Duggai—and the appearance at the trial of Earle Dana as an expert witness—had brought the rest of them together. Jay Painter initially came into it as a witness for the prosecution but his examination of Duggai bore out the results of Mackenzie’s and the prosecution declined to call Jay to the stand. When Duggai’s attorney learned of this he brought Jay over to the defense team.
Mackenzie met Jay for the first time in the courtroom.
Jay had asked Shirley to interview Duggai because it had occurred to him that Duggai might open up more with an attractive woman. Duggai hadn’t but the defense attorney, eager for all the help he could get, persuaded her to testify. The three of them were in court that day and afterward they went out to dinner. There was some speculation around the restaurant table about the fourth defense witness—a psychotherapist they’d all heard of, Earle Dana, regarded generally as a publicity hound and a quack. Their own testimony was concluded but they agreed to meet next morning in the courtroom to listen to Earle Dana.
Dana had written six self-help books—How to Get the Most Out of Sex was the one that made them titter the most—and wrote a newspaper column of mental-health advice that was syndicated to several West Coast newspapers. He was not a doctor; apparently he was self-taught. He’d been a minister of some persuasion and had served as an air force chaplain for some years before resigning both his commission and the ministry to join a consciousness-raising cult in Southern California. Then apparently he’d begun to read books for the first time in his life and had been smitten by the relentless reasoning of some of the neo-behaviorists with their Skinner Boxes and conditioned-reflex therapy techniques.
The defense attorney had asked Earle to testify because of his notoriety; Earle had agreed because of the publicity. Most of Earle’s testimony had little to do with Duggai; it was a simpleminded advertisement for his brand of behavior therapy. “In many cases, the point is, other methods fail and our methods work.” And Shirley had whispered in Mackenzie’s ear: “So does torture.”
Then to their horror Earle had buttonholed the three of them on his way out of the courtroom and insisted on standing them to lunch. They’d had to listen to his nonsense for hours before they’d been able to break away.
Audrey met them after work at the St. Francis and the four of them had giggled over recollections of Earle Dana’s prim pomposities. On any psychiatric subject Earle was prepared to rush in where the best minds in medicine feared to tread. His brief appearance in their lives gave fuel for uproarious amusement. And because they laughed together they decided they loved one another; the foursome became an institution for a brief while: Jayandshirley, Samandaudrey.
For Mackenzie it had gone beyond that. Perhaps it was inevitable. Not Audrey’s fault but she’d failed to share too many of the experiences that had changed Mackenzie. Around the Painters’ swimming pool or isolated by crowds at parties, Mackenzie and Shirley had discovered each other. She too was lonely in her marriage; her loneliness followed her into Mackenzie’s life. A few drinks, outpourings of confidences. Jay’s indifference. Audrey’s withdrawn distance. Noncommunication in both marriages.
Mackenzie’s adulterous love for Shirley came to dominate him: a big deep thing that sometimes for no reason made tears well up in him. Even in Jay’s presence he became capable of enjoying happiness in nothing more than sitting for great lengths of time watching her do little things—drying her hair, dusting a room, climbing out of the pool—just witnessing the grace of her face and body.
It never became an affair. They were both prisoners of honor—on occasion they teased one another abrasively about their old-fashioned principles. Mackenzie never allowed them opportunities for clandestine meetings. He wasn’t gaited that way. It would be a complication he wouldn’t be able to handle; he knew that. The love between them was real but physically unconsummated. That was unnatural; inevitably things had to come unraveled.
Jay had been badgering her: he wanted a baby. She was sure they’d be divorced; she didn’t want to inflict that on a child. She kept taking the pill. Jay’s anger took the form of cold-shouldering her. It compounded the frustrations—hers and Sam’s.
The we-can’t-go-on-like-this hour arrived the day before an explosive evening: Earle Dana again the catalyst. Every few weeks Earle found some excuse to gather them around him. He was an expansive host; there was always a vacuous large-breasted blonde or redhead on his arm—sometimes Mackenzie suspected Earle hired them—and the soirees provided fuel for the next month’s cruel laughter, so they always went.
It had been nearly a year by then. Mackenzie never learned what triggered things but it all blew apart at that last party of Earle’s.
He’d seen Jay and Shirley through a gap in the crowd. Hissing at each other. Their bodies twang-taut, every tendon standing out, faces livid. It wasn’t one of their normal spats. Those came and went with metronomic regularity; they were loud and only mock-violent and they passed quickly. This was not anger; this was hate.
Audrey beside him saw the direction and alarm of Mackenzie’s glance. She looked that way; moved closer and gripped his arm. “What on earth?”
People around the Painters were backing away as if from something that frothed with rabies.
Jay spat something at Shirley—a sibilant awful whisper. She rocked back on her heels, went stone-silent and still. Abruptly she wheeled. Her little fists rose and fell with inarticulate rage. She stormed toward the door.
Mackenzie was right in her path.
She touched his hand. “I’m sorry. I blew it. He just got me so mad.… Forgive me.” Then she was gone. The door slammed with a shuddering crash.
And Jay Painter was stalking toward Mackenzie with murderous eyes.
Audrey clutched at his arm. “Sam—”
He tried to get her out of there but all the while Jay was railing at him with a “Keep me away from him I’ll kill him” performance and by the time Mackenzie got Audrey out of the place she’d heard more than enough to fit things together and she’d jumped to the conclusion that was natural if not correct.
She refused to hear his protestation. She didn’t talk to him at all. She locked herself in the bedroom.
The next afternoon when he came home she was slumped in the car inside the closed garage. The engine was still running. She’d been dead for several hours.
A week later Mackenzie left the army and put his M.D. and his psychiatric shingle away in storage. Nothing had forewarned him that Audrey might be that close to the ultimate breakdown. When he looked back he could count off all the classic symptoms as they’d appeared one by one—the shock of his presumed physical betrayal had been only the trigger, not the cause—but the horrible fact was that he hadn’t seen any of it coming.
If I’d been any kind of a shrink at all I’d have been able to head it off.
He was forced to recognize himself as a third-rate shaman, incompetent psychiatrist. If there’d been any real talent he wouldn’t have stayed protectively in the army. The facts had always been there; only the insights had been lacking. And a psychiatrist without insights was like a toxic agent turned loose in a water supply: incalculable the damage it could do.
After a while he realized that sort of thinking was extreme—guilty overreaction—but he never had the impulse to go back to the profession. And until now he’d never had further contact with any of them. They’d had key roles in the disintegration of his life, the destruction of Audrey’s: they were the instruments of his guilt.
And clearly they hated him. Earle rankled still from the things Mackenzie had shouted at him when Earle innocently phoned to offer condolences. Shirley couldn’t help hating him for what she’d done to herself: he’d been her willing accomplice. Jay owned the cuckold’s rage. Duggai—he was the ultimate victim.