LITMIR.BIZ

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book on prophecy. Sessions follow a scripted course, beginning with an ambiguous conversation. Is it therapy? Metaphysical counseling? A friendly chat, or something else? She loves Christ and knows the Bible, so their conversations are lively.

      Levy uses increasingly non-subtle body language to hasten his lying on the table. He weighs pointing at the table in front of them and making the unnhh noise. Ingrid’s determined, though, and their talks rarely last less than a half hour. She rests against the left arm of the couch, while he leans against its back. She takes his hand and strokes it and looks into his eyes while they speak. If he doesn’t strain to turn his head to the left, he fails to make eye contact, instead gazing at the table. He tries not looking too longingly at it.

      Briefly and mostly positively, Levy summarizes the West Coast trip.

      He says, “Maybe I’ll move there to be with Karen. We’ll see.” Ingrid nods and smiles, light sparkling from her blue eyes. He adds, “She’s coming out soon.”

      Today’s bodywork is refreshing and invigorating. As he finishes dressing, Ingrid comes in. She stands in front of Levy as he buckles his belt. He’s reminded how he’s had to move her hands away from his nipples during a couple of their previous sessions. Maybe she has sex with her clients. Who knows, Levy thinks. Not with me.

      She waits for him to finish and says, “We sold our house last week. We’re moving to Santa Fe in two weeks. This will be our last session.”

      “What?”

      She takes his right hand in hers and pats it comfortingly.

      “We got a good price and they want to move in right away.”

      Then, conspiratorially, she says, “It sounds like you may be moving soon, too.”

      “Me? Too?” He just met Karen. Ingrid is more important than Karen at this point. His impending relocation, so to speak, has no effect on his surprised dismay. It’s a big and sudden loss. And, there’s no time to say goodbye. No termination either—which may be the most important part of any psychosomatic treatment. Termination telescopes months or years of work into a handful of final sessions. Personal sharing, but never too much. And always sad but happy best wishes. A lot of work gets done during that final phase.

      Limpid and languid from the massage, the exhaustion that had passed through Levy last night stirs again, like lightly beating wings. “OK,” he manages. “Good luck. Thanks for your help.”

      It’s early March, cold and windy. Levy bundles up against the weather, picks up groceries, goes to the post office, and returns home. He’s off balance from the session. Ingrid’s been one of his only personal relationships in Wheaton, besides a trusted and effective body-worker. He takes a short nap and makes ready for yoga. He drives up the hill to the community college. The sun drops below the horizon as he enters the gym, and someone turns on the lights.

      Middle-aged, paunchy, and white, the yoga instructor began the course last month oversharing about both herself and her path. When she referred to herself as a Hindu, Levy stifled a laugh. Then, she excitedly told the class that they were entering an ancient Hindu lineage. She, herself, personally, received a transmission from her venerable teacher. Levy’s classmates, nearly all Native women in their 20s, listened attentively and respectfully.

      She’s a terrible teacher. She runs through her own yoga routine, and everyone tries to follow. She neglects asking about anyone’s health, and some of the poses are advanced. People are hurting themselves. She swears under her breath when she fails to complete an especially taxing pose. She only rarely circulates to adjust students’ postures. A nightmare yoga class. Levy learned early not to follow too closely.

      Tonight he feels listless, unable to push, waiting for the class to end. He fantasizes about a long hot shower. The drive home is interminable. His cataracts dim the night road and produce painful glare from oncoming headlights. His truck’s recently replaced headlights aim too low. He’s driving in, and into, the dark.

      Closing the front door behind him, he shuffles into the kitchen and locates some mixed nuts that Karen gave him for the flight home. A cheap generic brand, rancid oil-drenched, a glistening pool covers the bottom of the container. He eats them all quickly, mindlessly, and goes to bed.

      Waking in the middle of the night, he knows something is wrong. Thoroughly wrong, affecting everything. Everything is wrong, not only different. Time has gelled as has space. Ponderously heavy and at the same time unsubstantial enough to float, his body makes its way to the bathroom. Levy sits on the toilet seat, resting his head in his hands. What’s happening to me? Is this physical? Or is it emotional? Maybe it’s the nuts. Or Karen. Or Ingrid. He decides to call Merle that morning.

      The same friends who referred Levy to Ingrid suggested Merle a few weeks ago. His path to “a suitable partner” was leading nowhere. It made no sense and he was tired of it. He knew he needed help. Darryl, a former co-worker, also recommended Merle. He got her phone number before the West Coast trip.

      Miraculously, she answers the phone that morning.

      He says, “I know when I need to get back into therapy. I’m feeling that way now.”

      His thinking is sluggish. So is his speech, which barely rises above a whisper. She sounds nice, if marmish. He remembers his friends saying that she’s a clinical social worker. She sounds like a psychoanalyst, which is more than fine. He loves psychoanalysis.

      “Is it urgent?” she asks in response to his cracking voice.

      It feels urgent, or he thinks it does. He’s not sure.

      “I can wait.”

      Her next opening is in three days.

      He also needs a new dentist. Someone local. After saying goodbye to Merle, he calls Dr. De Angelo’s office. They had met last Christmas at Stephanie’s party. There, he was friendly and modest, and Stephanie spoke highly of him. It’s a strange frenzy of acquiring new health care providers.

      Levy understands now. I’m getting sick from thinking about a move from Wheaton to California. How could I live there? Karen’s apartment is a Superfund site, exuding toxic vapors. While he likes her, today he admits that sex was lackluster. She’s also not very attractive. And two other things. She baby-talks. Finally, she sticks out her tongue ever so slightly, looking intently at him, in a slightly bizarre seductive expression. She looks like someone with Down’s syndrome trying to flirt. Maybe it’s a Chinese custom.

      She also seems needy. Or maybe Levy is. Of course I am, he thinks. Why are we in such a rush? She wants to buy him a nice phone, so they’ll be in closer contact. How exactly that would work is unclear. He’s already got a cell phone, one that works just fine. Neither does he want to pay for the extra data.

      FOUR

      JOSEPH LEVY’S MIND is in quicksand as he drags himself into the day. He calls his neighbor Morales. “I need feedback,” he squeaks into the phone. He cooks oatmeal for lunch but can’t lift the spoon. He thinks, Being so weak must mean I’m sick. I like that. The symmetry satisfies Levy more than his condition alarms him.

      Morales lets himself in through the front door. He sits on one of the bar stools at the kitchen island, while Levy slouches on the other.

      “How do I look?” Levy asks.

      “You look ruined,” Morales replies, looking worried. “Is there anything I can do?”

      “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a bad cold. Or a flu. I’ve been run down.”

      Morales pushes himself away from the island, in no hurry to linger. He’ll let Levy rest. “Let me know, okay?”

      “Okay.”

      The end of the day arrives, 7 p.m., and it’s nearly dark. Levy returns to bed. Chills shake him, and his teeth chatter noisily. This is unusual, he says to himself. It must be serious. The sweats come suddenly and soak through his T-shirt and boxer shorts. He goes into Zen mode: “Do what has to be done.

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