Chapter 37
Sam stares at the notes he jotted down in one of the grid-lined notebooks Albert brought up from his office yesterday.
Client initials: KJ
Marital status: Newlywed
Presenting problem: Got married in a secret ceremony in Mexico and is feeling conflicted. Also devoid of a conscience, grandiose sense of self-importance, and exploits others without guilt or shame.
Treatment plan:
Sam pauses to think about it.
Annulment, followed by round-the-clock therapy in an inpatient environment and a lifetime ban on interacting with impressionable young women.
Pretty good, Sam thinks, dropping the pen on top of the copy of In Touch magazine with Kris Jenner on the cover. Kris Jenner: his imaginary patient Nancy Neumann （Tuesday, 10 a.m.） had accidentally brought the magazine in from the waiting room and left it on the side table in his office. It included a famous actress’s weight-loss program and a two-page interview with the cover girl, which he is bored enough to have read four times in the last six hours. He grips the arms of the chair and begins a set of tricep dips, telling himself that’ll be him one day, on the cover of all the magazines.
Therapist Held Captive by Landlord Speaks!
Dr. Sam Statler, pictured here, at home with his wife Annie and two perfectly good legs, escaped after murdering his deranged landlord, Albert Bitterman, in a tremendously violent manner. He says the experience only made him a better man.
The ladies of The View will dig up a photo of Albert as a kid and beg to know more about him. Sam will use a professional tone, and explain that according to his assessment, Albert Bitterman is, as they’d say in the business, batshit crazy.
A picture is emerging. Emotionally stunted by his mother’s death at a young age, Albert was left in the care of an abusive and distant father, whose ideas of masculinity were at odds with his son’s sensitive nature. As an adult, he was deathly afraid of rejection, making it difficult to form attachments, leading to a lonely and isolated existence and an obsession with his tenant, whom he would eventually attack with a shovel and then keep him captive in his house. The ladies will all want to know the same thing—why was Albert Bitterman, a single fifty-one-year-old man, living alone in a five-bedroom mansion in the first place? But Sam will only shrug, explaining that this was one topic Albert wouldn’t touch. Twice now Sam has broached the subject, asking what brought him to Chestnut Hill, sending Albert abruptly out of the room both times.
He starts another series of reps, imagining the live studio audience cheering his bravery for surviving an entire week without Annie. One week, that’s how long Sam’s been in this room. He’s been keeping track on the hand-drawn October calendar Annie made, which he found folded inside the academic paper Albert also brought up from downstairs. Pink-and blue-shaded boxes, “Visits to Yo Mama!” written across the top in Annie’s perfect handwriting. Each morning Sam makes a light mark, keeping track of another day.
Annie’s one of the smartest people Sam has ever met, which means that it’s only a matter of time before she knocks on the door of Sam’s （lonely and apparently deranged） landlord to ask if he’s seen Sam. Or maybe she won’t even have to knock. Maybe she’ll drive by and see Sam’s car in the driveway—because where else would it be? She’ll do the smart thing and call the police, who will confirm that it’s Sam’s car, and then open the door and ask if he’d like to go home.
Then again, maybe she’s not looking. Maybe, instead, she’s discovered the variety of ways he’s been lying to her. Chances are she’s going to open the credit card bills that are likely arriving in their mailbox, addressed to her missing husband. He hates himself for chickening out and not telling her the truth like he’d planned. The events of that evening have been on repeat in his head—the speech he’d rehearsed all day, preparing to spill everything. The made-up money. The credit card debt. The fact he hasn’t visited his mother. And then the invitation from “Charlie” arrived, which Annie had obviously sent from their driveway, inviting him to trade in all his worries for an evening of incredible sex. How could he say no?
His triceps are stinging as he slides his casts to the edge of the ottoman and then onto the floor. Using his hands, he pulls himself around the room, from one stupid end to the other, dragging his useless legs behind him. He passes the door to the hallway （locked!）， the wall with the window （boarded up!）， pausing after the tenth lap to catch his breath. When he rotates the chair and begins to move again, he notices a flash of silver on the floor underneath the nightstand. The toilet flushes upstairs, and he checks the clock on the floor: 8:46 p.m. Albert will be down any minute to put him into bed. Quietly, Sam scoots himself forward to the nightstand. He reaches down.