Small Details

When Z. was away at a psychoanalytic conference in Rome, her patient D. came into her home office for his Tuesday-afternoon therapy appointment. He probably sat in her waiting room for a couple of minutes, then walked into her office and looked at her desk, her drawers, her black record book where she writes down payments. She had a lot of cash hidden in the left cover.

He might or might not have taken some of the cash. He might or might not have found the copy of the talk she was going to be giving about him in Rome, titled “The Psychotherapy Session as a Thriller.” Did she or didn't she lock her file cabinet before she left for the airport in her typical rush? She knew she did not ask D.'s permission to tell his story—their story—breaking confidentiality, exposing the shady details of his secret gambling, womanizing, and drug dealing. He might or might not have stolen into her bedroom, snuck into her bed, hiding under the covers, pretending he was her lover or her son, checking her bedside table, looking at the labels of her medicines, trying on her night cream and perfume, searching for signs of men, other men, husbands, lovers. Was it he who stole her Mexican turquoise bracelet or her silken underwear?

Then he walked into the kitchen (didn't he?), nibbling on her leftover pasta puttanesca, drinking her Montepulciano, finishing off her half-eaten pear. Was it then that he, her boy, walked in to find a wild-eyed stranger in their home? He might or might not have been pretty startled, scared, freaked out. But D., walking into one of his favorite roles as the maître d'—charming, seductive, taking charge—probably offered him a glass of wine, asking him about her. The boy asked D. to leave immediately. D. told the boy he would, yet invited him to have a drink, apologizing that the pasta was all gone. D. asked the boy where his mother was and told him he was her patient.

The boy might or might not have believed him. He was very anxious, trying to figure out his next ste