Chase: Roman

receiver into its cradle. Hard.
        
        The room on the eighth floor of the Kaine Building, in the centre of the city, did not resemble a psychiatrist's counselling chamber as the image had been established in countless films and books. For one thing, it was not small and intimate, not at all reminiscent of the womb. It was a pleasant, musty, rambling chamber, perhaps thirty feet by thirty-five, with a high and shadow-shrouded ceiling. Two of the walls contained bookshelves that ran from floor to ceiling; one wall was dressed with paintings depicting tranquil country scenes, while the fourth wall was nothing but white plaster and two large windows. The bookshelves contained only a handful of expensively bound volumes, along with close to three hundred glass dogs, none larger than the palm of a man's hand and most a good deal smaller than that. Collecting glass dogs was Dr Cauvel's hobby.
        Just as the room - with its battered desk, heavily padded easy chairs and foot-scarred coffee table - did not look its purpose, Dr Cauvel was as unlike any stereotypical image of a psychiatrist as was possible, whether by intent or nature Chase never knew for certain. He was a small man, rather athletic-looking, with hair that spilled over his collar in a manner that suggested carelessness rather than style. He always looked as if he needed a shave, and he always wore a blue suit cut a bit too long in the trousers and in need of a hot iron. It was possible to see him as a schoolteacher (English), a store manager (the local five-and-ten), or the minister of some esoteric fundamentalist Christian sect. But not a doctor. And not ever, ever a doctor of the mind.
        ‘Sit down, Ben,’ Cauvel said. ‘Like a drink?’
        ‘No, thank you,’ Chase said. There was no couch upon which to act out the familiar scene of psychiatry's myths. Chase sat in his favourite easy chair.
        Cauvel took the chair to Chase's right, sank back and propped his feet on the coffee table. He urged Chase to follow suit. When they were at least in the pose of relaxation, he said, ‘No preliminaries, then?’
        ‘Not today,’ Chase said.
        ‘You're tense, Ben.’
        ‘Yes.’ Chase tried to determine where he should begin, how the story should be best unfolded.
        Tell me about it?’
        Now, Chase clearly remembered the first time Judge had called him, but he could not bring himself to explain the situation to Cauvel. Even making this appointment had been an admission of his slowly dissolving hold on things: explaining it might be ruinous.
        ‘Can't do it?’
        ‘No.’
        ‘Want to play some word association?’
        Chase nodded, dreading the game they often used to loosen his tongue. He always seemed to expose more of himself than he wished in his answers. And Cauvel did not play it according to established rules, but with a swift and vicious tone that cut quickly to the heart of the matter. Still, he said, ‘Go on.’
        Cauvel said, ‘Mother.’
        ‘Dead.’
        ‘Father.’
        ‘Dead.’
        Cauvel had his fingers steepled before him, like a child playing the See the Church game. ‘Love.’
        ‘Woman.’
        ‘Love.’
        ‘Woman,’ Chase repeated.
        Cauvel did not look at him but stared studiously at the blue glass terrier on the bookshelf nearest him. He said, ‘Don't repeat yourself, please.’ When Chase had apologized (he had been surprised the first time Cauvel had expected an apology, for he had not thought such a guilt-touched relationship was desirable between a psychiatrist and his patient; with each enusing apology over the months, he was less surprised at anything Cauvel might suggest), the doctor said, ‘Love.’
        ‘Girl.’
        ‘That's an evasion.’
        ‘Everything is an evasion.’
        That observation appeared to surprise the doctor, but not enough to jar him out of the stubborn, wearying routine which he had begun. He said, after a slight pause, ‘Love.’
        Already Chase was perspiring, and he did not know why. He finally said, ‘Myself.’
        ‘Very good,’ Cauvel said. And now the interchange of words went faster, one barked close after the other, as if speed counted in the scoring. Cauvel said, ‘Hate.’
        ‘Army.’
        ‘Hate.’
        ‘Vietnam.’
        ‘Hate!’ Cauvel raised his voice, almost shouted it.
        ‘Guns.’
        ‘