--13--
By his own admission, Dennis' only long-term relationship had been with his own right hand. Considering that it caused him excruciating pain every time he touched or was touched by another living person, the fact was hardly surprising. In fact, it was quite shocking that he'd managed to have the number of non-autoerotic sexual experiences that he'd actually had, even if most of these had been forced and resulted in blackouts and/or time spent in a hospital bed.
Once, Dennis told Heilmann, he's picked up a prostitute. He was seventeen then, and he'd stolen his stepbrother's battered old Chevy; he'd driven around for a couple of hours without a licence and without insurance, knowing that his stepbrother would probably beat him within an inch of his life when he got home, if he got home. He'd actually stolen the car thinking that he might go out and drive into a tree doing ninety or something. He'd never liked the idea of suicide, but somehow there was something very cool and James Dean about dying in a car wreck.
But then, just as he'd been giving a little more thought to finding a nice solid tree or a suitably stable wall to aim the car at, he'd driven into a part of town he didn't really recognise. And then he saw her, the whore at the side of the road. He couldn't help himself; he stopped and the next thing he knew she was strolling over calm as you like, leaning down at the passenger side window. He let her in. The negotiation he didn't remember but thirty seconds later he was driving away with her sitting right beside him.
He told her not to touch him, and she didn't. He drove with hands steadier than he really felt and pulled up in the parking lot in front of the nearest motel he could find. The guy behind the front desk didn't seem to think anything of the seventeen-year-old boy and the gaudily dressed hooker who checked in, just handed over the key and palmed the cash from the counter. Dennis led her from reception to the room and let them both in. She sat on the bed. She asked what he wanted.
Dennis didn't have an answer. There was nothing that he could do with her that wouldn't feel like acupuncture performed directly on his brain. He frowned and stared at his hands.
"Maybe I could just watch", he said at last, in a voice so tiny that the hooker almost didn't hear him. But she nodded and started to undress.
He watched. He fumbled with his belt and clumsily jerked himself off as he watched her. She was so beautiful to him that it brought tears to his eyes and in the end he couldn't watch her anymore, he was just hunched there, a lanky, awkward seventeen-year-old with his dick in his hand, sobbing and pathetic. He left forty dollars on the nightstand and left her there.
Thus concluded the sexual life of Dennis Rafkin.
He told the story like it was some humorous little anecdote and Heilmann felt vaguely sorry for him even though he knew that wasn't the point of the story. Dennis himself probably wasn't aware of the point of the story, but Heilmann understood it well enough; it was part of that same class of story that Dennis liked to tell so very often, all adding up to one thing. He was trying to distance himself from him, and in doing so excusing himself for every time he'd distanced anyone. Dennis couldn't be touched. Dennis was alone.
It wasn't the sort of story that Heilmann was interested in, however. He listened just the same, letting Dennis know that he'd listen without prejudice to anything he had to say, before he pressed a little for the sort of story that he *did* want to hear. These were harder to prise from him, and frequently Dennis would just dart back behind his strange little anecdotes about the time he thought he'd sensed the ghost of Elvis on Union Avenue or the time he was taking his driving test and woke up in hospital the next morning to find he'd passed out and crashed when the examiner accidentally brushed his shoulder. But sometimes, just sometimes, Heilmann got the stories he wanted.
That particular day, what Heilmann wanted him to talk about was his mother. It was the private stories, the memories, his childhood and people's attitudes to him that Heilmann was most interested in then, because he was weighing up his chances of success if he asked Dennis the question he wanted to ask.
"So what happened when you arrived home, Dennis?" Heilmann asked, hoping to steer the conversation.
Dennis shrugged. "Stepbrother was still down the street with his girlfriend, probably molesting her kids. He never even noticed the car was gone. My mom was the only one home".
"And what was her reaction?"
"She told me not to do it again".
"Was she always so lenient with you?"
"Yeah, pretty much".
"She wasn't. perturbed by your stealing the car?"
"She thought I borrowed it. I came back".
"And she didn't tell your stepbrother?"
"No. She knew what he'd do if he found out".
"Were you ever angry that she didn't stop him from hurting you?"
"No".
"Why not?"
"She couldn't have stopped him if she'd wanted to. And I don't think she wanted to, really. I think she thought it was good for me, that he was God's way of punishing me for the way I am".
"The way you are?"
"Psychic, Doc".
"So your mother knew?"
"She knew. She chose to ignore it, though. Used to freak her out. She used to say it was my fault she and dad got the divorce. Y'know, that the freaky kid drove him away. But only when she'd been drinking".
"Did she drink a lot?"
"Not really".
"Did it make you angry when she said those things?"
"No, not really. I mean, it's true. Who wants a kid who passes out when you touch him and sits through dinner telling you that his kindergarten teacher likes to torture puppies? They thought I was nuts".
"What did they say to that?"
"They told me to shut up and go to my room".
"They didn't believe you?"
"Not about the ghosts. Maybe not about the rest, most of the time. They liked to pretend that I made it all up. Attention seeking. That's what the schools all said. That I just wanted attention".
Heilmann frowned. "Has no one ever believed you?"
Dennis shrugged. "Dr. Beck does", he said. "You do".
"No one else?"
"I don't think so, no. But Dr. Van Bremen almost did, I think. Everyone else just thinks I'm nuts".
"Wouldn't you like to prove them wrong?"
Dennis smirked. "I hate to break this to you, but I *am* nuts, Doc".
"But you're also undoubtedly psychic, Dennis".
"That too".
"And wouldn't you like to prove it, once and for all?"
Dennis leant closer, his elbows resting on the desk. "What did you have in mind?" he asked.
Heilmann took a deep breath and asked Dennis the question he'd been waiting over a month to ask.
***
By his own admission, Dennis' only long-term relationship had been with his own right hand. Considering that it caused him excruciating pain every time he touched or was touched by another living person, the fact was hardly surprising. In fact, it was quite shocking that he'd managed to have the number of non-autoerotic sexual experiences that he'd actually had, even if most of these had been forced and resulted in blackouts and/or time spent in a hospital bed.
Once, Dennis told Heilmann, he's picked up a prostitute. He was seventeen then, and he'd stolen his stepbrother's battered old Chevy; he'd driven around for a couple of hours without a licence and without insurance, knowing that his stepbrother would probably beat him within an inch of his life when he got home, if he got home. He'd actually stolen the car thinking that he might go out and drive into a tree doing ninety or something. He'd never liked the idea of suicide, but somehow there was something very cool and James Dean about dying in a car wreck.
But then, just as he'd been giving a little more thought to finding a nice solid tree or a suitably stable wall to aim the car at, he'd driven into a part of town he didn't really recognise. And then he saw her, the whore at the side of the road. He couldn't help himself; he stopped and the next thing he knew she was strolling over calm as you like, leaning down at the passenger side window. He let her in. The negotiation he didn't remember but thirty seconds later he was driving away with her sitting right beside him.
He told her not to touch him, and she didn't. He drove with hands steadier than he really felt and pulled up in the parking lot in front of the nearest motel he could find. The guy behind the front desk didn't seem to think anything of the seventeen-year-old boy and the gaudily dressed hooker who checked in, just handed over the key and palmed the cash from the counter. Dennis led her from reception to the room and let them both in. She sat on the bed. She asked what he wanted.
Dennis didn't have an answer. There was nothing that he could do with her that wouldn't feel like acupuncture performed directly on his brain. He frowned and stared at his hands.
"Maybe I could just watch", he said at last, in a voice so tiny that the hooker almost didn't hear him. But she nodded and started to undress.
He watched. He fumbled with his belt and clumsily jerked himself off as he watched her. She was so beautiful to him that it brought tears to his eyes and in the end he couldn't watch her anymore, he was just hunched there, a lanky, awkward seventeen-year-old with his dick in his hand, sobbing and pathetic. He left forty dollars on the nightstand and left her there.
Thus concluded the sexual life of Dennis Rafkin.
He told the story like it was some humorous little anecdote and Heilmann felt vaguely sorry for him even though he knew that wasn't the point of the story. Dennis himself probably wasn't aware of the point of the story, but Heilmann understood it well enough; it was part of that same class of story that Dennis liked to tell so very often, all adding up to one thing. He was trying to distance himself from him, and in doing so excusing himself for every time he'd distanced anyone. Dennis couldn't be touched. Dennis was alone.
It wasn't the sort of story that Heilmann was interested in, however. He listened just the same, letting Dennis know that he'd listen without prejudice to anything he had to say, before he pressed a little for the sort of story that he *did* want to hear. These were harder to prise from him, and frequently Dennis would just dart back behind his strange little anecdotes about the time he thought he'd sensed the ghost of Elvis on Union Avenue or the time he was taking his driving test and woke up in hospital the next morning to find he'd passed out and crashed when the examiner accidentally brushed his shoulder. But sometimes, just sometimes, Heilmann got the stories he wanted.
That particular day, what Heilmann wanted him to talk about was his mother. It was the private stories, the memories, his childhood and people's attitudes to him that Heilmann was most interested in then, because he was weighing up his chances of success if he asked Dennis the question he wanted to ask.
"So what happened when you arrived home, Dennis?" Heilmann asked, hoping to steer the conversation.
Dennis shrugged. "Stepbrother was still down the street with his girlfriend, probably molesting her kids. He never even noticed the car was gone. My mom was the only one home".
"And what was her reaction?"
"She told me not to do it again".
"Was she always so lenient with you?"
"Yeah, pretty much".
"She wasn't. perturbed by your stealing the car?"
"She thought I borrowed it. I came back".
"And she didn't tell your stepbrother?"
"No. She knew what he'd do if he found out".
"Were you ever angry that she didn't stop him from hurting you?"
"No".
"Why not?"
"She couldn't have stopped him if she'd wanted to. And I don't think she wanted to, really. I think she thought it was good for me, that he was God's way of punishing me for the way I am".
"The way you are?"
"Psychic, Doc".
"So your mother knew?"
"She knew. She chose to ignore it, though. Used to freak her out. She used to say it was my fault she and dad got the divorce. Y'know, that the freaky kid drove him away. But only when she'd been drinking".
"Did she drink a lot?"
"Not really".
"Did it make you angry when she said those things?"
"No, not really. I mean, it's true. Who wants a kid who passes out when you touch him and sits through dinner telling you that his kindergarten teacher likes to torture puppies? They thought I was nuts".
"What did they say to that?"
"They told me to shut up and go to my room".
"They didn't believe you?"
"Not about the ghosts. Maybe not about the rest, most of the time. They liked to pretend that I made it all up. Attention seeking. That's what the schools all said. That I just wanted attention".
Heilmann frowned. "Has no one ever believed you?"
Dennis shrugged. "Dr. Beck does", he said. "You do".
"No one else?"
"I don't think so, no. But Dr. Van Bremen almost did, I think. Everyone else just thinks I'm nuts".
"Wouldn't you like to prove them wrong?"
Dennis smirked. "I hate to break this to you, but I *am* nuts, Doc".
"But you're also undoubtedly psychic, Dennis".
"That too".
"And wouldn't you like to prove it, once and for all?"
Dennis leant closer, his elbows resting on the desk. "What did you have in mind?" he asked.
Heilmann took a deep breath and asked Dennis the question he'd been waiting over a month to ask.
***