The Perigee — Llama in the Afternoon

I still don’t know if I would have pulled the trigger.

I stare out the window watching a sullied gold leaf searching for a path to the ground. It swirls, tumbles, and lifts out of sight beyond the green plaster rim of the window. A few minutes later, it enters my view again, this time from a different angle; but again loses its battle with the rising current determining its flight path.

Like me, I think. Disconnected from my tree, tossed about, carried aloft by circumstances beyond my control. Set adrift by unknown currents. A dingy old leaf, a tired body — both pitching in the wind.

The room is plain. The bed is standard hospital issue, mattress bound tight as a drum with starched sheets. For guests, there’s a puke green plastic and metal chair — just like the one in my college dormitory room. Another utility chair sits by the door. A metal bedside table holds a box of tissues, a water glass with a flexible plastic straw, hand lotion, a 1940’s desk light, and a paperback book with a red cover. A matching locker holds my blue suit, red and blue striped tie, knee high socks, black shoes, white button down shirt and balled up dirty underwear. When I checked the pockets in the suit this morning, there were no car keys, no pocketknife, no money, no billfold — just my dirty handkerchief. At first, I thought someone had stolen everything. After all, this is New York City. But, the nurses told me they’d stored everything away for me — so they would be safe. I pondered the word, “they.” The nurses probably meant to say, “So you’ll be safe.”

The tan tiled floor shines like glass. Some guy with a big machine has polished it three times since I got here yesterday afternoon. This place is clean if nothing else.

I’m in the cardiac ward of St. Luke’s Hospital — not the psychiatric ward as I expected. I guess Dr. Bernstein is trying to protect me from the stigma of having “psychiatric patient” on my medical records. Nice guy. Glad he thought of that. I know someone called my manager yesterday to say I was sick, but I don’t think anyone said why.

“Hello, Grant. How are you feeling today?” Dr. Bernstein enters the room.

“Better. A bit calmer than yesterday,” I reply, turning to face him.

He still reeks of pipe tobacco even in this no-smoking zone. He’s taller and balder than I remember from yesterday. He wears the same ratty Harris Tweed coat, rumpled khaki pants, and unpolished loafers. His ironed and starched button-down shirt is the only evidence he didn’t sleep in his clothes. I smile to myself, thinking he looks like something out of a Cuckoo’s Nest, although in that case, he’d be wearing a white coat. But, this is no joke. I’m wondering what’s going to happen next, but, strangely, don’t feel very anxious about it. They gave me some gray pills last night and this morning; that probably took the edge off my fears.

“Do you feel like talking today?” he asks softly.

“I don’t know, I’m pretty groggy.”

“That’s understandable. You’ve been through a lot,” he says, as if trying to be sympathetic.

How does he know what I’ve been through? Especially when I’m not even sure. And I’m not sure I want to talk — to open up my feelings for the world to see — to show them what an idiot I am.

“I’m not sure I feel like talking,” I say, knowing he’d stick around for fifty minutes, whether I talk or not. “I was pretty confused when they brought me here yesterday.”

“Yes, I know. That’s why I suggested we wait until today to talk.”

His eyes watch me intensely, as if trying to read my mind. Psychiatrists always take note of a patients “affect.” He’s probably trying to measure mine, although I’m not exactly sure what an affect is.

“What shall we talk about?” I say, struggling to sound cooperative.

“Anything that you want to?”

“I don’t know where to start.”

My mind races, but I can’t get it all together. Everything seems so jumbled up. It’s like I’ve been rolling down a long hill for twenty years and just tumbled into this place. How can I talk about yesterday or last week without talking about my whole life? Where can I start? How can I ever explain?

Sensing my indecision, Dr. Bernstein says, “Why don’t you tell me what happened on Saturday.”

I…I’m not sure I know what happened on Saturday. I mostly remember not being able to get on the plane yesterday.”

“Start there if you want.”

He sits in the visitor’s chair and shuffles to get comfortable. He digs in his coat pocket, apparently looking for his pipe, then abruptly jerks the hand away as if remembering where he is. From my perch on the high bed, I can see the overhead light reflecting off his head. His brown eyes are intense, but his expression shows no emotion. I expect to see judgement, want to see compassion, but see only a blank face. Can I trust the person behind such a face? Yet, I sure God need to talk to someone — anyone — who can help me untangle the contorted web of my life.

My back feels cold and I’m suddenly aware of my nakedness-I pull at the hospital gown to make sure everything is covered and adjust the sheet around my legs and bottom.

“Well…I was going on a business trip to Boca Raton. Took a taxi to the airport, picked up a paper, drank a cup of coffee. After a while I started shaking, crying, couldn’t think straight — just froze. Couldn’t get on the plane. Couldn’t do anything. I must have sat there for an hour trying to get myself together. Then I found my way to the phone, called Polly and she brought me to you.

“What were you thinking?” he asked.

“Just a bunch of confusing stuff. How my life is a mess. Feeling all alone. Feeling trapped. A lot of crazy thoughts running around in my head.

“What happened before yesterday?”

“You mean Sunday…or Saturday?”

“Let’s start with Saturday, if you want.

I feel as if he’s thrown a black blanket over my head. I want to forget Saturday — like it never happened. I tried to ignore it all day Sunday. Got up on Monday like it was any other work day, put on my conservative garb and headed to the airport — the corporate manager ready to rock and roll.

He watches me hesitating and wondering what to say, but he says nothing. Just lets me stew in my thoughts.

I start speaking guardedly, searching for words, not wanting to tell him the whole story. But I bet Polly has already told him what happened. I can tell him the events, but can I tell him the real story. Especially since I don’t understand the real story. Would I have gone through with it? Did some invisible hand reach down and save me?

“It was like any other Saturday. Slept late. After commuting to New York all week I’m always ready for a long sleep. I got up around ten, made some expresso, ate some toast with strawberry jam.”

I pause searching for some reaction. Even now I can smell the expresso. The odor seems like an oasis of tranquility in a raging sandstorm.

“Uh-huh,” he grunts.

“Polly was working in the study when I came downstairs — probably on a script for one of this week’s shows. After breakfast, I went to her office, leaned around the door, said hello, but only got a grumble in response. So, I went to the living room to read. Got pretty absorbed in Oriana Fallaci’s, “A Man.”

About an hour later, Polly came out and said something. Startled, I looked up from the book. She had a glass of Johnny Walker in her hand. Oh crap, I thought. Here we go again.

I said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t understand you. I was absorbed in my book.’

Then she started shouting…screeching.

‘Don’t you ever listen to me?’

‘What’s wrong with you? I just didn’t understand.’

‘You sure didn’t,’ she said, storming out of the living room and back into her office. The slamming door shook the walls of the old house, sending her favorite fox-hunting scene crashing to the floor.

I’ve never known how to deal with her tantrums, so I try to ignore them.”

“How did you feel?” asks Dr. Bernstein.

“Attacked. Unloved. Alone. Angry.”

“Angry at whom?”

“At her, of course. Yet…Yet…I was also angry at myself for getting involved with her. For being so damned stupid.”

I rush ahead with the story before he can ask me to expand.

“I tried to read the book, but I couldn’t focus on the quivering pages. I was shaking like a leaf. I threw down the book and left the room.”

Dr. Bernstein interrupted. “How did you feel? ”

“What do you mean, how did I feel? I just told you.”

“Well tell me again.”

“Well, I felt angry, trapped…maybe guilty for ever getting into that situation.”

“What situation?”

“Getting married to her,” I say in a low voice. “Can I go on with the story?”

“Sure,” He says.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have said that, because I can’t remember what happened next. I don’t know what I did after the book. I can’t even remember what I had for lunch.”

“What do you remember?”

“Just walking down toward the pond.”

“Want to continue there?”

“OK…It was a cool day, so I put on my jacket, went out the back door and down the hill. I’d been to the pond before, but never past it. I headed straight for some swampy ground on the other side. I jumped from clod to clod to keep from getting my feet wet. It must have taken me five or ten minutes to work my way across the swamp and toward the woods.”

“Go on.”

“On the other side, I stopped to look back across the pond to the house. The place is about a hundred years old so the roof was starting to sag in the middle and the chimney leaned over like an old man with arthritis. The roof was so moldy I couldn’t tell if the original color was green or not. I thought, the house looks peaceful, but to me it feels like a prison.”

“Did Polly know you’d gone out?” he asks.

“Polly wasn’t in sight. She must have still been working in the office. At least I was away from her moods and shouting.

“And then.”

“I turned and walked toward the woods. There were no paths, so I tried to work my way through blackberry bushes, wild roses, and poison ivy. Got my hands scratched and bloodied. I gave up and decided to sit down next to an old, gnarled oak tree.

The ground was moist and soft…and so cold it made me shiver. Yet, I wasn’t sure the cold caused the shiver or something else.”

“What else?” he asks.

“I felt nervous and shaky, but the smell of mildewed leaves made me think of hikes in the Blue Ridge, near where I grew up.

“Sounds peaceful.”

“Sure, it was a tranquil scene, but my stomach was in knots…and felt like I was choking — like some invisible hand was grabbing my throat. I was thinking, how the hell did I get into this mess? Polly does nothing now but drink and shout. Where can I go? I have no money. Not one of my friends had the guts to call me after I married Polly. My children won’t even talk to me, for God’s sake. Who can I talk to? Who gives a damn?”

I’m talking faster now, trying to get to the end of the story.

“Then, a cold breeze shook the limbs of the big tree, sprinkling acorns all around me. A squirrel inched toward one of the acorns, but quickly ran away when he realized that I was a living person. How wrong he was.

I reached into my jacket pocket and felt the Llama. It had been close to my body for almost an hour, but the steel was cold. The serrated handle felt rough — hostile to my hand. Irritating. Unfriendly.

I bought the 9mm Spanish automatic in Colorado to protect myself while camping alone in the mountains, but luckily, never had the occasion to use it. The Llama is like a Colt 45, only smaller. I got a sharpshooter medal in the Army with the 45 so I know how to shoot.

From my other pocket, I pulled out the clip, fully stocked with eight new shells left over from Colorado. I snapped it into place, pulled back the slide inserting the first round into the chamber.”

I look at Dr. Bernstein, watching for a reaction. He stares, only stares. No surprise, no concern. Like he’s heard this story before. I rush to continue, almost like I’m telling a story about someone else.

“I put the pistol on my lap and looked around. There was a soft bed of leaves about ten steps in every direction. Another huge oak stood about twenty feet in front of me. I leaned my head back against my tree while my thoughts raced like a rat in a maze.

I lifted the Llama and pointed it at the oak. I aimed at a burl and squeezed the trigger. Pow! My ears rang with the crack. A small hole appeared in the head-sized burl. A good clean shot.

I looked at the tiny wisp of blue smoke wiggling from the barrel of the Llama. Oh crap, the Llama jammed! The slide is halfway back, not forward in the firing position and the shell casing wedged in the open chamber so tight that a second shot was impossible. I tried to pull the brass casing out with my fingers, but yikes! It was too hot to handle. For what seemed like ten minutes, I waited for it to cool. This damn, cheap Spanish pistol!

Even when it cooled, I couldn’t get the casing out, so I opened my pocket knife to pry it loose. That worked and I loaded another round.

Then, I heard footsteps.

‘What are you doing?’ Polly said, calmly.

‘I’m trying to fix this pistol,’ I blurted.

She eased the pistol from my hand and heaved it into the pond.

She paused, staring at me with intense, questioning eyes.

‘Come on. Let’s have some coffee,’ she said, taking my arm.

And that was that.”

“What do you mean?” Dr. Bernstein asks.

“The incident was over,” I say.

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Tell me. How do you feel now?” Dr. Bernstein asks.

“Sort of washed out. Tired. Scared. Tiny. Insignificant. But I just want to sleep.

“Think you can rest quietly tonight?

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Good, then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Sure,” I say.

As the doctor leaves the room, I turn to look for another falling leaf outside the window.