“What did you do?”
Christopher shrugged. “I’d signed myself up for three months. Bennis had paid for three months. And I did have a problem with gambling. I decided to give it a shot. One day I staged a big conversion scene in group. After that I just made stuff up.”
“Horror stories, you mean?”
“Right. I was good at it too. I was so good at it, I became a kind of institutional wonder story. I got trotted out for all the visiting dignitaries. So, when Paul Hazzard himself showed up in person, I got trotted out then too.”
Linda Melajian was back with the food. Gregor accepted his absently and saw that Christopher was paying no attention to his omelet at all. Gregor finished off the coffeepot and handed it back to Linda.
“When you say ‘trotted out,’ what do you mean?”
“We’d have special therapy sections with the participants picked in advance. Not the usual groups. There were a bunch of us who were considered to be good for the institution’s image.”
“And there was one of these special therapy sessions when Paul Hazzard visited?”
“Right. The thing is, Hazzard visited for quite a long time, at least a week, maybe longer. He didn’t just come in and out for one session. And he didn’t come alone. He had one of his daughters with him.”
“Which one?”
“Alice?” Christopher asked. “Does that sound right? Thin blond woman who eats a lot.”
“Alyssa.”
“Is that it? Whatever. She was there, but she wasn’t allowed to sit in on our group sessions. So when Hazzard first met Sylvia Charlow, his daughter wasn’t there.”
“Who was Sylvia Charlow?”
“Woman in our group. Older woman, about sixty-five or so. Fairly well preserved, with all that means. She was in Vermont with one of those codependency things. You know. An addiction to addictions. I’ve never been entirely sure what they mean by it all.”
“Neither have I.”
“With Sylvia, her value to the institution was that she talked so well about herself,” Christopher said. “She was really eloquent. I kept wondering why she didn’t give up therapy and write a woman’s novel. She had such a command of prose. When Paul Hazzard met her he was enchanted, and we could all see it. And sure enough, when Group was over he took her aside.”
“Aren’t there ethical considerations in a case like that?” Gregor asked. “I keep hearing things about Paul Hazzard. They all seem to be—about women.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. There are ethical considerations, Gregor, but for God’s sake. Nobody pays attention to them. Paul Hazzard sure as hell never did. I saw him later that same evening, after dinner, with Sylvia in tow. They were leaving the main building and going for a walk on the grounds.”
“By themselves?”
“Most definitely by themselves. I saw them the next day too. He had her stuffed into a corner of the main lounge away from everybody else. He was sitting so close to her, his knees were digging into her thighs. She had to sit sideways to accommodate him. And he kept leaning over her. He reminded me of a vulture.”
“I think he was one.”
“I think he was too,” Christopher agreed. “The thing is, this little dance went on for a couple of days, and then suddenly Paul Hazzard’s daughter seemed to be aware of it. She was furious. I mean really furious. Every time she saw them together, even if they were just standing side by side in the middle of a crowd of people, she would come over and bust them up. Sylvia wasn’t taking this very well. Paul Hazzard was ready to kick somebody. And all that interference wasn’t making Alyssa Hazzard any happier. She got madder and madder and madder by the day.”
“I think therapy sounds like a wonderful thing,” Gregor said blandly. “I thought the point of all this nonsense was to get your life under control. Or at least to get your emotions under control.”
“Never mention control to anyone in recovery,” Christopher said. “A need for control is a sign of codependency. Maybe they’ve got a point. Maybe I was watching three completely noncodependent people. They were certainly out of control. I think Sylvia was thrilled with the trouble she was causing. She was that kind of woman. Paul Hazzard was after her anytime his daughter’s back was turned. The daughter was getting more and more frenzied. Then, just before lunch one day, Paul Hazzard and Sylvia Charlow disappeared. Poof. One minute they were with us. The next minute they were gone. A minute and a half later, Alyssa showed up to eat. She looked all around the dining room and didn’t find either one of them. She looked all around the dining room again. Then she said, ‘That goddamned shithead’ in a very loud voice and went racing out again. At which point, of course, we all did the inevitable.”