As Lola
continued her accusatory diatribe—a colorful torrent of incrimination and
condemnation—Jackie’s eyes, which had remained artificially soft and attentive
despite the barbs of Lola’s initial verbal onslaught, momentarily
drifted from Lola’s face, to glance around her office.
Jackie became
aware, as if seeing these objects for the first time, of the warm decorative
touches she’d made to the room so that her clients might feel comfortable
enough to enter that calm confessional state that was thought to be
prerequisite to delving into their inner psyches; a state which made accessible
to “talk therapy” the various psychological wounds that had caused her clients
to place themselves in Jackie’s highly regarded care, in the first place: Warm
wood paneling; a tasteful and not inexpensive reproduction of a Willem de
Kooning painting; a New Yorker cover depicting a Cape Cod summer scene; a vase
of freshly cut flowers—which gave the room a comfortable, non-human living
presence; and some small statuary, including a piece that looked like an
earthen colored Mesoamerican fertility god and a smooth flowing Henry
Moore-like thing.
Lola must
have detected Jackie’s flight of inattention, because the minute Jackie’s eyes
returned to Lola’s anger-contorted face, Jackie heard Lola say. “Are you even
fucking listening to me?”
As Jackie
heard herself calmly respond “Lola, I’ve heard every word you’ve said. You
think I’m sleeping with Richard.” she simultaneously thought to herself, Hmmmmm….This
décor doesn’t seem to be working.
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