Last, I'd like to read you a story called "Investments."
"Investments."
David Klein, a freelance illustrator
of 46, who lived in Greenwich Village
was practically the only person he knew who had never
been in psychotherapy.
Now, when he had almost decided to start,
he feared that he was making a mistake.
No shrink could help with what worried him most.
His money was in the stock market,
which had sunk to a new low and might collapse entirely.
Who could tell?
Certainly not Steve Rabkin, Klein's stockbroker,
Klein was sure.
Steve, who was also his cousin, had tricked and bullied him
when they were children.
Once he had duped Klein into eating clay.
Klein sometimes imagined that he could still taste it.
Moist pellets the size of jelly beans,
warm from Steve's rolling palms.
When Klein mentioned this, Steve angrily
denied that anything like it had ever happened.
Klein was crackers, he said.
One hand jingling the coins in his pocket, his bald head
shining aggressively.
Klein needed to be shrunk and fast.
My guy, Traub, is terrific, Steve said.
You should see him for Barbara's sake if you won't for your own.
Klein's mother recommended a man named Delvecchio, who had
done miracles for her friends.
Edith Timmerman was climbing the walls, she said.
Now nothing bothers her.
Not a thing.
[LAUGHTER]
As though to suggest how relaxed Edith was,
she released a ball of cigarette smoke
with a little pop of her lips.
Sorry, she said.
But the ball was already expanding,
enveloping Klein, who waved at it in helpless anger.
His hand flapping from the wrist.
His girlfriend, Jane, his first affair as a married man
was pushing for an Austrian named
Frederica Gruenwald, who had been her own therapist for four
years.
She can't see us both, can she?
Klein asked.
Whose side would she be on?
Though he raised objections, he secretly welcomed all advice.
He still had grave doubts that he ought to be going into this.
And the least he could do in defense, he thought,
was choose his doctor carefully.
It was for a Monday that he managed
to set up the appointments.
You'll be gone the whole day, his wife complained.
Isn't your painting group meeting here?
He asked.
Barbara belonged to a circle of artists,
who shared a model once a week.
I may have to call that off, she said.
Your chest hurts?
You think I'm making it up?
She asked.
Klein shook his head.
What he did think was that Barbara concentrated on twinges
that other people ignored.
Ever since her heart attack, she had seemed without strength
and often terrified him by holding her chest
and turning pale.
Pain is a danger sign, he said.
Maybe you should rest today.
The concern that he heard in his voice depressed him.
It was as though he wanted to stay with her and not just
today, forever.
I don't need pity, she said.
Don't start this, Klein said.
OK?
She turned away.
Klein could see through her thinning hair the dead white
of her scalp.
Go, David, she said.
Just go.
His first appointment was at 10:00
with Traub, who practiced high up in an old building
West of Central Park.
The chair is in Traub's office were
covered with white naugahyde.
The naugahyde was covered with transparent plastic.
It reminded Klein of the waiting room in his mother's beauty
parlor.
Traub told him, this is cocktail party jargon.
He made dismissive little finger flicks at the air
as though Klein's words still hung there
in a cartoonists bubble.
Some specifics, please.
It surprised Klein that a man with such a room
would start something.
Money, he said.
My father's estate was in six figures.
I let Steve invest my share in new issues.
Him, king, a franchise deal trades
on the theme of Hamilton King.
The baseball player, Traub said.
No, said Klein.
The soul singer.
I bought it at 11.
Sold it at eight.
Then there was Mediacom.
That one, we missed that issue.
It came priced at 15.
I caught it at 17.
I was lucky to get out at 12.
What's left is in protection devices, systems
to prevent airplane hijacks.
Steve touted it to me at 6.
I bought it at 9.
Now the bid price is 3 and 1/2.
There was a soft click across the room
and Klein noticed that a digital clock had advanced to 10:16.
It all comes back to money, he said.
Specifics.
All right.
One thing, I married unhappily.
If I could pay support, I'd leave Barbara.
Why are you looking at the clock?
The market opened at 10.
[LAUGHTER]
And your money may be trickling away.
Traub dragged everything he could from the word trickling.
How do you feel about that?
Klein had a mental picture of his large bald cousin cradling
a telephone receiver between shoulder and ear,
while with delicate fingers, he unwrapped a candy bar.
I'm sitting in protection devices,
which was off to last week.
Say now I call and ask Steve.
Steve, shouldn't I get out?
He'll tell me, don't sweat it, buddy.
The big boys are driving out the week money.
Stay calm for Barbara's sake if you can't for your own.
And this makes you feel?
Agonized.
I mean, now?
Traub frowned.
I don't believe you're feeling a thing.
You own how many shares of protection devices?
Klein was beginning to think that he could never
work with Traub.
15,000.
So each time it declines a point you lose $15,000.
Feel that now.
I do.
Last week you lost $30,000.
The wound was very raw.
I should have sold right then.
Steve talked me out of it.
And how did you feel after you let him do that?
Now, Traub had pierced him.
He pictured himself replacing the phone
after that conversation with Steve.
And the feeling he had had came gurgling up
a nauseous ruptured sensation.
This is absurd sitting here talking about it.
You'd sell, wouldn't you, Dr. Traub?
I should put everything in treasury bills.
He spotted the telephone.
Let me call, please.
[LAUGHTER]
Traub said nothing, but seemed amused.
Klein guessed that Traub had written him off.
Steve appeared to be away from his desk,
said the switchboard girl.
The Dow off 12.
No, Klein said.
Steve couldn't call him.
He'll try later.
When he hung up, Traub was standing.
I know, Klein said.
My fault. I felt negative the minute I walked in.
Personal things like decor, he glanced around the room,
shouldn't matter.
It's my own fault. I'm an Illustrator.
My wife paints.
Traub was his.
He stared at Klein for a long moment
and couldn't stop himself from answering.
The taste is my wife's.
Klein's next appointment was with short,
silver haired Delvecchio, the kind of rugged little guy,
who always made him want to confide.
Barbara's clever, but cold, he said.
I'll give her this, she's been loyal.
Jane's spontaneous and warm, but I'm not
quite sure I can trust her.
Those spontaneous ones, Delvecchio grunted.
He sat behind a desk, which Klein
had thought shrinks never did.
A fussy desk, in Klein's opinion.
Antique, richly carved, unevenly refinished as though Delvecchio
had done the job himself.
The psychiatrist nodded often and violently.
His abruptness was virile.
Klein could see how he must have ravaged Edith Timmerman's
heart.
A younger man is after her, Klein said.
A fellow student name of Conrad.
She says he's just an entertaining mind.
I'm not sure what to think.
You aren't angry?
Delvecchio's eyebrows rose remarkably as
though he were acting out the word astonished
in a game of charades.
In a personal sense, said Klein, he's nothing to me.
This superiority is phony, Delvecchio said.
You feel anger, fury.
What sort of man wouldn't?
Klein liked being told what he was feeling
[LAUGHTER]
on which his mind was more open than he guessed it should be.
But he thought Delvecchio's last remark insulting.
His impression of him, initially favorable,
changed for the worse.
Or else, Delvecchio pursued, you haven't
made the emotional investment you think.
You're too strongly tied to your wife
Klein said he'd get a divorce if he could afford one
and explained what Steve had done to him.
I decided this morning to sell out,
but he is away from his desk while the market is collapsing.
And toward him you feel?
Resentment, naturally.
Resentment?
Delvecchio screwed up his face in a pantomime of confusion.
He scratched his head and shook it.
There's something I'm not getting here.
Mere resentment?
Steve's stupidity is a natural force like hail, Klein said.
People don't hate the weather.
Delvecchio nodded in satisfaction
as though Klein's responses were nicely
confirming his ideas about him.
We'll talk more about your cousin.
I'd like to talk to him now, Klein said.
May I call?
Delvecchio pushed his phone across the desk,
but the word was that Steve had gone for the day.
The Dow was off 19.
Klein slammed down the phone, shouting,
how can he leave in the middle of a panic?
At this moment, I could be wiped out.
Delvecchio tilted back and crossed his ankles on his desk.
What sort of man am I describing?
He said.
And began taking points off on his fingers.
Despite lack of gratification, his libido
is still tied to his wife.
A virtual invalid.
At 46, he's troubled by his hatred of his mother.
He's too timid to manage his own money
or even rescue it from his dominant cousin.
He'll watch his girlfriend gets stolen without raising a hand.
And what does he feel?
A mild resentment.
Dramatizing disbelief, Delvecchio half
averted his face, pushing the heels
of both palms toward Klein in a double stiff arm.
I don't buy that, he said.
Klein felt suddenly exhausted.
I'll never convince you, he said.
And you'll never convince me the way you do those reactions.
Why not say what you think?
You've got the case all doped out.
Dulbecco's feet stayed on his desk.
If it's direction you want, OK, he said.
First of all, switching women is a fantasy, all of us have it.
That's all it will ever be, even if you do it.
As for money, I recommend six month time deposits,
but this is all superficial stuff.
What's needed is a change in your whole lifestyle, got that?
Now, his feet came down and he leaned forward earnestly.
You've got to stop being so passive.
Look, he tugged back a cuff, I repaired this watch myself.
Noticed the paintings on the walls?
My own.
I write plays too.
I made my own TV set from a kit.
I refinished every piece in my home.
This desk even.
[LAUGHTER]
He rapped on it.
Are you listening?
Get the point.
Klein met Jane for lunch in Oscars.
She hadn't slept, she said.
And had a headache that was killing her.
Genes headaches were frequent.
The more Haggard she looked, the more touchingly lovely Klein
thought her.
Often he had found it peaceful to sit on the edge of her bed
massaging her scalp.
But today he could worry only about himself
and resented her being in pain.
Over the chowder, he told her that his hopes now
rested on Frederica Gruenwald.
Fred is good, but she's not a magician, James said.
There's a limit to what even the most.
Why is your impulse to protect Freddie?
Jeanne scraped angrily at the bottom of her bowl.
On a day like this, Klein said, I
thought I could expect your support.
Darling, said Jane, Freddie and I have
been as close as people can be.
Klein waved for the next course.
The waiter removed their chowder bowls.
Let's say, I asked you to come with me right now,
take a taxi to the airport, and fly somewhere,
and start a new life, said Klein, would you?
I've never believed you wanted that, she said.
Would you?
The fish arrived.
Jane rubbed her temples.
David, don't make me do this.
Can't you see how sick I feel?
A yoke of tenderness ballooned and burst in Klein's heart.
OK, he said gently.
Jane looked relieved and Klein realized with fear
that he himself felt relieved at her denying him an answer.
Jane accompanied him to the Yorkville apartment
where Frederica Gruenwald lived and worked.
She begged two aspirins from the psychoanalyst.
A waddled dwarf neutered with age
and collapsed into a sagging love seat in the waiting room.
Klein followed Dr. Gruenwald into the consulting room.
The carpet was worn.
The sofas black leather cracked.
Dr. Gruenwald herself looked frayed and poor,
which disturbed Klein in view of her fee.
50 this was costing him.
He sat on the lumpy sofa and smoothly, this third time,
talked about himself.
But when he was done, she shook her head and said,
I hadn't understood, Mr Klein.
I'm sorry.
I couldn't treat anyone who's passionately involved
with another of my patients.
I told Jane that, Klein said annoyed.
I knew you'd feel this way.
Why did you even agree to see me?
The old woman looked embarrassed.
I had not quite understood, she said.
Jane didn't tell you that she and I are intimate.
I think I must apologize.
I have not been very perceptive.
Her dolap swung gently as she shook her head
in reprimand of herself.
Then what has she been telling you?
Klein demanded.
He was beginning to feel dismally weak,
the way he had felt once when he and Barbara
both sick with the flu had tried to make love anyway.
[LAUGHTER]
Didn't she tell you that I was her lover?
Or did she say her lover was Conrad?
Jane is a most attractive girl, the psychoanalyst
said comfortingly.
Most attractive.
Most seductive.
I think all of us have been seduced a little.
Klein jumped up in a spasm of despair.
Dr. Gruenwald, he said, this has been very useful.
I don't think psychotherapy is what I need.
I know my problems, don't you think so?
I just have to do something about them.
In the waiting room, Jane was holding
her head clasped between spread fingers, nearly in tears.
This is real agony, she moaned.
Klein grabbed her by the arm.
Come on.
You'll take me home?
We're going to my house.
No, this is killing me.
In the cab, he howled at her, ignoring
the driver's anxious glances from his rearview mirror.
She shrank against her door and threatened to get out
at the next stoplight.
Klein forced himself to fold his arms.
Freddie told me that you and Conrad are lovers.
Freddie didn't tell you that.
Was this your way of ending it, making me talk to her?
He's an entertaining mind, all right?
The phrase had a tranquilizing effect on Klein.
OK, he said.
I'm going to believe you.
Here's what we'll do.
You'll go home, while I work out arrangements with Barbara.
I'll tell her it's over.
And I'll convert my stocks to cash.
Then you and I will take off.
But she was slowly shaking her bowed head,
her face hidden in her hands.
I can't let you do that, she said in a muffled voice.
What's that supposed to mean?
Klein said raggedly.
She looked up, her wet eyes were brilliant.
David, you were wonderful to me.
Right now I feel, she searched for a comparison,
like your mother.
He understood without any real surprise
that she was through with him.
His first feeling was humiliation,
then he became very angry.
He swung a backhand at her, but she raised her handbag
and he cracked his knuckles painfully on his metal buckle.
That's it, Jane.
That's it, he shouted.
Jane sobbed.
That's it.
That's it, he shouted at her until the words
were nonsense to him.
But by the time the cab turned onto his street,
Klein felt calmer.
Though things were now bad, he felt
that he was getting to the bottom of them
as though he were ripping the last bandages
from a rotten wound.
When they pulled up in front of the brownstone where he lived,
he could see people at the windows of his second floor
apartment.
And remembered that Barbara's painting group had been coming.
From now on, he thought, he and Barbara
would have to get along better.
So long, he told Jane.
David, not like this, she pleaded.
But he got out, paid the driver, and gave him Jane's address.
The cab pulled away.
He entered his building and climbed the stairs.
As he reached the top, he saw that the door to his apartment
was open.
The living room was full of Barbara's relatives and his.
The rabbi was there too.
In the doorway, stood his mother, her face red and wet.
Next to her was his cousin Steve.
Where have you been?
Klein's mother demanded.
Getting sold out, Klein said bitterly.
Then he told Steve, you bastard, I needed you today.
I wanted to liquidate my assets.
I'm sorry, Steve said.
He grabbed Klein, hugged him, and began to weep.
I came straight here when your mother called.
Klein freed himself from Steve's arms.
For a moment he watched their twisting faces.
Then he rushed past them into his apartment,
ran through the rooms, wildly ripped the bedding
from the great empty bed, he flung it through the air,
his nostrils filling for a moment with Barbara's smell,
then it was gone.
He was through.
That was the only idea that came to Klein.
There was nothing left in the world for him to worry about.
They were all staring at him from the bedroom doorway
and he stared back at them.
OK, he said mildly.
But moment by moment it seemed better than OK.
Klein felt as relieved as a merchant
escaping into bankruptcy.
He was as grateful as a gambler in love
with a crooked game, who is cleaned out at last
and can go home and sleep.
[APPLAUSE]
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]