Programmed for Peril

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    CHARLOTTE NEVER THOUGHT SHE WOULD GO TO A priest for advice. Normally asking Andrew, Anna, and Michael their opinions gave her all the support she needed. The problem was they all liked and were impressed by her new friend. As she had been at first—and still was in so many ways. Small wonder she was confused and uneasy. If he hadn’t churned up the pool of her emotions so completely, she might have been able to move back to that distance from which her normally good judgment could take hold. From that safe place Charlotte Wigman, gynecologist, dispensed sage scientific wisdom affecting southern California’s women’s reproductive lives. But her new friend had made too much of an impact on her to allow the quick summoning of her professional detachment.
    So she had picked Father Juan. In L.A. priests were in shorter supply than ever, but she had chosen as well as circumstances allowed, studying the younger priests who had said Mass in the churches scattered across her sprawling suburb. She chose the one who seemed the most simpático. Her hesitant phone call resulted in his setting up an appointment. When she arrived he came to the door and invited her into the courtyard of the mission-style parish house. There, a housekeeper brought strong coffee in tiny cups. Charlotte gushed with small talk, despite herself. Who knew how long she might have run on if he hadn’t folded his squarish hands low on his chest and asked, “How can I help you, Dr. Wigman?”
    She found herself talking first about her new friend’s good points—his intelligence first, of course. How much he knew! He was a genius! He had outread and outstudied her in every area and discipline they had talked about during the three months they had dated. Only in medicine was she better informed—and not by all that much. His knowledge of anatomy, for example, was exceptional. And she had called herself educated. She knew who Chaucer was, how the pyramids were built, the significance of carbon chains, the phyla of Earth’s creatures, the art of Klimt and Klee, the music of Pergolesi and Parker.... Yet when she compared what she knew with the vast resources of her new friend’s mind, it was ant to elephant, for sure. As yet she had been too proud to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.
    Into this outpouring Father Juan intruded as well. “In that I see no difficulty, doctor. Possibly you could praise the man less. And come to his shortcomings.” The priest wore steel-rimmed glasses. He slid them down the bridge of his nose and peered at her over their silvery curves. His smile was encouraging, almost teasing. Charlotte picked up her cup, then put it down. She realized she was fidgeting. “He wants to dominate me—us,” she blurted. “I mean my little girl, too. Suzi. She’s six.”
    The priest frowned. “Let’s talk about the child first. In what way does he do this?”
    Charlotte nodded eagerly. She could easily discuss this part of her problem. “He encourages her musically any way he can. He bought her different instruments. And music. He makes her practice whether she wants to or not. He insists that she play. But...” She hesitated. She was in danger of sounding odd.
    Father Juan leaned forward. “Yes?”
    “It’s not going all that well. Suzi starts crying and says she’s trying, but. .
    “You make no effort to rescue your daughter?” the priest
    said.
    “You mean... try to stop him?”
    The priest nodded.
    “Father, you don’t stop that man. You just wait till he’s finished.”
    That had led her into the heart of the matter. She had contrasted him with her ex for starters. Leonard the Lazy, King of the Couch Crullers, had been quick to spend her money, slow to return to his days as a super salesman. He suffered in comparison to her new friend, who was a driver and achiever. Much impressed with her new man at first, she had lately come to see the compulsion in his behavior, the wobbling of his psyche’s flywheel. Similarly his initial generosity—boxes and bundles from Rodeo Drive—gave way to gifts of the tight-fitting outfits that he insisted she wear when they were together. Modeling one for him at his request, she watched him stalk around her like an antebellum buyer at a New Orleans slave market. “Put your palms on your rear,” he ordered. When she did he only grunted. She felt she had somehow displeased him. When he said nothing she asked, “Is it all right on me, sweet?”
    “You need a