Twisted

creative director of a Madison Avenue ad agency, Alex regularly clocked sixty- and seventy-hour weeks.
    Sue continued, “He’s a type-A personality through and through.”
    “I thought you had a secretary, Daddy. Doesn’t she do your typing?”
    Her parents laughed. “No, honey,” Sue said. “That means somebody who works real hard. Everything he does has to get him closer to his goal or he isn’t interested in it.” She rubbed Alex’s muscular back. “That’s why his ads are so good.”
    “The Cola Koala!” Jessica’s face lit up.
    As a surprise for the girl, Alex had just brought home some of the original art cells of the animated cartoon figure he’d created to hawk a product its manufacturer hoped would cut large chunks out of Pepsi’s and Coke’s market shares. The pictures of the cuddly creature hung prominently on her wall next to portraits of Cyclops and Jean Grey, of X-Men fame. Spider-Man too and, of course, the Power Rangers.
    “Fishing helps me relax,” Alex repeated, looking up from the sports section.
    “Oh.”
    Sue packed his lunch and filled a thermos of coffee.
    “Daddy?” Moody again, the girl stared at her spoon then let it sink down into the bowl.
    “What, Jessie-Bessie?”
    “Were you ever in a fight?”
    “A fight? Good grief, no.” He laughed. “Well, in high school I was. But not since then.”
    “Did you beat the guy up?”
    “In high school? Whupped the tar out of him. Patrick Briscoe. He stole my lunch money. I let himhave it. Left jab and a right hook. Technical knockout in three rounds.”
    She nodded, swallowed a herd, or school, of Ninja Turtles and set her spoon down again. “Could you beat up somebody now?”
    “I don’t believe in fighting. Adults don’t have to fight. They can talk out their disagreements.”
    “But what if somebody, like a robber, came after you? Could you knock him out?”
    “Look at these muscles. Is this Schwarzenegger, or what?” He pulled up the sleeves of his plaid Abercrombie hunting shirt and flexed. The girl lifted impressed eyebrows.
    So did Sue.
    Alex paid nearly two thousand dollars a year to belong to a midtown health club.
    “Honey . . .” Alex leaned forward and put his hand on the girl’s arm. “You know that the things they show on TV, like that movie you saw, they’re all made up. You can’t think real life is like that. People are basically good.”
    “I just wish you weren’t going today.”
    “Why today?”
    She looked outside. “The sun isn’t shining.”
    “Ah, but that’s the best time to go fishing. The fish can’t see me coming. Hey, pumpkin, tell you what . . . how ’bout if I bring you something?”
    Her face brightened. “Really?”
    “Yup. What would you like?”
    “I don’t know. Wait, yes, I do. Something for our collection. Like last time?”
    “You bet, sweetie. You got it.”
    Last year Alex had seen a counselor. He’d comeclose to a breakdown, struggling to juggle his roles as overworked executive, husband of a law school student, father and put-upon son (his own father, often drunk and always unruly, had been placed in an expensive mental hospital Alex could barely afford). The therapist had told him to do something purely for himself—a hobby or sport. At first he’d resisted the idea as a pointless frivolity but the doctor firmly warned that the relentless anxiety he felt would kill him within a few years if he didn’t do something to help himself relax.
    After considerable thought Alex had taken up freshwater fishing (which would get him away from the city) and then collecting (which he could pursue at home). Jessica, with no interest in the “yucky” sport of fishing, became his coconspirator in the collecting department. Alex would bring home the items and the girl would log them into the computer and mount or display the collectibles. Lately they’d been specializing in watches.
    This morning he asked his daughter, “Now, young lady, is it okay for me to go off and catch us dinner?”
    “I guess,” the little girl said, though she wrinkled her nose at the thought of actually eating fish. But Alex could see some relief in her blue eyes.
    When she’d wandered off to play on the computer Alex helped Sue with the dishes. “She’s fine,” he said. “We’ll just have to be more careful about what she watches. That’s the problem—mixing up make-believe and reality. . . . Hey, what is it?”
    For his grim-looking wife continued to dry what was