Does Carolyn inherit a bag of debts from her mother? Does Mike quit therapy now that he has everything he wants? Does Marsha decide to get pregnant? JUST ACROSS THE STREET IN NEW YORK CITY has answers, and then, more questions. Keep reading!

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“You must like that table,” Pat Knolles said.

Mike glanced up without focusing on anything in particular in the therapist’s office.

“The table,” Pat repeated. “You’re drumming your fingers on it.”

“It bothers you?” Mike asked, with a sly grin.

Pat answered with another question, “Are you angry, Mike? Nervous?”

Mike looked to his left, trying to avoid the sightline of the man slouched in the swivel naugahyde chair. It looked more comfortable than the over-sized club chair he sat in. He shifted the pillow behind his back, and crossed his left calf on top of his right knee.

“I got a manicure yesterday,” Mike said.

Pat nodded.

Mike took a breath and finally looked Pat in the eyes. “I’ve been coming here over a year. Every week.”

“Except vacations,” Pat quipped. “We both take a lot of vacations.”

“I’m not laughing, Pat. I don’t remember why I came in the first place. I don’t want to be here. I want to go home and never come back.” He felt like a dam burst, and he couldn’t stop repeating himself. “It’s not you, Pat. I like you. But I don’t want to be here. It’s not doing me any good.”

Pat noticed that Mike wasn’t tapping his nails anymore. He said, “Do you want me to remind you why you first came to visit me?”

“Don’t start up with the psychological questions. Talk straight to me. I want out. I’m tired of analyzing myself.”

Pat reached for the pack of cigarettes on his desk, took one out, and lit up. “I want to stop smoking. You’d think a psychologist could get himself to quit something he knew was bad, wouldn’t you?”

“That’s one of your left-handed questions again,” Mike said.

Pat laughed. “Sorry. Occupational hazard, Mike. Okay. I hear you. That’s the right jargon, isn’t it? I hear you. You want out. Nobody is forcing you to come here, you know that. You didn’t sign a contract.”

Pat inhaled another lung-full of smoke. “If it weren’t for cancer, it’d be a great habit.” Then he turned his attention back to Mike. “I like your $125 every week. I even like you. You’re the sort of person I’d want to play golf with. If you weren’t a client.”

“I don’t play golf.”

“It was a metaphor,” Pat smiled. “First, you came to me for the personality tests your wife’s lawyer wanted. Then you kept coming, I think because you wanted to stop having dreams about Nicky. When was the last dream you had?” Pat asked.

Mike hung his hands in the triangle between his crossed legs, and answered, “Probably a month ago. Or maybe a couple of weeks.”

“So, your life has changed. The bad dreams are less frequent. Yeah, maybe it’s time to quit therapy. That’s fine.”

Mike looked at Pat from the side of his eyes, and said, “You don’t think it’s fine.”

“I think it’s fine. Later, when the divorce is finalized, if you want, you’re welcome to come back. Or you might want to talk about empowering yourself in work, whether it’s accounting or acting. Then there’s the thing about sex. Maybe there are better sleeping potions and ego enhancers than sex. And your daughters — if you get anxious about being a single dad, let me know.”

Mike looked at his watch. He had less than 15 minutes left of the session, and he still hadn’t told Pat his good news. But instead, he said, “I don’t want the nightmares to start up again every night.”

“As long as you like yourself and your life, it’s the perfect time to quit therapy.”

Mike tapped his fingernails on the glass tabletop again.

Pat continued, “There’s no predicting the future, Mike, but I think the dreams are under control.” He snuffed out his cigarette. It was a wonder to him, how he was able to finish a smoke at exactly the right moment to say his exit line. “Our time’s up, Mike.”

Mike didn’t make a move to leave. Instead, he finally burst out with, “I got the role, Pat. The big one, the lead in On the Couch, the one at Off-Center Theatre.”

Pat stood up. It wasn’t the first time Mike left important news until the last minute of his session. It was a sign that Mike saw Pat as a parent-figure who had the power to diminish the importance of the accomplishment. The man wanted so badly to be an actor. Pat was thrilled for Mike, and he said so.

Some color came back into Mike’s face. “Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it?”

Pat put his hand on Mike’s shoulder, and repeated, “Absolutely great! Have you started rehearsals?”

“We had the first read-through. Rehearsals start next week.” He looked Pat in the eyes and added, “Yeah, life’s not so bad right now.”

“Mike, go home. The hour’s up. There’s no problem if you want to quit coming for sessions. Think about it for a week. Consider easing out, maybe one session every two weeks, or once a month until the end of winter. Or just quit. You won’t go crazy, I promise you.”

 When Mike left, Pat shook his head. He recognized the antsy restlessness of a satisfied client. Pat Knolles knew Mike Levine would never lack for professional help in the New York City area, where 500,000 therapists worked. One out of two adults in New York City used a therapist, counselor, psychiatrist, psychologist, therapy group, guidance facilitator, holistic healer, or some other form of mental health support. That statistic included the homeless. One out of four NYC children saw a shrink.

Analysis was more than a business; it was part of city life. At parties, people talked about two things, apartments and therapists. They were the common denominators that strangers could count on. Maybe a man hadn’t seen the newest movie, maybe a woman didn’t want to talk about work. Perhaps the spouse, health, politics, and religion weren’t safe topics. But “What do you pay for your apartment?” and “How often do you see your therapist?” were always good icebreakers.

§§

Mike arrived home at West 22nd Street, climbed the stairs, and sank into his over-sized chair. His apartment didn’t have homey touches, like hanging ferns or colorful potholders. He’d chosen chrome, glass, and leather because they were easy to care for. He had a maid come in on Tuesdays. She took the dirty clothes to the Eighth Avenue laundromat, came back 1½ hour later to iron shirts, change the bed linens, vacuum the fluffy white rug, and scour.

Mike’s white sofa-bed faced the windows overlooking West 22nd Street. Behind it was the dining table, and further back on the left was the kitchen. On the back right wall was the door to the bedroom, where there were two walk-in closets, one for his daughters’ things, and one for his, everything from clothes and shoes to an orange bowling ball.

Mike loosened his tie and headed for the kitchen to make a drink, and then he went to the bedroom to take off his gray worsted suit. He pulled on navy slacks and a snow white, long sleeve polo shirt, adding Bass Weejuns and a leather belt. It was time to pick up Dori Kahn for supper.

Mike preferred Hattie Shaw because she could follow a conversation. And there was an attraction about a woman who supported herself as a singer. Dori, on the other hand, auditioned at cattle calls advertised in Back Stage, and if she got selected, it was for bit parts, usually without pay. The rest of the time, Dori was a word-processing temp, so she was always grateful for a free dinner.

When they arrived at The Dock on Broadway at 89th Street, Dori swooned, “Oh Mike, a restaurant with tablecloths!”

Dori liked sex doggy-style. While Mike ate sautéed softshell crab with snow peas, wild rice, and hush puppies, his mind wandered to the summer after tenth grade. He’d visited a friend with a summer job at a marina. She took Mike for a walk in the woods, where they saw two stray dogs coupling, staggering along on six legs, yowling and yelping.

The dogs reminded him of the time years before when he and his best friend Nicky had thrown stones at two mating dogs, trying to break them apart.

That’s what they’d been doing when the shot rang out and a red splotch had started growing on Nicky’s neck, running down his pale blue shirt collar. Nicky’s knees folded, and he fell down with his mouth and eyes gaping open in surprise.

Mike stared at Nicky twitching on the ground. The hunters came running toward the boys. Then a grey jeep arrived to take Nicky to the hospital, where he was operated on. Nicky recovered, and now he was an assistant DA in Hartford.

After the main course, Dori and Mike skipped dessert and took a cab back to West 22nd Street.

§§

Toulousa paid the driver while Marsha ran around to the other side of the taxi to help Carolyn get out. The big woman moved slowly, getting her feet out and placing them solidly underneath her. Toulousa and Marsha flanked her, lifting under her arms, until Carolyn was steady on the sidewalk with the little blue bundle held to her chest.

The January wind whipped around them, and the feeble sunshine didn’t warm them up at all. Carolyn looked up at the 2nd floor windows. It was her apartment now that her mother was gone. Her legs wobbled, and Toulousa and Marsha tightened their grip on her.

Marsha unlocked the building’s door, asking, “Do you want to rest in my apartment before climbing up?”

Carolyn shook her head, answering, “No. We’re ready.”

When they got to the landing, they realized Carolyn didn’t have a purse, didn’t have a key, and no one was inside to answer the door.

“There’s a spare key on top of the third-floor door frame,” Carolyn said.

Toulousa took the stairs two at a time going up to the next landing. Coming back with the key, she said, “It’s a good thing I’m tall.”

“That door goes directly into Mother’s bedroom,” Carolyn said. Then she seemed to hear what she’d said, and her face fell.

“It’s alright,” Marsha said softly, putting her arm around Carolyn’s shoulder to usher her through the open door. “Let’s think about your beautiful new baby. It’s the first time he’s seen his home.”

“It doesn’t feel like home without Mother,” Carolyn said.

Marsha couldn’t keep herself silent, “Maybe it’s better that she’s not here.” She had tossed out the poisoned cookies two days ago, but she hadn’t changed her mind about the world being better off without Lydia Duffy, her abuse, and her mean selfishness.

“Marsha!” Toulousa chided, not believing Marsha could say such a thing.

Carolyn’s blue eyes filled up, her chin quivered, and tears ran down her cheeks. “It’s so empty here,” she blubbered. Her shoulders shook, but her arms stayed curled around Bert’s blanket. When the baby joined in with his own wails, Carolyn shushed herself and turned her attention to him.

Taking a breath, Toulousa launched in, “You’re not going back to work for a while, Carolyn.”

“Three weeks,” Carolyn answered. “The doctor told me. The stitches come out in another week, and two weeks after that, I’ll be ready.”

Marsha said, “But you can’t lift anything more than 10 pounds for six weeks.”

“Bert won’t gain that much weight,” Toulousa laughed.

“I have to get back to work soon. I have to feed Bert, so I have to work.”

“Let’s get you settled, and then we’ll plan your future,” Marsha said. “Your bedroom’s upstairs?”

Carolyn looked up the stairs. “Pete’s not going to be with me,” she murmured and started crying again.

Toulousa rolled her eyes and got up, going to the kitchen to get Carolyn a glass of water. When she handed the water to Carolyn, she was firm, “We’ve been through this, Carolyn. Like his mother said, he’s young, too young to take on a responsibility like Bert.”

“But…, but he told me…,” Carolyn hiccupped.

It was Marsha’s turn to shush Toulousa with a glare. “He loved you, Carolyn. He still loves you, I’m sure. But he’s too scared to be a daddy.”

Ignoring Marsha’s frown Toulousa added, “You’re the same age as his mother, Carolyn. If you were his mom, you’d make him quit his job so he’d settle down to finish high school.”

Carolyn kept crying, and it was getting on Toulousa’s nerves. Putting her hands over her ears, she said, “It sounds like we’ve got a hundred babies in here. I’m going out to get groceries.”

Marsha jumped up from the couch. “That’s a great idea, Toulousa. You go, and we’ll get moving here. How about I look around for official documents your mother might have left? Bank accounts or records for the apartment building?”

Carolyn’s sniffles didn’t stop, but she nodded, so Toulousa left, and Marsha started poking around the desk at the far end of the living room, turning up her nose at the musty smells.

By the time Toulousa returned, Marsha had a pile of papers in front of her, and Carolyn was breast feeding Bert.

“What’d you find?” Toulousa asked.

“Sit down,” Marsha commanded.

Toulousa did as she was told, but said, “Don’t get used to me obeying your orders.”

“She found Mother’s will,” Carolyn said.

“Or at least a will. We’re not sure if it’s the most recent one.”

Toulousa shrugged. “You’re her only daughter, right? She owned this building, so it comes to you. There’s no surprise in that.”

Marsha nodded. “You’re right. Carolyn inherits everything. It’s the ‘everything’ that’s the surprise.”

Toulousa waited.

Carolyn said, “It sounds like Mother had more money than I thought.”

Marsha came over to Toulousa and handed her a file folder. “She must have had more than this apartment building. Look at the taxes she paid last year.”

Toulousa clacked her tongue, pushing the folder away. “Do I look like I have a degree in economics? Tell me the bottom line.”

Carolyn pulled her shirt down to cover her breast. She lifted the sleeping baby to her shoulder with one hand. “Mother paid almost $20,000 in taxes last year.”

Marsha opened the folder and ran her finger down a column of numbers. “Lydia had a net income of $320,000 for 1998. Net.”

“Net?” Toulousa asked.

“After all her deductions. In other words, the round figure of $10,000 that I paid in rent was only a fraction of her income. She didn’t work. Carolyn says she didn’t own property. She’d have to have a couple of million in investments to earn an income over $300,000.”

Toulousa’s eyes were wide open, showing white all around the iris. “Wow! The groceries I bought came to $67.43. You can pay me back tomorrow.” She cocked her head and added, “I’m not joking.”

Carolyn leaned her head back, rubbing Bert’s back. “But Mother always complained that my paycheck didn’t cover the cost of me living here. It doesn’t make sense.”

“It makes sense,” Marsha said. “She was a miser.”

“Marsha, you’re talking about the dead. Show some respect,” Toulousa snapped.

If Carolyn hadn’t been sitting in front of her with red-rimmed eyes, Marsha would have emphasized that they were all better off with Lydia dead, but she kept the thought to herself.

The buzzer from downstairs rang, and Marsha cursed, “Shit! They should know not to ring. They’ll wake up Bert.”

Toulousa stood up and said dryly, “You know who ‘they’ is?”

Marsha scowled, “No. But they should know.”

Toulousa went to the intercom and buzzed in the grocery delivery man.

Once the bags were situated in the kitchen, Marsha picked up the conversation again. “The tax form has the name of the accountant who did the work. I want Carolyn to call him.”

“Well, yeah,” Toulousa agreed.

Carolyn shook her head no.

“Why not?” Toulousa asked.

“That kind of stuff is confidential. He wouldn’t tell me anything. Besides, I just got out of the hospital.”
            “And that means you’re a deaf-mute? Who else is he going to talk to? Lydia’s ghost? You’re Lydia’s daughter. Of course he’ll tell you what you need to know,” Toulousa said. She went to the phone, and said, “I’ll call. What’s the number?”