Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale by Andrew Kane Read Free Book Online Page B

see the school-shrink every week. He even resisted small talk. Goldman would say, for example, “Did you do anything interesting this weekend?” And Paul would respond, “What business is it of yours what I did this weekend?” Goldman would respond, “Just trying to make conversation,” and Paul would retort, “Well, why don’t you make it with someone else?” Goldman knew that Paul’s anger was really meant for his father. “Transference” was the technical term.
    Sometimes, Paul was mute for an entire session. Goldman would attempt a few openers, but usually ended up staring at the walls or twiddling his thumbs. But he never gave up on Paul and never became exasperated. And in the end, his tenacity paid off.
    At about the same time that Paul started his Bar Mitzvah lessons with Rabbi Weissman. his hostility began to wane, but he still took every opportunity to cancel, come late, or simply forget appointments. Then, gradually, his attendance improved and he began talking. Soon, they were exploring substantive issues, like how Paul felt about the way his parents treated him, or the way they treated one another. Goldman had felt uneasy with the summer break, but was glad that Paul would still be studying regularly with the rabbi. Not therapy, he thought, but somehow therapeutic. Now, with the start of the new school year, Paul had resumed his weekly visits to the psychologist’s office, and was embarking on the most painful course of all—how he felt about himself. Their first session went overtime, and Paul had requested an additional visit for that week.
    Goldman closed the file, somewhat amazed but mostly humbled. He had originally seen this young man as destined for a difficult, sad life. Now, who could tell what the cards held for Paul Sims? Such transformations were rare in Harold Goldman’s business.
     
    Paul knocked on the door at exactly noon. Goldman opened the door as Paul entered and took his usual seat.
    Although the Hewlett Bay Academy was a wealthy school, counseling services were not a budgetary priority. Goldman’s office was a simple, unadorned room, institutional in character. Pale green linoleum, off-white walls, a few pictures of nature scenes, a gun-metal desk, and a single bookcase filled with psychology texts. Goldman sat in a swivel chair, and behind him were a pair of windows covered by dusty venetian blinds turned open to expose a view of the parking lot. Protruding from the bottom of one of those windows was the office’s sole luxury: a rickety old air conditioner with a broken thermostat that was permanently set at high. On hot days such as this, it was either bake or freeze. Goldman chose the latter.
    There was a brief silence in the room. Goldman looked at Paul curiously; he always waited for his patients to initiate.
    “It’s a pretty hot day out there,” Paul said.
    “You asked for an extra session to discuss the weather?” Goldman wasn’t one to waste time on niceties.
    “Well, actually… yes, in a way.”
    Goldman waited for more.
    “It’s the heat, you see. It’s been bothering me a lot lately,” Paul explained.
    “How do you mean?”
    “I’m always hot, no matter where I am. I seem to sweat all the time.”
    Goldman saw that Paul was indeed sweating, despite the frigid office. “Sounds to me like it’s not the weather that’s bothering you,” he observed.
    “Then what is it?”
    “I would guess, from knowing you, that you’re experiencing a great deal of anxiety.”
    “Anxiety?” There was a short silence, while Paul considered this. “Why do you think I’m having anxiety?”
    “ You tell me!”
    “My Bar Mitzvah?”
    “Possibly.” Goldman pondered for a moment, and said, “Do you have any other thoughts on what you might be anxious about?”
    “Well…” Paul stopped himself, without revealing what he was thinking. “No, that’s not it.”
    “Why don’t you say what just came to mind, and we’ll see how irrelevant it is,” Goldman