He blinked and laughed deeply; he squared his shoulders and edged forward.

Fred's blue eyes darted nervously, the kitten's back arched and he scampered under a sofa.

Barrett too flinched at the abrupt shift in her patient.

"Where to start?" He shot his trembling hands into the s.p.a.ce between their chairs. "A strong vibrato is all well and good, but this gets to be a problem." His eyes narrowed to slits and his voice was breathy as though the words were being squeezed from his chest.

"It affects your playing," she commented, pressing back into her chair, her mouth dry, feeling unprepared to deal with this.

"It does. Any chance I could entice you into a duet or two?"

"That's not why I'm here. Tell me more about you and the medication."

"This is such an old story," he replied, putting his hands down. "If you're not a freak before you take the pills, they turn you into one."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember what he ... I ... used to look like?"

"Yes, we discussed that last week."

"Well most of that was because of the pills. The first thing they had me on was Mellaril and I finally convinced them to stop it because it made me grow b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Which I was having enough problems without having them turn me into a woman."

"What kind of problems?"

He lunged forward in his chair.

Barrett tensed, fearing he might attack.

He stood and looked at her with a perplexed expression. "I want to show you something," he walked over to a bank of bookcases, opened a gla.s.s door and took out a double-sided bra.s.s picture frame. "This was me," he handed it to Barrett.

Barrett felt the cool metal as she looked into the brilliant blue eyes of an adolescent Jimmy. To say he was beautiful would miss the mark. The photographer had caught him with a ray of light that cut across wheat-blond hair, cornflower-blue eyes, and flawless skin. It was an angel's face. The frame was hinged, and on the other side was the matching portrait of Ellen. She too was lovely, but where Jimmy's features were delicate and feline, hers had a squarer, almost masculine, cast.

"I was seventeen in that picture. I didn't look much different from that when I went into Croton ..." he stood behind his chair and stared at Barrett. "Can you imagine what happens to boys who look like that in places like Croton?"

"It couldn't have been easy."

Jimmy sank back into his chair. He retrieved his pictures from Barrett and put them in his lap. " Easy? ... there aren't words to cover it."

"What happened?"

"How did we get here?"

"You were telling me reasons why you didn't like the pills, and how the Mellaril gave you gynecomastia." She heard the words leave her mouth. She sounded canned, and resisted the urge to look at her watch.

"b.r.e.a.s.t.s ... that's right. Even when I gained all that weight they still came after me."

"You were raped?"

"Yes."

"Did you report it?"

"I'm surprised," he said.

"About?"

"I would have thought you'd already know this. Unless you're playing some kind of game where you want to see if the story I tell is the same one in the record. Which is it, Dr. Conyors? Is this a game?"

"No. I've been meaning to go back through your Croton records, but they're archived on microfilm and I haven't had the chance."

"Good. I would hate to think that you'd play games around something like this. To come into my house and ask me about things best left alone."

"You don't have to talk about this."

"I don't, do I ... but then what will go into your report? How will you label me? Do I become resistant or is the term noncompliant? Either way, I hold few cards. It's funny-not haha-but sad how, if I'd gone to regular jail, I would have gotten out much sooner and there'd be none of this constant surveillance. But we were too young to know what was going on."

"We?"

"Ellen and I."

"What did she have to do with your going to Croton?"

"Nothing, but if she'd known ... it would have been different."

"Interesting ... It's not easy to successfully argue a not guilty by reason of insanity defense. There has to be clear and convincing evidence for a judge to even allow it to be presented."

"Look around you," he said. "Things go differently if you have money."

"So you think you purchased that defense?"

"Well, let's say that my parents were not eager to have their son's face plastered all over the dailies. It was more ... palatable for me to be crazy."

"So they were the ones who pushed for the defense."

"Yes ... although I freely admit that I wasn't in my best frame of mind at the time."

"You heard voices."

"I did."

"Do you still?"

He paused, "At times."

"Inside or outside your head?"

"Outside."

"Do you recognize the voices?"

"Usually."

"Who are they?"

He scratched his head, "I have the feeling I shouldn't be telling you all of this."

"Why?"

"Because it always ends up hurting me when I let people know this stuff."

"Jimmy, I've known hundreds of people who hear voices. What you're telling me now ... it's okay. Do you recognize the voices?"

"It's usually the same one ... my father."

"What kind of things does he say?" she asked, trying to brush aside intrusive images of Ralph. The refrigerated drawer sliding open, the official asking, "Is that your husband?"

Jimmy c.o.c.ked his head to the side.

"Can you hear him now?" Barrett asked.

"No. He's been quieter the past few days. Can't say that I miss him."

"Why's that?"

"Well ... boy, this an interesting one. How do I even begin to tell you about my father? And the funny thing is, I want to tell you." His eyes burned with intensity, "I'd like you to understand, and that hasn't been true before."

"You've never told other psychiatrists or social workers about your father?" she asked, observing the mercurial shifts in his posture, voice, and att.i.tude. And realizing that she wasn't up to the challenge of the session; she shouldn't have come.

"I suppose I have, but not really. I mean, you learn what to say and what not to say. And more importantly, how to say it."

"It sounds like you didn't get along with your father."

He inhaled deeply, letting the air hiss between his front teeth. "Sometimes I got along great with Father. You've seen my cello," he turned in his chair and looked at the gleaming instrument perched in its cradle next to the piano.

"It's lovely."

"Father got me that. He bought it at auction and paid nearly a quarter of a million dollars; it's worth much more than that now."

"Impressive," she commented, glancing at his cello, the piano that was well over a hundred grand, the intricately carved antique furniture, oil paintings and sculptures and realized that she was sitting in a room with furnishings that totaled in the millions.

"The night he bought it for me, he came into my room and sodomized me; it wasn't the first time and it wasn't the last. For the longest time I couldn't remember that he'd done those things to me, but lately it's been coming back. Just a few weeks ago I was playing the Brahms E Minor and I remembered that birthday; I was eight."

"You have flashbacks?" she asked.

"Doesn't everybody?" he tried to smile.

"I'm really sorry, Jimmy." Her own grief resonating with his, her tears dangerously close.

"It's not your fault, and just because my father couldn't keep his d.i.c.k in his pants, it's not like the end of the world."

"Where was your mother?"

"I think I told you the first time you came here, that I did not have a normal childhood. Mother had her own ... issues."

"Such as?"

"She and Father were kind of like an arranged marriage. I'm not even convinced that they had s.e.x together. Did you know they were second cousins?"

"So you don't think your father was your biological father?"

"G.o.d only knows. I don't think she could stand to have him touch her."

"It sounds like a nightmare, the kind of thing no child should ever have to endure; it's amazing you made it through."

"I had Ellen. We had each other and that's all there was to it." And then, in a voice almost too soft to hear, "Hansel and Gretel."

"Did your father molest her, as well?"

"No. He never did. I seemed to be the sole focus of his attention. And the funny thing is, it made Ellen jealous."

"Really?"

"Yeah, isn't that strange? I would have given anything to have those footsteps pa.s.s by my room, but they never did." He glanced over his shoulder, "I can still hear them coming down the hallway. This dull rhythmic thud getting closer and louder, that's why I don't sleep in that room anymore."

"Where do you sleep?"

He smiled, "This is sick ... in Mother's room, because I know there's no way in h.e.l.l he's going there."

"Both of your parents died while you were in Croton. How did you deal with that?" she asked.

"I was glad."

"Do you think about them much?"

"As far as I'm concerned Father never really left, and Mother ... what can I say," he shrugged his shoulder, "her legacy lives on."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing really," he looked down at the pictures in his lap.

"You were going to say something about her."

"Boy, you really want the gory details. I'm not sure we have time, the hour must be nearly up."

"There's time," she said.

"Great ... Mother had a thing for the hired help. Father did too, but his taste ran more toward the paperboy-but that's another story. I know this sounds strange, but you have to remember, I thought this was normal. Mother liked to play games with the drivers and the gardeners. You'd think she would have had the sense to conduct her affairs somewhere else."