Strange Highways

bookshelves contained a handful of expensively bound volumes - and perhaps three hundred glass dogs, none larger than the palm of a man's hand and most a good deal smaller. Collecting glass dogs was Dr. Fauvel's hobby.
     Just as the decor of the room - battered desk, heavily padded armchairs, foot-scarred coffee table - didn't match its function, Dr. Fauvel was unlike any stereotypical image of a psychiatrist, whether by intent or by nature. He was a small but solidly built man, athletic-looking, with hair that spilled over his collar in a manner that suggested carelessness rather than style. He always always wore a blue suit cut too long in the trousers and in need of a hot iron.
     "Sit down, Ben," Fauvel said. "Like something to drink - coffee, tea, a Coke?"
     "No, thank you," Chase said.
     No couch was provided. The doctor did not believe in pampering his patients. Chase sat in an armchair.
     Fauvel settled into the chair to Chase's right and propped his feet on the coffee table. He urged Chase to follow suit. When they were in a pose of relaxation, he said, "No preliminaries, then?"
     "Not today," Chase said.
     "You're tense, Ben."
     "Yes."
     "Something's happened."
     "Yes."
     "But that's life. Something always happens. We don't live in stasis, frozen in amber."
     "This is more than the usual something," Chase said.
     "Tell me about it."
     Chase was silent.
     "You came here to tell me, didn't you?" Fauvel urged.
"Yeah. But.... talking about a problem sometimes makes it worse." "That's never true."
"Maybe not for you."
"Not for anyone."
     "To talk about it, I have to think about it, and thinking about it makes me nervous. I like things calm. Still and calm."
     "Want to play some word association?"
     Chase hesitated, then nodded, dreading the game that they often used to loosen his tongue. He frequently exposed more of himself in his answers than he wished to reveal. And Fauvel did not play the game according to established rules, but with a swift and vicious directness that cut to the heart of the matter. Nevertheless, Chase said, "Go on."
     Fauvel said, "Mother."
     "Dead."
     "Father."
     "Dead."
     Fauvel steepled his fingers as if he were a child playing the see-the-church game. "Love."
     "Woman."
     "Love."
     "Woman," Chase repeated.
     Fauvel did not look at him but stared studiously at the blue glass terrier on the bookshelf nearest him. "Don't repeat yourself, please."
     Chase apologized, aware that it was expected. The first time that Fauvel had expected an apology in these circumstances, Chase had been surprised. They were therapist and patient, after all, and it seemed odd for the therapist to foster a dependent relationship in which the patient was encouraged to feel guilty for evasive answers. Session by session, however, he was less surprised at anything that Fauvel might suggest.
The doctor again said, "Love."
     "Woman."
     "Love. "
     "Woman."
     "I asked you not to repeat yourself."
     "I'm not a latent homosexual, if that's what you're after."
     Fauvel said, "But the simple 'woman' is 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 that he had begun. "Yes, everything is an evasion. But in this case it's an egregious evasion, because there is no woman. You won't allow one into your life. So, more honesty, if you will. Love."
     Already Chase was perspiring, and he did not know why.
     "Love," Fauvel insisted.
     "Is a many splendored thing."
     "Unacceptable childishness."
     "Sorry."
     "Love."
     Chase finally said, "Myself."
     "But that's a lie, isn't it?"
     "Yes."
     "Because you don't love yourself "
     "No."
     "Very good," Fauvel said. Now the interchange of words went faster, one barked close after the other, as if speed counted in the scoring. Fauvel said, "Hate."
     "You."
     "Funny."
     "Thanks."
     "Hate."
     "Self-destructive."
     "Another evasion. Hate."
     "Army."
     "Hate."
     "Vietnam."
     "Hate."
     "Guns."
      "Hate."