Chapter 29
Malcolm is already seated at the bar, foamy mug of beer before him, when Paul arrives a half hour late to the King’s End.
He’d spent all day in the basement of the main library, scrolling through rolls of microfiche until his head was pounding.
It paid off, though; he found the original article and several follow-ups about the fruitless search for Judith’s assailant.
Seeing them made Schuyler’s story come alive: it really did happen, and though the articles were written with standard neutrality, Judith’s suffering vibrated through the words.
What she must have endured in the aftermath, with minimal comfort from her withholding grandmother, who’s quoted tersely in one of the articles as saying, “It’s a shame.
” What an odd phrase to use about your granddaughter’s molestation: It’s a shame.
As if it were a slight accident, or as if Judith were somehow to blame.
Paul starts to think it must be true—that this formative incident, probably long smothered, simmered in Judith until it spilled over, flooding her vulnerable psyche.
He doesn’t have the right words or means to express it—that’s why he’s come to Malcolm—but he senses he’s right.
Paul claps Malcolm on the back and sits beside him, simply relishing the pleasure of reuniting with an old friend for a moment.
So much has changed in his own life since he last saw Malcolm that it’s almost like seeing a ghost—or perhaps Paul is the ghost, a new iteration of himself living a surreal new life.
Even watching Kent, the bartender, pour two fingers of whiskey over rocks and slide the glass toward him with a nod is slightly disorienting.
But the first burning sip sets him right, brings him back to his body and the present and his purpose.
“How you been, Malc? How’s things?” he asks.
“Can’t complain, I guess,” Malcolm says, baring his straight white teeth when he smiles.
Paul knows it’s an understatement: Malcolm’s fit, handsome, and married to a gorgeous girl.
He has a thriving psychology practice in Midtown, too, and Paul has always envied him as much as he’s liked him.
But things are different now. Paul has been released from his former envy, all thanks to Judith Stanley.
Thanks to Judith Stanley’s death, he corrects, before batting the thought away.
“How’s your fancy art show going? Saw the piece in Harper’s. You’re moving on up, buddy,” Malcolm says, grinning. Paul grins back.
“Hardly. But yeah, it’s exciting. I mean—Judith, my student, should be here to see it. The glory is all hers—but yeah, it’s still gratifying.”
“Think you’ll make some big bucks?” Paul laughs uncomfortably and doesn’t respond.
He shrugs it off, the way he’s tried to shrug off those nagging words: fucking parasite.
Does Malcolm think the same of him? No. He can see from Malcolm’s face that he’s happy for him—maybe too happy, in fact.
Thank god Paul has gone and done something, at last. It irks him so he plays it up, tells Malcolm that yes, “big bucks” might be in order, even though his 30 percent is purely imaginary right now, except for the Harper’s check that has yet to arrive.
The show will have to succeed, and people will have to buy a lot of Judith’s prints for any whiff of “big bucks.” But he keeps that to himself for now.
The two men catch up for a while longer, but when they signal the bartender for their second round and light fresh cigarettes, Paul’s impatience gets the best of him. He clears his throat.
“Listen, Malc, I have something to ask you. As a—you know, a shrink, not a friend. In strictest confidence.” Malcolm raises two fingers in the air in a mock Boy Scout pledge. “It’s about Judith Stanley.”
“What about her?”
“Well, it turns out she experienced something traumatic as a teenager, then stuffed it under the rug—”
“Was she raped?” Malcolm asks bluntly.
“Uh, maybe.” Paul is taken aback. But he reminds himself that hearing of rape must be commonplace in Malcolm’s line of work.
“Something like that. Look, it’s easier if I just show you the article.
” He unfolds the copy he got from the library and hands it to Malcolm, eyes darting around the bar as if someone might be spying.
He knows it’s comical to suspect his fellow bar patrons, some of whom he’s known for years, of being the least bit interested in this conversation, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling ill at ease.
“This is in strictest confidence right now, of course,” Paul repeats nervously, unnecessarily. His friend nods, still immersed in his reading, then shakes his head when he’s done and looks up, handing the article back.
“Could you see the scars?” he asks.
“No. No clue…how he disfigured her. Or where.”
“It’s all very sad,” Malcolm says after a long drink of beer. “And I’m guessing she didn’t visit a psychiatrist after this happened, back in 1934?” Paul shrugs but says he assumes she didn’t. He clears his throat.
“Is it possible this experience could have made her…see things, imagine things, later in life?” His face reddens just the way it did with Detective Schuyler, as if he were guilty of something. Malcolm stays in pure professional mode, though, looking thoughtful.
“Are you asking if it’s possible she made up the stalker story?”
“I am,” Paul says, giving a quick nod. Malcolm gives a long, low whistle under his breath.
“Who killed her, then? The husband?” Paul doesn’t answer. He stares at Malcolm until he gets it, which doesn’t take long.
“Jesus. You think she did it herself. Stabbed herself.”
It isn’t a question. Paul shivers to hear Malcolm say it—to hear it spoken aloud, made a part of the world. Even if it’s only the cloistered, muggy world of King’s End Tavern.
“I went to the station yesterday and talked to the new lead detective. He said he had questions for me, and I thought I might be a suspect again,” Paul says, trying to chuckle lightly, as if it didn’t rattle him.
“But then he showed me this article and started asking me questions—about Judith’s mental state, about how I perceived the psychological content of her photographs.
He emphasized the lack of evidence they had, too.
He never said it aloud, and I didn’t put it all together until I’d left, really—then it shocked the hell out of me.
I thought it was bullshit at first—I knew Judith, you know?
—but then I kept turning it over in my mind, seeing how it made sense in a fucked-up way.
If it were even possible, probable. That’s where you come in. ” Malcolm nods, looking deadly serious.
The two men stub their cigarettes out in the ashtray at the same time. Paul immediately lights another to steady himself as Malcolm asks questions.
“Did you ever see any sign of it in the way she acted? What was she like in class?”
“Normal. Perfectly friendly, but reserved. She was a deeply private person.”
“Not anymore,” Malcolm says, lifting his eyebrows and giving Paul a brisk stab of guilt.
“Hey, I’m carrying out a last wish. She wanted me to publish those pictures,” he says convincingly, through the bitter taste in his mouth. Malcolm says he understands.
“Look, repressed trauma can really come back to haunt you—even years later. If the police—and you—are right, it sounds like she could have had something called dissociative identity disorder,” Malcolm explains.
“If she did, would she have known what she was doing? The Judith I knew wouldn’t have done this intentionally. I didn’t know her that well, but I do know that much.”
“Technically no, she wouldn’t have. But there’s a lot of controversy about this.
About dissociative episodes. About dissociative identity disorder in general.
Some practitioners in my field dismiss it entirely.
I don’t. I think it’s possible that her past trauma could have triggered out-of-body experiences or hallucinations.
Strong ones. But why then, why that particular moment in her life?
” he wonders out loud, turning his nearly empty glass on its coaster.
“Did anything happen in her life that might have triggered them?”
“No clue,” Paul says. He regrets not having more access to Tom now, probably the only person who could answer Malcolm’s question. But it’s moot; Tom has closed and locked the door against him. Paul might even have exhausted Junior’s patience by now.
“I’m guessing something did—a recent incident, a shock, a loss.
Look, I don’t really know, but what I’ve learned most after years of study and practice is that…
anything is possible, and mental illness is highly subjective.
An experience like the one she had as a teenager could have affected someone else entirely differently.
Especially if they had treatment for it, had a supportive family, and so on.
” Paul takes this in, finishes his cigarette with a deep drag, and stubs it out.
“Does the family know?” Malcolm asks.
“About this—theory? No. I don’t think so. And the husband just learned about this past incident when the detective showed him the same article. She hadn’t told him, it seems.”
“Wow, she really was…private.” Paul nods, recalling Malcolm’s sharp-edged Not anymore. There’s an uneasy silence between them. Then Malcolm asks, “So, what’s the plan? Is this just for your own curiosity?” He sounds hopeful.
“Well, I have to write this catalog introduction for the show, and I’m sure I’ll be doing interviews.
I feel like—I think I have a duty to share this with the public,” Paul says.
“To give them background to the work, you know? They’ll understand the pictures better if they know what she was going through.
” When he thought this all out the day before, on his walk, it felt lofty and righteous.
Now it sounds craven. Malcolm stares at him for a long moment.
“I think you mean it will pack the room and sell pictures, right? I mean, I get it, I know you want the show to succeed, but you don’t have the right to share someone’s possible psychological condition. What would her husband think?”
“Well, he’d hate it. He’s going to despise me even more than he already does,” Paul says, giving a bitter chuckle. He tells Malcolm about Tom’s hostility toward him and how he knows Tom would never, ever accept this theory as the truth. And how enraged he’ll be if it comes out.
“So it’s simple, then: leave it out, leave it alone,” Malcolm says, waving his hand as if giving an order.
“I don’t really want to,” Paul says, heating up. “I don’t think I can. And when I tell Jahan—the gallery owner—I know he’ll want me to use it. It’s—”
“Don’t tell him, then,” Malcolm says gruffly. He’s looking at Paul with real disgust now.
“I will tell him,” Paul says, defiant. “Besides, like I said, I feel I have a responsibility to tell the truth.”
Malcolm scoffs. “You don’t know the truth, Paul. I don’t either. It’s all just speculation. It’s not like you have solid evidence. What I’ve said doesn’t amount to a diagnosis.”
“I don’t need solid evidence—I don’t need your diagnosis, either. I’m not a cop or a judge. I’m the curator of an art show. My only concern is taking care of my show. Judith’s show. Like you said yourself.”
Malcolm swallows the last of his beer and stands. “Well, count me out. Forget what I said about dissociative disorder and trauma-induced hallucinations. And for god’s sake don’t quote me. I don’t want anything to do with this.”
With that, Malcolm leaves him, dropping a few bills on the bar.
He doesn’t shake Paul’s hand or wish him well or even say goodbye.
Paul leans heavily into the bar, feeling soiled and gravely alone.
He catches sight of himself in the mirror behind the rows of liquor bottles and winces at his asymmetrical features, the slight droop to his right eyelid, his beaky nose.
His own ugliness startles him, confuses him.
Hasn’t he always been handsome? He tries to smile, to make it right, and fails.
He looks queasy and his features stay unbalanced, malformed.
“I’ll have another,” he tells Kent. “A double this time.”