Other Shoes, Other Feet

OTHER SHOES, OTHER FEET

  A Short Story By

  David Lee Howells

  Copyright 2013

  Close One Door

  A heavy-set, brunette, Caucasian receptionist had just completed another duty that, to her mind, was one of the thousand things she did every day to keep this place running. If it weren’t for her, not one of these falutin’ ‘health professionals’ would get anything done. That couple she just sent to their [down the hall on the right/second door to your left/you are expected] destination was just another grain of sand in her dune of responsibilities. A soft beep announced the next sand grain on her plate.

  “Bandwidth Mental Health Services, Ms. Lister speaking, how can I help you? [pause]. I’m sorry sir, but Dr. Filbin is on vacation. Dr. Megglenech is filling in for her this week. I can put you through to Dr. Megglenech’s assistant or Dr. Filbin’s voice mail. [Pause.] Very well…”

  Joyce and Charles Baxter proceeded down the hallway; the receptionist’s voice starting to fade blessedly into the distance. Though professional in bearing, her voice had a certain invading quality that actually had some people sensitive to irritating sounds activate a little-known muscle in the ear canal. The tensor tympanum muscle typically came into play at rock concerts and on the decks of aircraft carriers, when sound levels threatened to vibrate the ear drum to the point of actual tearing. It was the only muscle that acted without another muscle as a partner.

  Joyce and Charles weren’t acting like partners, either. Not like they used to, anyway. Despite the narrow hall, they walked side by side not out of solidarity, but rather feelings balanced between mistrust and not wanting to be…to be what? Attacked? Made fun of? Abandoned?

  In the journey from home to court-mandated therapy the couple’s minds followed similar paths of consideration. Their first meeting was idyllic; a moonlight river cruise sponsored by the Chamber of Commerce. Both had individually opted away from the DJ-produced classics of the 80’s and 90’s in the second deck enclosed party room. Both preferred just seeing the moon and stars, and listening as the bow plowed through the historic Hudson’s eventual contribution to the Atlantic Ocean.

  They met and connected almost as if programmed to do so, and both had felt that some guiding angel had been given the low down on where to find the other’s soul mate. By the end of the trip, Charles had his arm holding onto hers. It was a bit of a gender role reversal, but that just told Joyce that Charles wasn’t bound to stereotypes. That seemed right to her, and attractive.

  Their pastimes were also a little outside the norm. Though both were clearly man and woman in appearance and interests, both also crossed traditional gender boundaries in where some of their interests lay. Joyce liked mechanical things, and belonged to a radio-controlled airplane club, ‘The Buzz Boys’. Charles belonged to a gym, but frequented aerobics classes and modified his free weights program, leaning more to tone and body-fat focus than bulking up. He also liked fiddling with origami. Any co-worker who made fun of him quieted down when he saw how female coworkers appreciated the occasional paper grasshopper or dragon gift. Joyce had a collection of those gifts, and had more than once over the past year considered tossing them into the oven and do an ‘auto-clean’ cycle.

  What had happened? The proposal was classic, imaginative and romantic. The engagement could only be described as a blossoming experience. The wedding was the talk of both their extended families, combining meaning with simplicity with elegance.

  Two weeks after the honeymoon (a Norwegian Line cruise to Alaska), things began to unravel. There was a nervous energy growing that put short fuses on bombs that neither knew existed. At first, small tiffs were later laughed off as newlywed’s adaptation syndrome and offered a great reason for make up sex.

  Those anger and resentment events began to get larger, more often, and more serious. By six months’ time, there had been two calls for domestic disturbance responded to by City Police. The third call, six weeks later, had officers breaking down the door when their calls and door-pounding went unanswered, likely due to the overpowering screams and curses from within. Their forced entry gave them witness to Joyce chasing Charles around the sofa with a baseball bat, fury in her eyes, and fear in his.

  The Judge at the station, when hearing it was the wife with the Louisville Slugger weapon, raised an eyebrow. Looking at the two before him, they seemed so normal appearing. He was six foot even, she was five-seven. He was well-proportioned; she was slender but showed some clear muscle definition. She was attacking him? He was screaming like a teenage girl at a rock concert, according to the arresting officer? Violence was bad enough, but role reversal violence that some might find refreshing (particularly feminists, in this case) he found confusing.

  Added to that, the couple seemed clueless on what started the argument, or even what the argument was about. One of them he could understand, and attribute the mental schism as a possible mental illness factor, but it was both of them that were mystified. Were there demons in their condo pulling his and her strings? If so, this had the combined flavor of The Omen and Beetlejuice. Or, were there some kind of fumes involved? Was someone running a meth lab nearby? For heaven’s sakes, the couple even dressed yuppie-like. Who ever heard of ‘condo-trash’?

  There was a Certified Social Worker on duty, so the Judge bought some eye-uncrossing time by having both speak to Ms. Wu Singh, LCSW. Two hours later, just short of the end of the Judge’s shift, the couple and Ms. Singh returned to the waiting area benches. There were others waiting their turn, but between the fact that this was a return trip and that he was very curious on the case, the Baxters were given priority.

  The LCSW and the couple approached the bench. Ms. Singh was given the nod to speak.

  “Your Honor, the Baxters have a problem that is beyond my abilities to identify or suggest more than a generic therapy protocol. I find both are aware, communicative, and apparently mentally healthy in all arenas I had time to give a cursory review to. Both people show a desire to find out what the matter is, and I can detect no attempts to sidestep or smokescreen. When was the last repeat domestic disturbance case to come before you where neither of the couple would find fault with the other? These two people love each other, when they’re not busy trying to assassinate or run for their life. I recommend further investigation by either a psychologist or psychiatrist, and it is my opinion that hypnosis (“ahem, wink”) may be required to locate the triggering mechanisms neither person here is able to recognize and I can’t catch a sniff of.

  “Also, I recommend the two retreat to separate living quarters so that they will live long enough to overcome whatever it is that is affecting their mental patterns so dramatically.”

  The Judge looked at the frightened and confused-looking couple. “You have heard the report by the Social Worker. I find her counsel reasonable and worth following. You have a choice. I can remand you to seek the counselor of your choice, or have you, Mrs. Baxter, assigned a jail cell for attempted assault, assuming you, Mr. Baxter, are willing to fill out the complaint paperwork.”

  The couple readily agreed to the former option. The woman said she could move in temporarily with her sister, who lived only ten miles away and had offered her residence to her after previous marital battles.

  “Ms. Singh, given the unique nature of this couple’s situation, are you able to offer them a list of three qualified professionals that they may choose among. Mr. and Mrs. Baxter, we are required to give you a choice of three professionals at the minimum. Who you choose is up to you. We are not allowed to make that choice for you. I’m sure you will choose the provider who will give you results that will ‘last-one’ more thing. Good luck. Ca
se is tabled until the ‘final’ report is received. May you get to the ‘bottom-line’ of this.”

  The gavel banged, the Judge retired as all stood up, the night Judge entered, and those still waiting sat down. The Baxters and Ms. Singh exited to the other side of the screening device. There, they picked up anything metal that could have been used as a weapon and anything chemical that might have been fashioned into an explosive device.

  Ms. Singh took some stationary from her purse and wrote in a column three names that had ‘Dr.’ in front of them, making sure to use her thumbnail to crease the last of the three in the list. If these people didn’t get her clue on top of all the others the Judge gave them, then they needed brain transplants.

  The husband reached out for the paper. “I’ll hold onto that.”

  “Oh? Why should you be the one? Leaving me out of the loop again?”

  “You lose things, Joyce. We’ll both go over it, but I wanted to make sure it was in a safe place.”

  “What the hell are you saying? I’m brainless? Who died and made you the boss and judge. We just went to a judge. I don’t want another judge. I don’t want ANY judge!”

  “No wonder, because any judge would sentence you to the funny farm or a camp for the terminally bossy!”

  “STOP!!!”

  Charles and Joyce Baxter blinked, shook their heads, and looked at where the command had issued from. Joyce said, “Ms. Singh? What just happened?”

  Instead of answering, Wu Singh wrote down the same three names on another paper. That she gave to the wife after underlining the last name, apologizing that her pen had accidentally slipped. She made sure both had driven their own vehicles, and then personally escorted them both to their cars and made sure they left, one at a time, away from the station. She leaned against a police cruiser, blew out through pursed lips, and then said a silent prayer in support of Dr. Grossman.