The Schopenhauer Cure

back and ignores the others in the group? Never before had Julius seenthat. Not even in

groups of psychotic patients on the psychiatric ward.

Surely, Julius thought, he had made a blunder by inviting Philip into the group.

Having to tell the group about his cancer was more than enough on his plate for the day.

And he felt burdened by having to worry about Philip.

What was going on with Philip? Was it possible that he was simply overcome by

apprehension or shyness? Unlikely. No, he`s probably pissed at my insisting on his

entering a group, and, in his passive–aggressive way, he`s giving me and the group the

finger. God, Julius thought, I`d just like to hang him out to dry. Just do nothing. Let him

sink or swim. It would be a pleasure to sit back and enjoy the blistering group attack that

will surely come.

Julius did not often remember joke punch lines, but one that he had heard years ago

returned to him now. One morning a son said to his mother, «I don`t want to go to school

today.»

«Why not?» asked his mother.

«Two reasons: I hate the students, and they hate me.»

Mother responds, «There are two reasons you have to go to school: first, you`re

forty–five years old and, second, you`re the principal.»

Yes, he was all grown up. And he was the therapist of the group. And it was his job

to integrate new members, to protect them from others and from themselves. Though he

almost never started a meeting himself, preferring to encourage the members to take

charge of running the group, today he had no choice.

«Four–thirty. Time to get started. Philip, why don`t you grab a seat.» Philip turned

to face him but made no movement toward a chair. Is he deaf? Julius thought. A social

imbecile? Only after Julius vigorously gestured with his eyeballs to one of the empty

chairs did Philip seat himself.

To Philip he said, «Here`s our group. There`s one member who won`t be here

tonight, Pam, who`s on a two–month trip.» Then, turning to the group, «I mentioned a few

meetings ago that I might be introducing a new member. I met with Philip last week, and

he`s beginning today.» Of course he`s beginning today, Julius thought. Stupid, shithead

comment. That`s it. No more handholding. Sink or swim.

Just at that moment Stuart, rushing in from the pediatric clinic at the hospital and

still wearing a white clinical coat, charged into the room and plunked himself down,

muttering an apology for being late. All members then turned to Philip, and four of them

introduced themselves and welcomed him: «I`m Rebecca, Tony, Bonnie, Stuart. Hello.

Great to see you. Welcome. Glad to have you. We need some new blood—I mean new

input.»

The remaining member, an attractive man with a prematurely bald pate flanked by

a rim of light brown hair and the hefty body of a football linesman somewhat gone to

seed, said, in a surprisingly soft voice, «Hi, I`m Gill. And, Philip, I hope you won`t feel

I`m ignoring you, but I absolutely, urgently need some time in the group today. I`ve

never needed the group as much as today.»

No response from Philip.

«Okay, Philip?» Gill repeated.

Startled, Philip opened his eyes widely and nodded.

Gill turned toward the familiar faces in the group and began. «A lot has happened,

and it all came to a head this morning following a session with my wife`s shrink. I`ve

been telling you guys over the past few weeks about how the therapist gave Rose a book

about child abuse that convinces her that she was abused as a child. It`s like a fixed

idea—what do you call it...an idea feexed?» Gill turned to Julius.

«An idГ©e fixe,” Philip instantaneously interjected with perfect accent.

«Right. Thanks,” said Gill, who shot a quick look at Philip and added, sotto voce,

«Whoa, that was fast,” and then returned to his narrative. «Well, Rose has an idГ©e fixe

that her father sexually molested her when she was young. She can`t let it go. Does she

remember any sexual event happening? No. Witnesses? No. But her therapist believes

that if she`s depressed, fearful about sex, has stuff like lapses in attention and

uncontrollable emotions, especially rage at men, then shemust have been molested. That`s

the message of that goddamned book. And her therapist swears by it. So, for months, as

I`ve told you ad nauseam, we`ve been talking about little else. My wife`s therapy is our

life. No time for anything else. No other topic of conversation. Our sex life is defunct.

Nothing. Forget it. A couple of weeks ago she asked me to phone her father—she won`t

talk to him herself—and invite him to come to her therapy session. She wanted me to

attend, too—for ‘protection,` she said.

«So I phoned him. He agreed immediately. Yesterday he took a bus down from

Portland and appeared at the therapy session this morning carrying his beat–up suitcase

because he was going to head right back to the bus station after we met. The session was

a disaster. Absolute mayhem. Rose just unloaded on him and kept on unloading. Without

limits, without letup, without a word of acknowledgment that her old man had come

several hundred miles for her—for her ninety–minute therapy session. Accusing him of

everything, even of inviting his neighbors, his poker chums, his coworkers at the fire

department—he was a fireman back then—to have sex with her when she was a child.»

«What did the father do?» asked Rebecca, a tall, slender, forty–year–old woman of

exceptional beauty who had been leaning forward, listening intently to Gill.

«He behaved like a mensch. He`s a nice old man, about seventy years old, kindly,

sweet. This is the first time I met him. He was amazing—God, I wish I had a father like

that. Just sat there and took it and told Rose that, if she had all that anger, it was probably

best to let it out. He just kept gently denying all her crazy charges and took a guess—a

good one, I think—that what she is really angry about is his walking out on the family

when she was twelve. He said her anger was fertilized—his word, he`s a farmer—by her

mother, who had been poisoning her mind against him since she was a child. He told her

he had had to leave, that he had been depressed out of his gourd living with her mother

and would be dead now if he had stayed. And let me tell you, I know Rose`s mother, and

he`s got a point. A good one.

«So, at the end of the session he asked for a ride to the bus terminal, and before I

could answer, Rose said she wouldn`t feel safe in the same car with him. ‘Got it,` he said,

and walked away, lugging his suitcase.

«Well, ten minutes later Rose and I were driving down Market Street, and I see

him—a white–haired, stooped old man pulling his suitcase. It was starting to rain, and I

say to myself, ‘This is the shits.` I lost it and told Rose, ‘He comes here for you—for

your therapy session—he comes all the way from Portland, it`s raining, and goddamnit

I`m taking him to the bus station.` I pulled over to the curb and offered him a lift. Rose

stares daggers at me. ‘If he gets in, I get out,` she says. I say, ‘Be my guest.` I point to

Starbucks on the street and tell her to wait there and I`ll come back in a few minutes. She

gets out and stalks off. That was about five hours ago. She never did show up at

Starbucks. I drove over to Golden Gate Park and been walking around since. I`m thinking

of never going home.»

With that, Gill flopped back in his chair, exhausted.

The members—Tony, Rebecca, Bonnie, and Stuart—broke out into a chorus of