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Explosion

Mel Waldman

    “Doc, I watched him murder my mother. He threw a grenade at her. Couldn’t stop him. And she blew up into...a lot of ugly, bloody, freaky pieces. Couldn’t recognize her.”
    “How old were you?”
    “Twelve years old.”
    The old shrink gazed at Maria Torres, a 45-year-old Hispanic woman with dark brown eyes and long jet black hair. The little woman was about five feet tall and strikingly beautiful, with high cheek bones and an olive complexion. And yet a dark veil covered her wounded soul.
    A long silence separated the antediluvian analyst, who looked a little like Freud, and the middle-aged woman who sat a few feet away.
    “Why don’t you lie on the couch, Ms. Torres? It will speed up your analysis and progress.”
    “No thank you.”
    “It may be easier to talk about your past if you lie on the couch.”
    “No, doc. I need to see your face. You make me feel safe.”
    “But...”
    “I’ll tell you when I’m ready for the couch. Is that okay?”
    “Yes.”
    Dr. Richard Friedman was an expensive Manhattan psychiatrist and psychoanalyst. His office was on Central Park West near the American Museum of Natural History. But he saw some patients pro bono, especially poor minority patients who suffered from various traumas. Maria Torres was one of these patients. She suffered from Posttraumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), depression, and psychosis.
    Maria was referred to Dr. Friedman by a former colleague, a psychiatrist, who worked part time in a South Bronx mental health clinic. The patient was trapped in the past and neither her psychiatrist nor her therapist could help the woman. Indeed, she seemed to be regressing at the time of the referral, almost a year ago. But she had refused to be hospitalized. And since she was neither suicidal nor homicidal, according to the admitting psychiatrist, she could not be hospitalized against her will. Dr. Friedman took the case pro bono and in the past 11 months, the patient had responded positively to Dr. Friedman and the treatment.
    In the language of psychoanalysis, Maria Torres had a positive transference to Dr. Friedman. She had positive thoughts and feelings about the gentle doctor who reminded her of the good people in her past. Later in the treatment, she would develop negative thoughts and feelings about him. Then he would remind her of the bad people in her past. If she could verbalize her positive and negative thoughts and feelings, she would make significant progress. In the meantime, her progress was slow but steady.

    The little woman gazed quizzically at the paternal doctor and asked: “How did you survive?”
    The pale, emaciated 85-year-old psychiatrist/analyst, a Holocaust survivor who had been imprisoned in Auschwitz, whispered: “Have you been doing research on me, Ms. Torres?”
    “Of course, Dr. Friedman.”
    “Why?”
    “Because you took my case for free. And because...you believe in me. You believe...I can heal.”
    “Yes, I do.”
    “You crazy, crazy doctor.”
    “Why am I crazy?”
    “Because you believe in me. No one else does.”
    “Well maybe those people are the crazy ones.”
    “Thanks, doc. You feed me hope!”

    After his session with Maria Torres, who was the last patient of the night, Dr. Friedman sat quietly in his office for ten minutes and meditated. He took a few deep breaths, slowly inhaling, holding his breath for a few seconds, and then exhaling, symbolically ejecting the emotional toxins of the day from his mind and body. While listening to the horrific stories of his patients, he had experienced their dark emotions and had swallowed their emotional poisons. But at the end of the day, he needed his own psychological and spiritual catharsis in order to cleanse his soul.
    Later, he left his office and hailed a cab on Central Park West. “Brooklyn Heights,” he told the driver. “Number 2 Pierrepont Place.”
    On his trip to Brooklyn, he thought about his beloved wife Sarah who had passed away two years ago of breast cancer. After she died, he sold their home in Westchester. He bought a condo in Brooklyn Heights on Pierrepont Place. He could have bought a beautiful condo on Central Park West near his office. It would have been convenient, especially since he enjoyed strolling through Central Park. But his oldest son Jonathan owned a house in Manhattan Beach, not far from Brighton Beach and Coney Island. And he was a surgeon at Long Island College Hospital on Hicks Street near Atlantic Avenue. The lonely doctor wanted to be close to his son. And since Sarah had loved Brooklyn and used to visit the large borough as often as possible, especially Brooklyn Heights where husband and wife strolled on the Promenade overlooking the East River, he became a full-fledged Brooklynite.
    He did not go directly home. When he got out of the cab, he sauntered off to the Promenade. It was a sultry August night and he’d search for a bench to sit on near the river.

    Soon, he watched a golden sunset as couples rushed slowly along the Promenade. Nearby, the East River sparkled and glittered as the sun vanished beyond the distant Manhattan skyline. Wearing a black pinstripe suit, white shirt, and blue tie, the dapper shrink took in the glorious panoramic view. Yet shortly after the sun set, he dozed off, perhaps hypnotized by the dazzling river or tired after a very long day.
    When he awakened, he was slightly disoriented and thought he was still asleep. The Promenade was pitch-black and seemed deserted. But when his eyes adjusted to the night, he noticed a few people sitting nearby and strolling on the Promenade. It was still very hot-almost oppressively hot on this August night. Yet he did not leave. He sat upright and took in the surreal atmosphere surrounding and swaddling him.
    For a short while, he was content. Then suddenly, he felt someone’s eyes staring at the back of his head. He turned his head and peered through the darkness, but found no one gazing at him. Perhaps his imagination was getting the best of him. He sat quietly and inhaled the mysterious night. But soon, he felt the other’s presence again. He turned suddenly. Yet once again, he saw no one looking at him. This time he stood up, looked around, and scurried off. The phantasmagoric night had chased him away.

    Friday night he saw Maria Torres again. She was his last patient.
    “He murdered her...killed her with a grenade...”
    “Are you sure it was a grenade?”
    “Yeah, doc. My stepfather was a Viet Nam vet. Came back from the war...real crazy...and...I watched him kill her. But he didn’t kill me. No, not me.”
    “Why not?”
    “He needed me alive for other things. He used to beat Mama. Then late at night, he crept into my bed and raped me. When I told her, she didn’t believe me. Why didn’t Mama believe me?”
    The old man looked at the little woman with much compassion and sadness. But he didn’t speak.
    “Why didn’t Mama believe me?” she repeated. Then she drifted off for a little while.
    “I used to hide in my bedroom closet. Felt safe there in the pitch-black darkness. Hid there for hours, especially when I heard the furious sounds of violence in Mama’s bedroom.”
    “Is that where he threw the grenade?”
    “No. That night Mama was in the kitchen cooking dinner. He came home drunk and staggered into the living room. Consumed by rage, he screamed and cursed her. Then he retreated into Mama’s bedroom. I was in my bedroom. The door was ajar-open a few inches. In the distance, I saw Mama in the kitchen. Then he returned to the living room. He had something in his right hand. Couldn’t see what it was. He rushed into the kitchen and dragged Mama out into the living room. She tried to escape but he grabbed her long black hair and pulled her back into the room. They struggled and suddenly, he kissed her. It was a malicious kiss, I guess. Mama slapped him in his face and he threw her against the wall.
    “‘The devil’s waiting for you, whore! He’s waiting!’ And he took a few steps backward... It’s a blur. He threw it and...it landed in her lap. Guess she didn’t know what it was. She didn’t know. Didn’t try to get rid of it. She just waited. Then with frenzied eyes, he rushed toward me. Suddenly, Mama blew up!”

    Saturday morning, Dr. Friedman saw patients. Afterwards, he spent a few hours in Central Park. He enjoyed strolling through the Mall or Promenade. When he reached the Terrace on the Lake, he looked down and saw the familiar Bethesda Fountain. For a moment, he took in the sweeping, hypnotic view of the fountain, the Lake and the Ramble. Then, he left the upper part of the Terrace, descended the stairs, and slowly approached the fountain. Within seconds, he stood in front of the Bethesda Fountain and studied the Angel of the Waters, a spiritual work of art. The celestial sculpture was inspired by the Biblical story of the angel who came down from Heaven and gave the waters of Bethesda healing powers. Beneath the Angel of the Waters are the four cherubs of Temperance, Purity, Health and Peace.
    For a short while, he stood transfixed in front of the holy angel. But then his mind meandered and drifted off to a darker place. He was preoccupied with some of his patients. When Sarah was alive, he left his patients and their problems in the office. But since her death, he carried them in the dark caverns of his mind.
    He worried about Maria Torres. She had made progress. Recently, she passed her GED exam. She planned to go to Hunter College and major in English or social work. She dreamed of becoming a writer and/or social worker. Perhaps, she could do both. But she was still consumed by her past, traumatized by events that had occurred decades ago. Unfortunately, there were others like her.
    Robert Fox, a 30-year-old white male, had been physically abused by his alcoholic father who also beat the patient’s mother. Fox, a short, skinny young man did not look dangerous. Yet he had a violent temper. And recently, he had beaten his African-American wife. Because of his domestic violence, he was court-mandated to seek treatment and go for weekly psychotherapy. To control and channel his rage, he ran five miles a day and buried himself in his work. A workaholic, he worked long hours as an electrician and locked his demons in a dark secret room within his mind.
    Joseph Brown was a 25-year-old African-American combat vet who had just returned from Iraq. He had witnessed his buddies blown-up and suffered from PTSD. Brown was guilt-ridden and puzzled that he was still alive. A walking time bomb, he needed intensive therapy. Most days he suffered from flashbacks and re-experienced horrific events of war in the dark landscape of his psyche. His brain was fragmented and fried by the traumas of Iraq. In the war, he was a combat soldier and an explosives expert. But back home, he was a loose cannon.
    The old doctor wandered through this waste land of mine fields and then returned to the Angel of the Waters in the Bethesda Fountain in Central Park. Back from Dante’s Inferno, he looked up at the heavens and felt the soothing heat of the sprawling sun. Yet suddenly, he felt someone’s eyes staring at the back of his head. He turned his head and peered through the crowd. No one seemed to be looking at him. Perhaps his imagination was playing tricks on him. But soon, he felt the other’s presence again. He turned abruptly but found no one looking at him. He hurried off toward the Lake and back to Central Park West.

    Monday evening Maria Torres was his last patient.
    “The old man is gonna kill me, doc. I’m afraid. I see him in my dark dreams.”
    “Didn’t you tell me he was in prison?”
    “Yes. He got a life sentence. He’s upstate in Dannemora-New York’s Siberia. But...”
    The little woman looked quizzically at Dr. Friedman.
    “He got life, doc. But he’s up for parole.”
    “How can that be?”
    “Don’t know,” she said as her body shook violently. “Heard he’s been a model prisoner for years. And he’s been treated for PTSD. They say he might be cured.”
    Now, the old shrink gazed at his tiny patient with bewilderment and surprise.
    “It’s incredible, Ms. Torres. But still...he must appear before the Parole Board. Most likely, he won’t be granted parole.”
    “I am terrified, Dr. Friedman! If he is released, he will find and kill me!”
    Troubled by his fragile patient’s revelation and trapped with her in a Twilight Zone of despair and unreality, he waited for the session to end. Soon, the whirling silence encircled therapist and patient in a dark noose of terror.

    Tuesday morning Robert Fox was Dr. Friedman’s first patient. The emaciated young man, wearing faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and sneakers, was agitated and seemed disoriented. When he entered Dr. Friedman’s office, he did not sit down or lie on the couch. He paced back and forth.
    “Why don’t you lie on the couch, Mr. Fox?”
    “I can’t.”
    “Then please have a seat.”
    Reluctantly, the angry man, a seething cauldron of fury, sat down. His frenzied eyes darted back and forth across the room, finally focusing on the doctor.
    “Can’t sleep at night. Can you give me something to sleep?”
    “Perhaps.”
    “Doc, I have the same dream every night. It’s killing me.”
    “Tell me about the dream.”
    “My wife Diana and I are arguing. The argument escalates and soon...we’re shouting and cursing each other. In the heat of this altercation, I threaten her. ‘Stop or I’ll kill you!’ Diana laughs maniacally. She’s a beautiful black woman with large brown eyes and full-bodied with large succulent breasts and an ass to kill for. But when she laughs at me, I see stars and...I become a raging bull. Well...she says something. Can’t recall...maybe it’s: ‘You’re not my Savior! You’re just a drunk like your father and a wife-beater!’ Doc, it happens real fast. Suddenly, I got this big knife in my right hand and...I lunge at Diana. Cut her real bad. Then I hear this explosion...a bomb goes off...it’s the end of the world...I wake up trembling and shaking, in shock and disbelief.”
    After a brief silence, the old shrink asks: “Do you have any conscious thoughts of killing your wife?”
    “Of course not!”
    “Not even passing thoughts?”
    “No. Not even one fleeting thought. Diana is my Queen-my life!”
    “But you’re mandated to come here because you beat her.”
    “Yes, I lost control. It happened.”
    “So I’ll ask you one more time. Do you have any thoughts-perhaps plans to hurt or kill your wife?”
    “No! Absolutely not! And it didn’t happen that way. I lost control. We had a heated argument and...my mind snapped. Maybe I blacked out. Don’t know.”
    “No thoughts-no plans to kill her?”
    “None.”
    “But what about your impulsive rage?”
    “That’s why I’m here-to learn how to control my rage.”
    “Yes, that’s why you’re here. Now, just a few more questions.”
    “Shoot, doc.”
    “Do you hear voices in your head?”
    “No.”
    “Do you see things that seem real but are in fact imaginary?”
    “No.”
    “Do people wish to harm you?”
    “No. It’s a beautiful world.”
    “Do you have special talents-abilities?”
    “Yes.”
    “Tell me, please, who you really are and what you expect to accomplish. And what is your real name?”
    “I believe God sent me here to do great things on this planet. I’m a flawed man, I know. But the real me...don’t laugh, doc. I believe I am The Savior.”
    “Which Savior?”
    “Jesus Christ, doc. I am the Savior, Jesus Christ, and the Son of God! I have much love to offer mankind. Resurrected as an imperfect man, I must go through a tortured metamorphosis-shed my rage, forgive my father, and reveal the truth to the world.”
    Dr. Friedman gazed quizzically at his patient and announced: “I’ll give you some pills to help you sleep.”
    “Ambien?”
    “No. Something stronger. Risperdal 4 mg. at night before going to sleep.”
    “Are you sure, doc?”
    “Absolutely!”

    Wednesday night Joseph Brown was Dr. Friedman’s last patient. The muscular young man, who looked like a weight lifter with his bulging muscles, stood about 5-feet-5 inches tall. He wore a white T-shirt with the words War on Terrorism imprinted in the center. His head was shaved and he had tattoos on his arms and neck. On his left and right arms, he had tattoos of the phoenix and the American flag. On his neck, he had a small tattoo of a bald eagle. He wore blue shorts, white Reebok sneakers, and a khaki backpack.
    “What’s up, doc?”
    “That’s my line.”
    Grinning sardonically, Brown sat down, stared at Dr. Friedman, and announced: “Nothing’s changed. The war continues. And it’s still in my head.”
    The doctor was silent.
    “Yeah, I’m not here, doc. I’m back in Iraq. Yeah. I’m in a very dark place.”
    The old man still did not speak.
    “Do you hear that, doc?”
    “What?”
    “I hear explosions. Don’t you?”
    “No.”
    “My buddies are dead. Yet I’m still alive.”
    Joseph Brown drifted off, his frenzied eyes leaping across the room in search of a lost treasure, perhaps, and vanishing in a vast wilderness of lost souls. When he returned, he looked quizzically at the doctor and mumbled: “Why do you want to kill me?”
    “What did I do to give you that impression?”
    “Nothing, doc. But your harsh voice...sounds like the frightening voice of the enemy and your face...it’s a dark mask hiding an alien, brutal image...and I hear your eerie voice and see your strangely familiar face and smell the foul odors of death...coming from your body...I hear the distant explosions again and again...my brain is on fire and shattered...there’s nothing left of me, doc, nothing!”
    “Are you taking your meds?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Any side effects?”
    “None. But the pills don’t work.”
    “It takes time. Still, I’ll increase the doses and add another medication.”
    “Okay, doc,” he whispered as he drifted off once more, a dwindling figure in a vast universe of Hell.

    Thursday morning Dr. Friedman made a long distance call. He was puzzled and surprised by the information he received. He stored these enigmatic facts in the postern of his mind and thought about having dinner tonight with his son Jonathan. They’d eat at an old fashioned diner on Montague Street. Afterwards, he would sit alone or with his son on the Promenade and enjoy the magnificent sunset.

    Before hailing a cab to Brooklyn Heights, Dr. Friedman picked up late editions of The New York Times and Post. He leafed through the pages and found a short article that interested him. There had been an explosion in a building on the Grand Concourse in the Bronx. Thus far, only one person was confirmed dead. The cause of the explosion was still unknown. In the cab, he finished reading the article. Then he closed his eyes and rested.

    After dinner, Father and son sat on a bench on the Promenade and watched a breathtaking sunset. Later, Jonathan left his father behind to enjoy the August night. The old shrink swallowed the beautiful view, drinking the sweet red wine of nature. Yet once again, he fell asleep. When he awakened, the Promenade was pitch-black. But still, he felt the other’s presence. Even before his eyes adjusted to the night, the other moved closer and sat next to the doctor.
    “It’s you! Have you been following me the past few nights?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why?”
    “I feel safe when I’m close to you. But ...”
    “Yes?”
    “Something’s different. Can’t explain.”
    Silently, they looked at each other through the darkness, bewildered and surprised by the inexplicable distance between them, although their bodies almost touched. Then the lonely doctor interrupted the silence and said: “I made a long distance call today.”
    “Oh?”
    “To a prison upstate.”
    “Yes?”
    “I believe you told me where he was during one of our sessions.”
    “Perhaps. I don’t recall.”
    “Described the crime to the warden. And once he verified who I was, he informed me that a prisoner named Jose Torres, a Viet Nam vet, died in prison ten years ago. He had, indeed, murdered his wife by blowing her up with a grenade. The only witness was the woman’s daughter. It was an unforgettable crime.”
    “Of course it was.”
    “I also asked him if the prisoner had any visitors during his incarceration. Seems his son Frank Torres used to visit him.”
    “Guess even murderers are loved.”
    “Yes, that seems to be the case. Human nature is certainly mysterious.”
    “It is.”
    “And coincidentally, I read an article in today’s paper about an explosion in a building on the Grand Concourse in the Bronx. A man named Frank Torres died in the explosion. Well, a famous analyst named Carl Jung said there are meaningful coincidences in life. He labeled this phenomenon synchronicity. I suppose it could have been a meaningful coincidence or...something else.”
    “What else, doc?”
    “Revenge-for the sins of the father!”
    “Dr. Friedman, even if I wanted revenge, I know nothing about explosives or other methods of causing an explosion. My scientific ignorance is proof of my innocence.”
    “Proof only that you did not murder him alone. You had help. I imagine you hooked up with one of my other patients. You see, I have some very gifted patients, including you.”
    “Thank you, doctor. You’re very kind. But not so bright. If I had help, I would have used more than one man. Perhaps, one man to break into his basement apartment while he was away and screw up the wiring-setting the stage for a fire or explosion. A second man would have followed him home, rung his doorbell, and forced his way in. I would have chosen a very strong and violent man to beat him up but not kill him, making sure he was semiconscious. This man might have been an explosives expert too, with access to the black market and illegal weapons like a grenade. Perhaps, in the very beginning I would have screwed both men to make them fall in love with me. Then I would have told them that Frank Torres raped me. Men are such fools. They think with their cocks. Like young boys, they pretend to be heroes.”
    “Did Frank Torres rape you too?”
    “Yes. His father told him about me. And he stalked me, broke into my apartment, and raped me in my own bed. He laughed in my face and said he’d be back. Any time. Any day.”
    “Did he return?”
    “Several times. He stopped about a year ago. But a few weeks ago, he called me. Said he’d be back any day. The prick laughed uncontrollably over the phone and then hung up.”
    “Why didn’t you go to the police?”
    “The cops are worse than the perverts. They blame the victim. Some of them are more twisted than these freaks. No way, Jose.”
    A thick silence separated them. And they were covered by a veil of darkness and despair. The weary doctor waited for Maria to speak.
    “Frank Torres got what he deserved. Hypothetically, if I had help, the second man would have started a few fires near the faulty wiring and thrown the grenade at Frank Torres. Before leaping to safety, he would have seen the terror in the pervert’s eyes.”
    Abruptly, the troubled woman stood up. Clutching a black pocketbook, she said: “I used to feel safe in your presence. Now...you remind me of him.”
    “Who?”
    “Jose.”
    “In what way?”
    “He was an old man too. Pretended to love my mother and me. But we know what he wanted-what you want.”
    “Ms. Torres, I am your doctor!”
    “And he was my stepfather. Yet he raped me-stole my body. And you raped my mind! Goodbye, Dr. Friedman.”
    Before he could speak, she scurried off into the pitch-black night. He sat quietly in the darkness trying to comprehend the madness and evil that had confronted him. A Holocaust survivor, he was eerily familiar with evil. Yet Maria’s confessions and hypothetical story of revenge and murder cut a deep hole in his soul. He closed his eyes and prayed.
    Later, when he felt soothed by his prayers, it happened. Out of the darkness, she leaped and stabbed him once in the chest with a sleek knife. She tasted his blood and sauntered off, leaving him behind to die.
    Perhaps, someone would discover his bloody body and call 911 in time. It was possible but improbable. And she could always count on people to look the other way. That’s what decent folks did, you see. Even at or just before sunrise when the joggers were out, she could count on the inherent evil in men, often hidden but ready to explode at any time.
    In the distance, she slithered into the night, smiling sardonically, as she listened to the repetitive explosions in the waste land of her mind-imagining the final terrifying moments in the life of Frank Torres, a genetic freak who paid the ultimate price for the sins of his father.

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