Stepping on Little Ants: The Cumulative Effect

By Clark Falconer

In the aftermath of two unusual murders, a psychiatrist enters analysis to try and understand and escape his relentless pursuing past. Driven by guilt, lust and fear, the more he understands his inner world, the less he knows for sure; and the closer and closer he comes to the lips of madness, murder and a terrifying realization about love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481768146

Clark Falconer

Clark Falconer is a psychiatrist in private practice in Vancouver, British Columbia. Before moving to Vancouver he was a former Associate Professor of Psychiatry at the University of Manitoba. He is a published author of peer-reviewed, scientific papers, and the book, “The Three Word Truth about Love and Being Well.” He has taught, supervised and practices in the field of psychodynamic psychotherapy.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

1:00 A.M.

WEST SIDE PRESBYTERIAN HOSPITAL

MANHATTAN

APRIL 1975

D r. Philip Bronstein teeters at the foot of his father’s bed. He watches his father’s labored breathing: He’s emaciated, the left side of his face paralyzed, his mouth open wide, it droops thin, foam-drooled-spittle over his cracked lips.

Bronstein obsessively whispers, The fucking O sign. The fucking O sign.

To Bronstein who has seen enough death and dying in his days as a physician to lead him out of Medicine and into Psychoanalysis, this sign is the physician’s signal that death is on its way. Bronstein is tired of waiting for the grim reaper. He doesn’t understand, ‘Why won’t he just die?’

Bronstein moistens his father’s lips aggressively, tired of containing his hatred of this man who was his bane. His father lost consciousness a week ago and the analytic Bronstein is losing his power to obsess.

He stands watching and waiting for his father’s tongue to fall out and make the Q sign: the most certain sign that death is in the room.

Bronstein startles as the night nurse glides into the room. She smiles and silently checks his father’s IV.

He’s quite comfortable. It won’t be long.

Bronstein looks at her through reddened, bleary eyes and pleads. He asked before but tries again.

He seems to be in a lot of pain nurse. He keeps wincing. Can’t you give him more?

The nurse shakes her head.

Sorry Sir. Just what his doctor ordered, she says, enjoying the nurse doctor power struggle.

He looks fine. He’s not in pain. He’s getting more than adequate hydration and analgesia. Try to relax. It won’t be long now.

She smiles and glides back out of the room with a hush.

Bronstein falls back on his heels in the near darkness. The nightlight reveals his ghostly, perspiring, exhausted face. ‘This is going to kill me,’ he thinks. Stars flash in his visual field. Furious and losing track of boundary he mutters, She has no idea if he’s in pain.

He looks down at the body of his stroke-fallen father and feels their chests rising and falling in synchrony. Bronstein puts his hands on the bed rail and slowly inches up toward the head of the bed. He stares down at his father’s frozen, unshaven visage. What is this? he asks the air.

On the table beside the bed he sees the nurse has left a discarded rubber glove. He stares at it. The glove seems to move, to beckon him, to shrink and grow in size. He’s numbed by what he’s thinking. He looks back down at his father’s face and back at the glove. He stops and holds his breath and listens for the nurse. He picks up the glove. He stretches it. Shaking, he strains to listen. He’s sure he hears the door open. An image of his mother sitting alone at home in her Lazy-boy awaiting his call flashes across his mind. She looks up at him and nods. He leans over his father’s head. He stretches the rubber glove out toward his father’s nose and mouth.

Five minutes later, his shirt soaked under his jacket, he walks out to get the nurse.

She looks up from her desk at him.

Are you alright?

I’m fine. He’s gone I think.

Okay. Let’s see, she says, sliding out from behind the desk and leading him back into the room.

She checks his father’s respiration holding a mirror over his mouth. Nothing. She tries to find a pulse to no avail.

I’m sorry, Doctor. His suffering is over, she says, looking professionally sad. She has seen it before, death an accepted, routine participant in her life.

Suddenly his father gasps and moves.

Bronstein jumps in horror.

It’s alright, the nurse reassures him with a wink. This always happens after death. It’s just a reflex.

Bronstein looks down at his father’s carcass. It’s at rest. He sees it’s different now; life walked out.

Back at the nursing station he signs something and agrees with the nurse that formalities can be taken care of in the morning.

You should go home and try to get some rest.

Alone in the subdued light of the ward, he pulls himself together as he walks quietly down the hushed hall. He throws the rubber glove in a trashcan in front of the elevator. In a trance he takes the elevator down. He walks out the front door to the parking lot.

He drives through the mostly empty, black streets in silence and lets himself in the back door. He walks into his mother’s bedroom. He’s gone, he says.

She lifts herself up in bed and nods her thinning, silver-blue-haired head as if he’s said nothing.

Goodnight dear, she says and rolls over away from him.

He walks down the hall to his bedroom, like a little boy. He’s uncertain if her nod is acceptance or disapproval. He feels like he might as well have told her the weather. Her husband’s passing had no perceptible effect. What most disturbed him was that she, like he, seemed relieved.

Considering what he’d done and what he’d lost, Bronstein’s sense of relief shocked him. He had always felt imprisoned by his bullying father; now he was free. He had understood as best he could what it meant to live with a father who had survived ‘the camps’; but living in a world twisted by his father’s rage and his mother’s guilt and fear had made him also understand what it meant to be emotionally abused and tortured; thus his respected and recognized ‘gift’ as a therapist.

He falls on his bed down the hall from his mother with the crystal clear realization his freedom has come and then gone with the crossing of a profound threshold; taking life, he can never be the same.

He gets back up and slowly moves to the window as if in a dream and stares out into the black night. He’s tempted to open the window but he’s shivering. He can see the bare outline of the skeletal apple tree being whipped by new falling snow. He hears the distant sound of a siren.

He looks up into the night sky and through the scattered snowflakes the sky opens. He’s sure he can make out a single star; but he becomes confused as to whether it is a star, a snowflake or anything at all. He’s seeing stars and his thoughts race to his high blood pressure. If his pressure is rising it means a visit to his doctor. Like his father, he hates doctors. As irrational as it seems to him he’s all too aware of his phobia of blood pressure cuffs: Too intimate: Too intrusive. He can’t hide his feelings from its tightening grip. He’s alone and watching, searching for the star.

Now with shock, he realizes that, like his father, getting out of ‘the camps’ didn’t mean freedom. Freud’s words echo in his mind, ‘The death of a man’s father is the most significant event in a man’s life.’ He didn’t comment on the event of murder.

His face has a day’s growth on it. He’s haggard and frozen and tears stream from his eyes. He sits back down on the bed and shakes two pills from the bottle on his night table. He swallows them quickly and falls back on his bed waiting. He drifts off fitfully, knowing he will never sleep peacefully again.

CHAPTER ONE

MANHATTAN, THE UPPER EASTSIDE

OCTOBER 1975

O n a side-street sidewalk, a small black man takes a few hesitant steps. He peers up at a brownstone. His manner is so cautious he might be very old. The whites of his tiny eyes shine like distant stars in his iron black face. One might mistakenly assume he’s frustrated as he shakes his head and scuttles on to the next set of steps.

At the second staircase he looks up at the plaque beside the door and stands erect like a caterpillar. He sniffs, but senses no danger. Nodding his tiny head with certainty, he slowly and cautiously climbs the thirteen granite stairs. His eyes are focused on the engraved plaque beside the door. From the twitching of his body there’s no doubt he’s searching, maybe stalking.

He tentatively reaches up for the buzzer. As if by magic, the heavy oak and lead-beveled glass door of the brownstone swings in. His startled eyes follow the low sun’s glare as it pierces the dark opening.

The doorway fills with the back of a large man dressed in white. He guides a gurney out onto the stoop.

Careful Rog, careful, I’m turning now and going down, the man says.

The big attendant is so concentrated on what he’s doing he doesn’t notice the vibrating body pressed up against the railing. He swings the gurney in front of him and up high as he begins the descent.

The little man watches the procession pass. A strand of long blond hair wafts out of the body bag in front of his eyes. He sneezes and shivers.

The second paramedic steps outside holding the back of the gurney. He hears the sneeze and turns his head but seems to look right through the tiny man. Concentrating on his task, he says nothing. He guides the wheeled contraption down the stairs. The little man turns to look inside the town house but the door swings shut on him with a thud.

From beside the door, through the glint on the shiny brass, the plaque reads:

William Swift, M.D. F.R.C.P

Psychiatrist

For a moment he stares at the distorted reflection of his white shirt, red tie and dark face in the plaque. As if fearful he’ll be caught, he turns and steals back down the stairs. He’s satisfied.

He gets to the bottom and steadies himself against a small tree. Panting heavily, as if from enormous exertion, he takes a moment to catch his breath. The body bag coming out of the townhouse seemed to shock him into reconsideration.

The sun streams down onto him through the sparse, beginning-to-change-color leaves of the solitary, spindly ash tree he has his arm around. The emaciated tree is digging beneath the pavement of Manhattan for enough polluted water to get it through the winter. One of a dying breed, along with a couple of its friends across the street, the little tree seems to, in turn, be holding up the little man. Together they could be construed as making a last stand against the destruction and construction of mankind. With its internal computer cutting off the supply of sap, the leaves shine on the tiny man’s face with multi-colored hope. The little tree is as smart as this wisp of a man. They hoard their energy resources deep inside for an approaching battle with the army of winter.

The little man rubs his hand down the tree affectionately gaining energy. He slowly lets the tree go and synchronously massages the right side of his neck. It appears this is a signal of pressure building inside. But it is not, for the little man is free of fear as he moves from the tree’s embrace. He ambles on down the street. At the corner he stops and looks back and a smile crosses his face. He has found him, but the body means his next move isn’t clear.

*     *     *

Back inside the brownstone Dr. William Swift’s wiry frame glides up the stairs. He stops at the master bedroom and takes a last glance at the ghost of his deceased wife, Charlotte. She is lying on their bed, her long blond hair splayed on the pillow, her green eyes embedded in flawless, alabaster skin. He turns and shuts the door. In his mind he moves toward his wife again as she slowly fades to pure white, and then to opaque, and then too-thin-translucent. He reaches towards her but she’s gone.

Shaking his head and shivering, he mechanically moves toward his office, sits down at his desk and picks up the phone.

Hello. Will? Is that you? an earthy female voice answers.

Yeh, it’s me Mig. It’s done.

He listens for a moment.

No. Not right now. I can’t. I don’t want to really but I’ve got to make the calls, take care of the business and then the funeral. I’ll call you as soon as it’s all over.

I love you Will, she says, her sultry voice pleading.

I love you too, Mig, he answers.

I’m coming over, she replies insistently.

No, wait, he answers.

But I have to see you.

No. We’re going to have to wait. I’ll see you very soon. I promise. I’ll call.

CHAPTER TWO

THREE DAYS LATER

D r. Swift opens the front door of the hearse. He pivots his glistening black shoes out. He steps up into the dewy grass and, as he does so, a short train of black limos pull up behind. He steps back to the rear of the hearse, pearls of moisture precariously perched on the toes of his shoes. He opens the back door and his mother-in-law and sister-in-law emerge from behind the dark-mirrored windows. The older lady is trembling, pale, stoic. She comforts her inconsolable, somewhat obese, brunette, younger daughter. Swift puts his arm around his mother-in-law. She breaks down and sinks into his chest and weeps. He leads them, one on each side clinging, sobbing, up the grassy grade to the gravesite.

The triangle stands together silently, motionless. The corpse of his wife, the daughter, the older sister, the friend of others, is lowered to her rest.

He struggles remembering a quotation: Oh, Death, where is thy sting? He shakes his head as if ridding himself of an tiny, unwanted mosquito.

Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, the priest murmurs.

An hour later he opens the door to his town house and office. He greets the grieving. They graciously try to comfort him; but he’s the one doing the comforting. They come in and drink and nibble on canapes. At first they talk in whispers, but as small groups gather and disperse and regroup, wine flows, time passes. The empty gap of loss closes; no one’s indispensable. Denial returns and with it arrives a sense of normalcy. Some even talk politics. The odd laugh is heard but, from respectful glares, quickly snuffled.

Three hours later the great majority, friends of Charlotte, have vanished. A few hangers-on, the priest and his in-laws are all that remain. Swift busses and hugs each of them in turn as they resist leaving. He reassures them, I’ll be fine. No, no, you’ve done enough. Get on with your lives. No, I have someone coming to clean. One by one he releases their grip on him and eases them out the door.

He sits down in the midst of the mess and put his hands in his head. A smile of relief and anticipation crosses his face. He gets up and walks to the phone and dials.

It’s over, he says into the receiver.

No, it’ll be later tomorrow.

I know. I want to see you too.

No, we’ll be together soon. After my appointment.

No, no, I know what you think.

No darling. I know you disagree with this.

We’ll talk about it when we meet.

No Mig. This’s something I need to do.

I know you’re upset. Patience sweetheart. Soon. We’ll talk tomorrow.

I love you too Mig.

CHAPTER THREE

THE NEXT DAY

3:35 P.M.

S wift pushes open the door of his brownstone and steps outside. He’s forty-eight years old. A lanky six foot two, he wears straight-cut, light blue jeans, a black tee, an open grey cashmere hoody and grey-suede, buckskin loafers. The sinking sun glints off his home and office plaque. His long shock of swept-back, red and silver-flecked hair is still damp from the shower. He draws in a deep breath through his large Roman nose. The skin of his egg-shell complexion is drawn tight: It leaves the impression he’s been sick or has had a horrible scare. He grasps the railing tightly. It’s a steep set of stairs. He has unusually long legs.

He gets coffee and a poppy seed muffin at the local bistro. Sipping his latte and sliding bits of muffin into his mouth, he walks three blocks up 59th to the office of Doctor Philip Bronstein. He looks up at the analyst’s plaque: a mirror image of his own. He finishes his muffin and coffee and throws the trash into a bin. He ascends.

Inside the door of the office he presents himself. The secretary is old, tiny, bony, angular, grey and formally polite. She tells him: Fill out your history in detail, complete the questionnaire, sign the contract and take a seat the doctor will be with you shortly. She doesn’t look up.

Swift sits down and scans the office. His gaze sweeps over the secretarial desk and the door he’s about to enter. The waiting room is sparse, a few magazines on a coffee table, one painting on the wall, a print of an O’Keefe: a big, beautiful, open, scarlet tulip. There’s an occasional clack of the typewriter.

He puts his focus on his task for a few minutes. He completes his history and the questionnaire and signs the contract. He pulls his rangy frame up and with his ghost-white-red-freckled hand he offers the papers to the secretary. There is a just-perceptible lighter circle under the white and red fine hair on his ring finger. Her gnarled hand reaches up and takes his offering. The office is eerily hushed. He sits back down. He turns the pages of a dated New Yorker magazine with a slight rustle. He fidgets and watches her from the corner of his eye. Without looking up or speaking she gets up and slides his documents through a slot beside the door.

Minutes later the clock turns 3:50. The door to Bronstein’s office opens quickly. A suave man in his late sixties with close-cut silver hair and a goatee, immaculately dressed in a black-on-black suit, walks out of the office. He leaves the office without acknowledging Swift or the secretary. Bronstein’s shuts his office door without peering out.

Swift shrugs and turns back to the magazine. Ten minutes later Bronstein emerges, a short, slight, balding, grey-haired man in a worn, rumpled, grey suit and brown-striped tie wearing thick, tortoise shell glasses. As if in fearful recognition, he momentarily hesitates when he scans Swift’s size and shape. He walks over and introduces himself.

Doctor Swift?

Swift nods, pulls off his rectangular, wire rim glasses and scrambles to rise. The magazine falls to the floor.

Yes, hi, he answers, extending his hand. He awkwardly twists to pick up the magazine at the same time.

As Swift reaches his height, Bronstein, a head and neck below him, looks into his chest.

I’m Dr. Philip Bronstein, he says, jerking his head up and reaching to shake hands. Nice to meet you. Why don’t you come in?

Bronstein’s fingers are delicate, feminine. He pulls his hand back quickly, closing his fist so his fingers won’t be seen. He extends his tiny fist to the open door in invitation.

*     *     *

WILLIAM SWIFT’S FIRST ANALYTIC SESSION

4:02 PM

Inside the office there is a large, simple, dark, oak table that serves as a desk. It holds files, pictures and a small tape recorder. There are two chairs facing each other. Alongside one of the chairs is an analyst’s couch. The walls hold abstract pen and ink drawings.

You’ve read the contract? Bronstein asks.

Swift nods assent.

Good. Therefore you know I tape sessions, Bronstein says.

He pushes Start on the machine. He doesn’t look for a reply. He turns and opens his hand to the chair opposite. He takes the black leather Eames chair near the couch.

Swift perches with apprehension.

Strange, Bronstein says, I was sure I recognized you for a moment. But now I’m not so sure. Have we met?

Not formally, Swift replies.

Make yourself comfortable, Bronstein says, adjusting himself.

Thanks, Swift says. He sits back.

Alright then, shall we start? Are you okay? You say not formally?

Yes, just fine. That secretary of yours though, not the warmest woman I’ve ever met, Swift says, in an attempt at humor.

There’s a pause.

He smiles awkwardly.

Bronstein smiles back through the insult.

Yes, he says, I hear you. It’s a trade off for loyalty and effectiveness. Bernstein persists. You suggest we’ve met informally?

Yes, once. But first, speaking about knowing each other, may I ask, do you know Hymen Weiss?

Uh, yes. I know him. Why do you ask? Bronstein says. His attention roused, he’s slightly taken aback.

Well, what I need help with is related to him. So I need assurance about confidentiality?

Come now, Bronstein challenges, you’re a doctor. You know medical ethics. I trust you haven’t killed someone.

He pauses and stares to his left out the window.

Nothing you tell me leaves this room without your permission, he says curtly, slowly turning back to face Swift.

Yes, well, I know, but I wanted to ask. How well do you know him? Is he a good friend?

Bronstein hesitates, considers, and speaks rapidly, No, no, he’s a colleague. Our connection is professional, historical. We were both analyzed by Bion in London. We have similar theoretical leanings. It’s interesting you mention him though.

After he returned from England to Boston he presented a paper during a visit to the Society. The paper was on what he called ‘Cumulative Stress’. He wanted to show the similarities between psychotic and scientific thinking. It was an interesting, well received contribution.

He suddenly slows down, becoming wistful and reflective.

But after this presentation he seemed to disappear. There was gossip he was in trouble over some patient in Boston. Then he moved down here a couple of years ago. He sees patients in his home up in Shaunessy.

Bronstein swallows hard with shock. He has completely let go of the protection of the transference and they haven’t even begun. He knows he not only said a way too much but he committed an egregious lie of omission: Six months after his father’s funeral he