down, to be kind. He hoped he wouldn’t, because an apology would make
him apologize. He didn’t want to apologize yet. They owed it to themselves to
go to bed angry tonight. He wanted Daniel to suffer, even if it meant he would
suffer, too.
“We can continue this tomorrow,” said Daniel. “Or not, if that’s what you
want. I’m exhausted. I’ve had a long, confusing weekend.”
“And I didn’t?”
“Oh, please. I can’t open my mouth now without you arguing? Not
tonight, Zack. Don’t make me feel worse than I already feel.” He stood up
1 9 2
C h r i s t o p h e r B r a m
and set the beer glasses on the cheese board. “Uh, can you take Jocko out for
his walk? I’m already in my pajamas.”
Zack slowly raised his eyes and stared at Daniel.
“All right!” Daniel snapped. “I’ll put on my fucking shoes and coat if it’s
too much trouble for you!”
But Zack didn’t intend to look angry or righteous. He’d only been won-
dering what they would say to each other tomorrow. “Stop making a fuss. Of
course I’ll walk Jocko.”
“You’re the one making the fuss. If looks could kill.”
“That’s not what I was thinking. The look was all in your guilty imagina-
tion.”
“The hell it was. Good night.” He went up the wooden stairs, which
groaned and squealed beneath him.
“Good night,” Zack finally called out.
No kiss, no pet names, no apology, nothing but an agreement to walk the
dog. Which was something.
Now that Daniel was gone, Zack wanted to apologize for losing his tem-
per. It’s hard for a psychiatrist to remain angry. He’s too aware of the different
meanings of anger. Daniel was no doubt right: Zack’s look probably could’ve
killed. But why was he so angry? Because Daniel called him dull and safe. But
he was dull, he was safe. Were they really such terrible traits?
Jocko had followed Daniel upstairs but returned as soon as he understood
Daniel wasn’t going to walk him. He trotted over to the door, then trotted
back to Zack and sat squarely in front of him, watching with his melancholy
black button eyes.
“What’s the matter, Big Dog? Feel abandoned? Unloved?”
Zack capped his hand over the coarse, woolly topknot on Jocko’s head.
The compact skull felt so angular and fragile. Zack carefully scratched him
behind his ears. Jocko closed his eyes.
The dog was happy to hold his bladder a little longer if he was going to get
some affection. Maybe he was thinking: If the fun human won’t pay attention,
there’s always the dull human. Or maybe he thought nothing at all but was
lost in contented doggy stupor, stoned on animal chemistry.
E x i l e s i n A m e r i c a
1 9 3
Zack could only imagine what Jocko felt, of course. He didn’t have a clue
what a poodle’s emotional life might be. But could he really know what Daniel
felt? Or his patients, for that matter? He could only guess, only hope. Who
are you? What are you? What do you dream at night? How can I help you?
You think you know somebody, thought Zack, and you don’t. You think
you know yourself and you lose your way. People want to believe that love
makes them clairvoyant, that it enables them to see into the other person and
deep into themselves. But romantic love is an illusion, its oneness all mirrors,
a narcissism for two, nothing more. And maybe not just romantic love but do-
mestic love as well.
Jocko twisted his head out from under Zack’s hand and moved toward the
door, whining.
“Sorry, Big Dog. I didn’t forget.” Zack got up, put on his coat, and took
down the leash. “One of us has got to pee. I know it isn’t me.”
27
The next day was Monday, a hospital day, and Zack drove out to East-
ern State in the car. The weather was too cold and rainy for his bike—
he would stop bicycling altogether after Thanksgiving.
There were the usual routine crises at Building 2 that morning. Not one but
two different outpatients had been rehospitalized over the weekend. Both had
gone off their medication. The first, a man, stripped to his waist outdoors at
Monticello Shopping Center and began to rant about Jesus and lawyers; the
other, a woman, locked herself in a bathroom, cut off her hair, and then tried to
cut her wrists. There was also a teenage boy, brought in by the police on Satur-
day night, although it soon became clear to everyone, including the cops, that
the kid wasn’t psychotic, only the victim of some strong LSD. By then, however,
it was too late to uncommit him until Monday, when the visiting psychiatrist,
Zack, arrived. Zack had a long talk with the boy to set his mind at ease—he was