Masked Intentions

1 The first time I laid eyes on Toby Rathbone he was sprawled out on the sidewalk, drunk. One leg was sticking out into the street, surrounded by a pile of curled leaves. A cardboard sign, “Will work for food.” lay nearby. I smirked. He sure as hell hadn’t passed out from food, but he wasn’t dressed like your average drunk. From where I stood I could tell that he was wearing an expensive suit, because of the cut and weave of the fabric and how it had laid. His head was turned away so I couldn’t see his face. His dark, almost black hair, had been recently trimmed. I thought about ignoring him and walking away. I am a psychiatrist and I was not in a good mood. I was depressed and I hoped that the half mile or so walk home would clear my head, so I had left my Porsche in my office parking space. I needed to escape the guilt I carried over the deaths of Megan Wilshire and her sister, Sasha. Megan had come to see me, although neither was directly a patient of mine, at least, what we normally attribute a patient to be: one who receives medical care, attention, or treatment. I knew I couldn’t be formally charged with their deaths, but I had pushed the boundaries of my profession. Well-intended, maybe, I had crossed an ethical line. Had I not strayed beyond the proscribed limits of psychiatry they might both be alive. So thinking about myself and not the man in the gutter, I uttered an empathetic sigh, and walked on by. I was about a block away when I turned around and looked back. I couldn’t ignore him. He was in need. He was still there in the same position. He hadn’t budged. The least I could do was to move his leg off the street so someone wouldn’t run over it. As I sauntered back, it occurred to me that he might not be drunk. He could be sick in need of hospitalization. And, I was a medical doctor even though I limited my practice to psychiatry. Maybe the gods had meant for a doctor to pass by when he was in urgent need of care. I was, maybe, half a block away when a squad car pulled up. I shuddered, fearing his leg might have been run over when I observed the leg far free of the car. When the officers exited the black and white, I hesitated, then made an about face and headed home. I wasn’t needed. The cops could handle it. I hadn’t walked very far. Even then, I kept looking over my shoulder. Something–my super ego, my Hippocratic Oath, my curiosity, whatever – was pulling me back. I turned around and approached the two cops who were huddled around the man. Both were young and tall officers whom I did not recognize. Perhaps, they were rookies. “Where are you taking him?” I asked, drawing closer. “To one of the homeless sites. The city’s pushing us to clear the downtown area of the homeless. Bad for business.” I knew all about that. The newspapers were full of stories about how they were bad for business, but rarely were there articles on the multi-layered solutions for the homeless. “Let me check him out. I’m a doctor.” The policemen nodded and moved away from the man. I dropped down to his side and felt the pulse in his neck. He was alive. His breathing seemed normal but he reeked of alcohol. I turned his head. He was lying in vomit and it was amazing he hadn’t choked on it. I moved his head, took out a clean handkerchief from my pocket and cleaned off his face. I left the hanky on the ground, lifted his leg and moved it off the street. He was a young man, near my age, on the short side of forty. I wondered what happened in his life that made him so desperate. I stood and considered my options. I could let the police deal with the man. But I was a shrink and this man needed help. “Aren’t you that psychiatrist, Dr. Garret?” the redheaded officer asked. I nodded and looked into his curious green eyes. “Garrick.” “I’m sure you don’t remember me because we spent maybe a half hour together several years ago but you must remember Debby Darcy. I’m her father.” Immediately my mind flashed to the shy girl dressed in grunge–dark, dirty clothing, knotted hair, and big dark glasses that hid her eyes. I saw her for a good six months. “How is she?” He took a picture out of his wallet and showed it to me. It was a headshot of a beautiful woman with long, shiny, strawberry blonde hair and a sparkle in her green eyes. “She got her BA from George Washington University and is going on to get a Masters in Earth Science. You did a good job, Doc.” “Thanks, but I’m sure you had more to do with her success than I did. She was such a bright girl. I’m glad she’s realizing her potential.” I diverted my eyes back to the man on the ground. “Why don’t I take him from here? I suspect he just passed out and doesn’t have any serious health problems.” “You want him, you got him. He’s all yours Doc.” They headed toward their car. “Say hello to Debbie,” I yelled. They nodded and waved, got into the squad and drove off. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with the man, but I felt good, no longer depressed and feeling sorry for myself. I called Bobby, my brother-in-law, who was subbing for my receptionist. I knew he wouldn’t answer the company phone. My answering service was now picking up those after hour calls. I called his cell. “Yeah.” “You still there?” “I answered the phone.” “Are you still at the office?” “Oh, yeah.” “I’m near Dunkin Donuts. I’m with a guy who needs help. Can you drive my car here?” “I need keys.” “There should be a spare set in my top desk drawer.” I knew Bobby always enjoyed driving my Porsche. “All right. I’ll be right there.” As I waited for Bobby and focused on the man, I couldn’t help but wonder how he, or any of the hundreds of homeless, ended up on the street in this rich country of ours. Where were the safety nets? I bent down and ran my hand over the fabric of his suit coat. The quality of the cloth told me this was not an ordinary homeless man. Unless he stole the coat, this man came from money which made his pandering all the more suspect. It couldn’t have been more than ten, fifteen minutes, later when Bobby pulled up in his bright red mustang. “I couldn’t find the keys.” He stepped out of the vehicle and glanced over at the recumbent man. I opened the door, grabbed the man under his arms. “Give me a hand.” “You’re not putting him in there. He reeks. He’s full of puke and I just detailed this baby.” I rolled my eyes. “I told you to bring my car.” “I couldn’t find the goddamned keys.” “Take his legs.” “Hell no!” He bowed his legs and crossed his arms defiantly. “Drop him. I’ll drive you to your car, then we can come back.” “We’ll put him in your car, drive to mine, then move him to my car. You know I’ll take care of any damage.” Bobby flashed me a look, then grudgingly took the man’s legs and helped get him into the back seat. “f*****g dead weight.” His breathing was heavy. “Next time choose a lightweight. Better yet, use your car.” Bobby didn’t say anything as he drove back to the office but I could sense his anger. Moving the man to my Porsche was even harder because of the tight space. The odor in Bobby’s car was strong. He wanted to leave his windows down to air out but was afraid to leave it open to theft. He locked the car and rolled the windows part way down. The next day I learned that he went home soon after I left so he could air the car out in his drive. So here I was in my sporty car with a stinking drunk, still unconscious, who kept falling towards me, continually forcing me to push him away. There was something about the guy that got to me. Was it my professional training, or was it that I had identified with his situation, remembering my drunken period of a few years ago? I drove to my place and pulled into the garage. I opened the passenger door and struggled with lifting him out of the car. He stirred and tried to help me but his legs were rubber and he kept falling asleep after each slurred “sorry”. I set him in a chair, put a sheet on the couch, removed his suit jacket and shoes, and gave him a shove. His left arm dangled loosely off the couch. That’s when I noticed he wore a Rolex. I wasn’t an expert (my watch was a Fossil) but unless it was a knock-off, it was worth more than my Porsche. I checked his suit jacket. It was a Brunello Cucinelli. I knew that set him back several thousand. I wouldn’t have known that except for a loudmouth stock broker I knew when I belonged to the country club who bragged about his suit. My suit was a Brooks Brothers that I bought off the clearance rack at year’s end. The mystery of my guest deepened. Why was this man begging on the street? I’d have to wait until he woke up to find out. Right now my back was screaming. I took a couple of ibuprofen, went into the kitchen, poured myself a stiff drink, and then sat outside on my patio. He snored like a sawmill, the sound carrying through the slider. I was curious and wondered what I had gotten myself involved in this time. Not wanting to overthink it, I went back inside to get a refill when he sat up and asked to use the bathroom. “Why am I here?” he asked, plopping back onto the sofa. “I thought you’d be more comfortable here than in the street.” He looked at me curiously, suspecting a catch. “I’m your good deed for the day?” “Something like that.” I dropped into an adjacent chair. “I thought this should be good for at least a week, maybe even a month.” “I’m free to go then?” I laughed. “Of course. Do you feel like a prisoner?” “No. You’ve been kind and generous for which I’m most grateful. It’s just that...that...” He scrunched his face, cracked his neck, and took several deep breaths. “...lately I’ve gotten used to being kicked out on my ass.” He looked like he was close to tears. “That calls for an explanation.” He rubbed his eyes. “Make me some coffee and I’ll tell you as much as you’re willing to hear.” I went into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee while he went into the bathroom to wash up and avail himself of aspirins. He looked better when he re-appeared. His hair was combed and he had put on the pajamas I gave him to wear, pajamas I had received as a gift from my son, Kevin that I never wore. We were about the same size. He was a little thicker in the middle but pjs are forgiving. I put his things in the washer and called a service to dry clean his suit overnight. We sat at the kitchen table. He told me his name was Tobias Rathbone and said I should call him Toby. He was the 5th husband of Jacqueline Summerfield, the famous best-selling novelist who was filthy rich and beautiful. Her affairs were commonplace news items even for people like me who didn’t pay much attention to celebrity news. I didn’t know she was a nymphomaniac and continually met her lovers in the guest house. “I suppose I should have known what I was getting into,” Toby said, apologetically, “but she was irresistible. For a year, maybe not quite that long, I was soaring high. My life had peaked. She was sensational and I was living the good life. The life of privilege. People respected and looked up to me. My glass was brimming over.” “So how did you end up on the street?” “I broke in on her and her lover. She was getting sloppy, didn’t even lock the door anymore. She was furious. Her lover left. We had a fight–“ ”You struck her?” “No. Oh, but I wanted to. I wanted to bash her head in. I did push her against the wall once but that was after she was pummeling me with her fists.” He took several swallows of coffee that was cooling off. “Anyways, immediately after, she called her lawyer, filed for divorce, locked me out and got a restraining order against me.” “That still doesn’t explain why you were on the street.” “She did freeze all of our accounts. I’ve got money but it will take me a few days to get it. Actually, I had hoped to embarrass the rich bitch.” “The paparazzi is always around except when you need them?” “Exactly.” “How long have you been drinking?’ “What a dumb question. What drunk do you know that keeps track?” “I ask a lot of dumb questions. I’m a shrink.” “Oh!” He looked at me with greater intensity as if somehow my appearance should have suggested my profession. “My apologies. You weren’t being a smart ass.” “I’ve been known to be such. My question was one of concern. You seem to be on a road that doesn’t end well.” He flinched. I seemed to strike a vulnerability. “How about we save that discussion for another time. I’m tired and still a little groggy. I need to call it a night.” “Sure.” I stood. “Anything else I can get you?” “No, Doc, you’ve been terrific. I can’t thank you enough.” I started to walk away. “Wait. Can you make me a loan? I’ll pay you back when I can get my money.” I pulled my wallet out of my back pocket and pulled out a wad of bills and counted them. “$200,” I said, handing him the money. “Thanks.” He took the Rolex off and handed it to me. “Your security. It’s real.” “You don’t have to do that.” “Please. I do.” I took it, wished him goodnight, and went to my room. I put the Rolex in the back of the bottom drawer in my file cabinet and locked it. I had no need for a safe. As I laid in bed that night it was a relief to find myself thinking of Toby rather than Sasha or Megan.