?"

"No," I say, wondering how much he knows about the events that have brought us to this moment.

"Prost.i.tutes?"

"Is this about me or George?" I ask. "Feel free to write down 'defensive' there, in that box. I want to help my brother, but, that said, I do feel I am ent.i.tled to have a private life."

"Yes, we all have a private life," Gerwin says, echoing my sentiment. "Prost.i.tutes?" he asks again.

"No prost.i.tutes. A private life-by that I mean one not discussed with you."

"From our perspective, given the circ.u.mstances, it would be useful to discuss certain things."

"Better for you than for me," I say.

"How do you describe your emotional life?"

"I don't have one," I say honestly. In this arena I am actually jealous of Nixon-he was a good crier, you might even call him a crybaby. He often wept, or more like sobbed, openly. "I avoid emotion."

"We all have our strategies," he says. "If something happens that you don't like, if someone treats you poorly, what do you do?"

"I pretend it never happened," I say.

We find George on the tennis court, with the ball machine firing b.a.l.l.s at him and a coach shouting at him to swing, flatten out, follow through.

"He's got a strong backhand," the doctor says, watching through a window.

"Always did," I say.

At the end of George's lesson, I'm invited to meet him in the locker room. Gerwin takes Tessie, and I go in to find George naked in the shower, talking to me through the soap and water.

"Is Tessie with you?" he asks.

"Just outside. I didn't bring her in; she doesn't like tile. Your backhand looks good," I say, trying to make conversation. I'm not sure what the h.e.l.l I'm supposed to talk about.

"They say I'm making progress."

"That's great," I say, and I'm half wondering if he thinks he's on some sort of executive retreat and not an inpatient in a lunatic asylum.

"Almost time for dinner," he says. "You staying?"

"Yes," I say. "I'll be here tonight and tomorrow." It's all a bit strange, out of body. I've been sent by his doctors into the locker room to reunite with him while he's naked and floating in what would appear to be a heavily medicated, post-game high.

"I'll let you get dressed," I say, preparing to leave. I exit and find Gerwin, who hands me the leash, with Rosenblatt and the tennis coach, all standing around talking about how good it is that George is "back in the game."

When George comes out of the locker room, Tessie sees him and pulls hard on the leash. George gets down on his knees, in front of her, b.u.t.t in the air, arms extended-play position. The dog is excited but suspicious. George rolls onto his back, puts his hands and feet in the air. The dog acts like she's pleased to see him but knows he's nuts. I feel the same way myself-cautiously optimistic.

"Smart girl," I say.

As we go into the dining room, one of the staff takes Tessie, leading her off "while you have dinner."

George turns to me and says, "You look old."

"I had a little incident," I say.

"Didn't we all," he says.

"I had another one," I say. "After that one."

Rosenblatt, Gerwin, and the tennis coach follow us into the dining room.

We sit. I tuck the accordion file of papers I brought from home and have been carrying everywhere under my thighs. A waiter asks how many of us would like a "berry blast." They all raise their hands.

"Are you in or out?" the coach says, looking at me.

"What's a berry blast?"

"A green-and-red smoothie, antioxidant-rich, with added omega-3," he says, as though it's obvious.

"Fine," I say, "I'm in."

"What's the candy bar?" George asks.

"A Toffee-Mocha Musketeer."