Accountant

　

　

Two-hundred and two days ago, Amy B– died suddenly at her home. I don’t know if the announcement published in the newspaper was euphemistic. She was my patient several months before that announcement. According to my calender, I last treated her 317 days ago. Of course, I have altered certain aspects of this account to conceal her identity, although I don’t know that it matters much now.

Her history was characteristic: Amy was well until her sophomore year in college. She had an unhappy love affair and harmed herself. After a brief hospitalization, her mood improved and she returned to college to complete a degree in music. Amy was a gifted pianist and played the cello professionally. Once, she slipped concert tickets to me – her string quartet was performing something by Shostakovich and Schubert’s "Death and the Maiden". My wife likes classical music but I declined the invitation. I am more of a Springsteen fan and, of course, the tickets raised boundary issues. I know that Amy played with the symphony orchestra in our city and, once, she showed me several CD recordings on which she was featured.

On her medication, Amy did well although she was naturally high-strung and thought that talking therapy, counseling as it were, was also beneficial to her. Clinical notes showed me that at about three year intervals, her illness, seemingly cyclical in nature, would break through the regimen of medication and therapy – then, she would behave erratically and require hospitalization, generally for seven to ten days inpatient. She stabilized quickly and, after adjustment of her medications, regained composure and returned to work. Amy gave private lessons, performed with various ensembles, and wrote poetry. Four years before I saw her, Amy had completed an MFA in Nashville and she had three slender volumes of verse to her credit. I am told that she was an excellent poet and her books were well-reviewed. Poetry is mysterious to me and I have never been able to read verse with any enjoyment. So, I don’t know what her poems were (or are) like. Her books, of course, have survived her.

Fortunately, Amy had never married and had no children. She was close to her elderly parents who were very loving and supportive. I don’t have a clear picture of her any more, but recall that she had a very soft, almost child-like, voice. Her image appears on several of her books and, holding her cello, she may be seen on the Schubert CD: she looks very pale and wears a diaphanous pink evening gown. When I knew her, she walked with a slight limp, but seemed attractive and sincere. She had a strange way of looking into the distance when she spoke, not as if abstracting herself from the situation, but, rather, focusing her eyes and, even, squinting as if she were closely observing something on the very horizon of what could be seen. She used some kind of antique perfume and my office smelled like fading roses for an hour or so after she left. Amy B– was very intense and she burned out therapists – I think I may have been the fifth clinician who saw her during the last decade of her life. I have counted the sessions recorded in my computer – I counseled Amy on eight occasions. She was a referral from Dr. M–, a wonderful therapist who has also taken her own life this past year.

At our second to last session, Amy B– told me a strange story that I recount in these pages. Needless to say, it is a little painful to think about Amy and, in fact, I would rather not deliberate on our therapeutic alliance. But the experience that she narrated haunts me, and, I think, my own peace of mind requires that I tell you what she said.

Amy’s most recent volume of poems won an award. Her publisher paid for her to tour and give readings from the book. It was a kind of promotion. Amy said that she carried a valise full of books, generally about 30 volumes, and, after her poetry reading, signed copies for those who had come to hear her. The valise wasn’t too heavy, but still it was a pain, she told me, to lug it around the country.

She had completed a reading at Oberlin College, well-attended Amy said, and, then, an English professor had driven her to the airport in Cleveland for her flight to Boston. She was scheduled to read the next evening at Dartmouth and booked to fly Delta from Boston to Lebanon, New Hampshire. The professor was witty and collegial, Amy discussed music with her – both of them admired Shostokovich’s string quartets. The flight from Cleveland to Boston was uneventful. Amy read several musical scores and opened emails on her laptop computer. She arrived at Logan mid-day. Her flight to Lebanon, New Hampshire showed "on time" and, so, Amy ate a light snack, answered some emails, and, then, went to the gate.

Storm clouds hung over the sea, but the harbor seemed still and, under the lowering clouds, the water looked inky.

"I don’t like flying," Amy said. "And so you can imagine I was a little apprehensive. The plane was a small turbo-prop and the passengers took an escalator down to the runway and walked across the tarmack to a portable stairway pushed against the side of the aircraft. Far away, I though I could hear thunder but the air was still and humid. There weren’t many passengers and you had to stoop to enter the aircraft, then, walk sideways down the narrow aisle between the two rows of seats. There was an odd-looking old gentleman ahead of me. He seemed to have trouble climbing the steep stairs and several times, tottered a bit, as if he might fall backward on top of me. We took our seats and I found that the old fellow was directly across the aisle. The man was wearing an old fashioned homburg hat and, when he took it off, I saw that slippery-looking strands of hair, irregularly rooted in his scalp were strewn across the top of his head. His scalp was bone-white and criss-crossed with reddish partly healed lesions."

"The little plane shuddered as it took off and, beyond the harbor, dark greenish storm clouds scowled at us. It was a short flight, less than an hour, although the pilot said on the intercom that he was going to pick his way through the thunderheads so that we would have a smooth ride."

"The man across the aisle turned to me and said that it had been a bumpy ‘take-off.’ I agreed with him."

" ‘ Did you happen to note the number of steps on that portable stair that we climbed to get aboard?’ "

" ‘No,’ I said."

" ‘Thirteen steps,’ the man said. ‘I counted them. So did you see, I skipped one, took two steps for one, that’s twelve steps onto the plane. A much better number.’ "

" ‘It is,’ I said.

"The man’s age was indeterminate. He smelled of booze or some kind of strong, chemical-laden mouthwash. His hands were scabby and looked as if they had been burned. Some black staples seemed to secure the skin in place over his wrist and knuckles. He had great bulbous eyes, frog eyes occupying goggle-shaped openings in his slack, swollen face. The flesh of his jowls and cheeks wasn’t securely latched to his skull and his face shook with the plane’s tremors like a loose mask. I had no desire to exchange pleasantries with him and, so, I looked out my window, and saw the wing tilting down to turn over the gloomy water below."

"I had forgotten to take my a.m. lithium tablet and, so, I rummaged in my purse, found the bottle and extracted the pill. The plane jarred against a storm cloud and the tablet slipped through my fingers. It skidded away from me under the seat ahead."

" ‘Now you will have to search and pick up that pill,’ the man across the aisle said."

" ‘Excuse me?’ "

" ‘If you don’t pick up a pill you have dropped,’ the man told me. ‘You will have to bend and pick it up on the path to heaven.’ "

" ‘I don’t understand," I replied."

" ‘It’s like what you tell children,’ the man said. ‘Every grain of rice you leave on your plate, you will have to pick up on the path to heaven.’ "

" ‘I never heard that before,’ I told him. I took another tablet from the pill bottle."

" ‘I always count my pills when I take one,’ the man said. ‘That way I know when to get a refill.’ "

" ‘Really,’ I said."

"The man had squeezed a water bottle into the pocket on the back of the chair ahead of him. He pulled out the bottle, took a drink, and, then, offered me the bottle. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I have my own.’ "

" ‘Of course,’ he said. He gazed at the water bottle that I had removed from purse. ‘Probably about 12 half-ounce sips left.’ he said."

"The man removed a pen from his breast pocket and wrote a note in a little black Moleskin that he was carrying."

" ‘Record all intake, all output,’ he said. ‘Every drink of water, right here, I put it down.’ " He tapped his notebook."

"I nodded." ‘24 seats,’ he said, ‘11 occupied. That’s 11 souls.’ "

" ‘Souls?’ I asked."

" ‘Aviation terminology,’ he said.

The plane broke through the clouds and the sun streamed in the windows.

" ‘18 windows,’ he said. ‘We must be about 15,000 feet. The ceiling is about 15,000 feet today.’ "

" ‘You have lots of facts and figures,’ I said to the man."

" ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘I’m retired now, but I was an accountant. You have to keep track of lots of data.’"

I nodded. This conversation wasn’t to my liking.

The man told me that he recorded the temperature each day, then, did calculations as to the fuel cost for heating his home. He said that he had calculated the charge per British Thermal Unit.

" ‘Why is that necessary?’ I asked."

" ‘It’s a measure of efficiency,’ he said. "Numbers can guide your action.’ "

" ‘I’m pretty much innumerate,’ I told him."

" ‘I bet I can guess your weight,’ he said."

" ‘Please don’t."

" ‘You have to count when you play music,’ he said. ‘You have to beat out time, right?’ "

" ‘How did you know that I’m a musician?’ "

" ‘I guessed,’ he paused. " ‘And poems, when you write verse, you have to keep track of the syllables and accents.’ "

"This alarmed me. ‘Will you excuse me,’ I said. I took out a book and opened it."

" ‘Page 122,’ he said. ‘Looks like you’re about half-way through.’ "

"I looked away from him."

"He told me that the world was made of numbers. Everything had a weight and a measurable volume. Places were defined by distances that could be expressed in numbers. Our lives consisted of a finite number of heart-beats and fixed count of breaths. The man said that he numbered his bowel movements and recorded dates and times. He had an exact register of the number of times that he had experienced sexual intercourse, an index recording each orgasm."

"I considered asking a flight attendant to move me to another seat. There were plenty of seats vacant – thirteen to be exact. A stewardess was advancing down the aisle and I raised my hand, beckoning to her. Then, the pilot spoke again on the intercom: ‘We will be landing in 8 minutes,’ the voice said. ‘Attendants please prepare the cabin for arrival.’ "

"The man next to me grinned. ‘How many sins do you think you committed today?’ he asked."

" ‘I don’t believe in sin,’ I told him."

" ‘Well sin believes in you,’ he said. ‘I can tell you exactly how many sins I have committed today, this week, this month, this year. Do you want to know?’ "

" ‘I definitely don’t want to know.’ "

"My ears popped and rain streaked the window. The man’s mouth moved, counting something, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. The little plane slammed down and it seemed that we taxied for a long time. Through my window, beyond the streaks of rain, I saw green and shaggy woods and a mountain with some grey rock ledges in the distance."

"We scurried across the open runway between the parked plane and the small terminal. A little white tower with a rotating beacon stood beside a rain-spattered parking lot. I had rented a car. After my reading, I planned to spend the weekend touring the White Mountains."

"In the airport, at the baggage claim, the man tapped my elbow. ‘To Dartmouth, right?’ he said. I didn’t feel obliged to answer. ‘We can share a cab?’ he asked hopefully. ‘Thanks, but I have a rental car,’ I said."

"The rental car garage was a mile away. I could see the concrete ramp, a cyclone fence topped with a roll of barbed wire, and a wooden shack with a metal gate hinged at its side. A van pulled up. Several people got onto the van, including the man from the plane. He didn’t seem to have any luggage."

"The car rental counters were tucked under the parking ramp. I waited in line at Budget while a heavy-set man with fishing gear in aluminum tubes argued with young woman at the counter. The heavy-set man’s wife stood at his side, sometimes sighing loudly. The rental clerk was African with large eyes like a nocturnal beast – she wore a head scarf. I looked around me to see if the strange man from the air plane was anywhere near by. I was relieved not to see him."

"When it was my turn, I stepped forward. Suddenly, a hot, wet presence was at my side. The man from the plane had come from the toilet and he was now at my elbow. ‘We can share a rental car,’ the man whispered to me. I shook my head, vetoing the idea. ‘Why not?’ he asked."

" ‘I am going to spend the weekend, driving –‘ then, it occurred to me that it was not a good idea to share my plans with him. The loose flesh in his face wobbled in an unseemly way. He looked as if he had been betrayed and was about to cry."

" ‘I’m sorry,’ he said and turned away. There was a problem with my reservation, the name was wrong, apparently entered under a Dartmouth account, and the young woman in the head scarf had trouble understanding my plans for the weekend, possibly because I mumbled my words for fear of being overheard. I looked over my shoulder and saw that the man from the plane was nowhere to be seen. Outside another van came from the terminal, rattling across the concrete lane. But the only person riding the van was a tired-looking female janitor in khaki pants and a olive-drab work shirt. She checked in, passing behind the employee’s only door. The rental counter lobby was empty and two of the agents (Avis and National) went outside to smoke. Storm clouds were coiled like cobras, rearing up into the warm and tumultuous skies. No more planes were landing. The beacon atop the control tower dragged a beam of light through the thickets and green shadows of the forests pressing tightly around the air strip."

"After the confusion was sorted-out, I went to the elevator and rode to the ramp’s third level. I had the keys for the car in my coat pocket as well as the rental contract marked with the stall number where I would find my vehicle. The elevator smelled musty and there was a bad odor as if someone had urinated in one of its corners. The door slid open onto a cavernous concrete lot, aisle and lanes slightly tilted and dimly lit. I turned the wrong way at first, and walked among some parked cars owned by another company. A metal shield hanging from the concrete girders overhead marked the place where my rental car was parked."

"Something clanged loudly behind me and I heard footsteps scraping along the oil-spattered cement floor. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the man from the plane, hobbled a bit by a limp, but hurrying to catch up with me. He shouted my name. This disturbed me because I didn’t recall telling him my name. ‘What do you want?’ I demanded. ‘Just a ride into town,’ he said. He was rapidly gaining on me and I wanted to run from him, but thought that would be embarrassing. I was ashamed of my fear."

"I spun around. We were alone in the gloomy parking lot. I located the car and put my luggage in the trunk. When I looked up, the man was coming along the row of parked cars. His lips were moving and I could see that he was counting the vehicles intervening between us, pausing as well, it seemed, to memorize the license plates. His big eyes protruded from the inexpressive mask of his face, standing on stalks it seemed."

" ‘What is it?’ I asked again. ‘What do you want of me?’ "

The man tried to wrinkle his lips into the semblance of a smile, but was unsuccessful. The muscles in his face didn’t work.

" ‘Do you want to know how long you will live?’ the man said. ‘I can tell you in days or hours or minutes. Whatever you prefer.’ "

" ‘ No,’ I said. ‘Just leave me alone.’ He was counting the buttons on my coat, enumerating the cracks in the concrete floor that spidered-out away from him."

" ‘I need to talk to you,’ he said. ‘This is not the place,’ I told him. ‘For just 18 or 19 minutes,’ he said, pleading with me. He reached out and took my forearm with his clammy hand. Then, he squeezed hard. I pushed back and rifled through my purse. The vial containing my lithium pills came to hand. For a moment, I struggled with the child-proof cap. The man’s breath was hissing through his teeth. Then, I had the pill-bottle open, the cap dropping to the concrete. I tilted the vial downward and the pills poured out, bouncing on the concrete floor."

"The man uttered a shrill cry and, then, dropped to all fours. He was counting the pills where they were strewn on the cement. I kicked some the pills under a nearby car and the man groaned. He had to number them all. His wet eyes protruded through his indistinct mask of flabby flesh. The tablets were all alike in color and size and shape and they lay scattered across the concrete, some of them half-hidden under a nearby car. It was agony for the man to count them: his lips moved, but the excitement made him miscount and, then, he pounded the concrete with his fist, scuttling about like a crab as he tried to enumerate them."

"I opened my car’s door and slid inside, fumbling with the key. The ignition caught hold and I backed up, almost hitting the man who was writhing on the cement. I skidded down the ramp, driving too fast and almost scraping the rental vehicle against one of the grey concrete pillars. In the rear view mirror, I saw the man still squatting over the scatter of lithium tablets that he was trying to count."

Amy B– paused. The excitement of the story made her lips quiver a little.

"Did you see the man again?" I asked.

"No," she said. "Later, it was as if I had dreamed the whole thing."

I looked at my watch. About 80 seconds remained in the fifty-minute hour allotted for our session. We sat in silence. I couldn’t think of anything useful to say. Then, her time was up and I walked her to the door.