Mood Swing. Jane Graves

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СКАЧАТЬ forty-five years. Sitting there now between Miss Brass and Miss Class, wearing puke green scrubs and sensible sneakers, she felt like a frumpy nobody.

      “What is your occupation?” Danforth asked.

      Monica tucked a strand of her sleek, dark hair behind her ear with one perfectly polished nail and raised her chin, pausing a moment before speaking, as if she were one of those women who expected everyone to stop whatever they were doing and hang on her every word.

      “I’m an executive assistant,” Monica said, then paused. “Was.”

      “The nature of your offense?”

      “My boss shared some rather disconcerting news with me,” she said. “I was quite justifiably angry, and I let him know how I felt about it.”

      “In what manner did you express those feelings?” Danforth asked.

      She stared at him evenly. “His Hummer may never be the same again.”

      “Oh, yeah?” Tonya said, leaning in, her eyes wide with anticipation. “What exactly did you do to it?”

      Monica’s chin rose another notch. “I put a flowerpot through the windshield.”

      “That’s it?” Tonya slumped with disappointment. “So why did you get arrested for assault when it wasn’t a human being you beat up? I mean, it’s a crime to destroy personal property, but—”

      “He was in the driver’s seat at the time.”

      Tonya sat back, her grin returning. “Oh. Well. Now you’re talking.”

      “And what was the disconcerting news that sent you on this rampage?” Danforth asked.

      Susan drew back. Rampage? As if she were Godzilla ravaging Tokyo?

      “I don’t see the need to go into the details,” Monica said.

      “Part of the therapy is recognizing what triggers your anger, and unless I know your threshold—”

      “Fine,” Monica said. “If you must know, he promised me a job, then turned around and gave it to somebody else. So you see, what I did was perfectly understandable.”

      “No, Ms. Saltzman. What you did was criminal.”

      Monica opened her mouth as if to reply, then closed it again, a slightly more refined version of Tonya’s screw you smirk edging across her face.

      Danforth scribbled something in his notebook, then turned his gaze to Susan. “You must be Susan Roth. Your occupation?”

      “I’m an E.R. nurse.”

      “Please share with the class the act of violence that caused you to be here today.”

      Good Lord. This was beginning to feel like third grade show-and-tell and the Jerry Springer show all rolled into one.

      Susan told her story, emphasizing just how much of an intrusive little geek Dennis was before she revealed what led to her handprint on his throat. She thought she’d been pretty comprehensive, only to have Danforth bug her for more details.

      “I just threatened him,” Susan said. “That’s all.”

      “Verbal threats frequently precipitate physical violence. Once spoken into being, they have a way of manifesting themselves into reality. It’s the continuum of violence. What did you threaten to do?”

      Susan looked at the other women, who were suddenly paying close attention, then back to Danforth.

      “If you must know, I threatened to rip off his balls and toss them into the hospital cafeteria’s soup of the day.”

      Danforth’s already pale complexion turned as white as Elmer’s glue. Gradually he moved behind the lectern, as if he felt the need to have something substantial between Susan and his privates.

      “I see,” he said. “We’ll…uh…be doing some cognitive restructuring exercises aimed at preventing that kind of behavior.”

      Tonya turned to Danforth. “So you actually think if she doesn’t have all her cognitive whatever restructured, someday she’s actually going to tear the guy’s balls off?”

      Danforth cleared his throat. “I’m merely saying that if one can control one’s verbiage, one can frequently control one’s behavior.”

      “It wasn’t as bad as it sounds,” Susan said. “Really. I swear it wasn’t.”

      “So you have no remorse for the act,” Danforth said. “You’re merely sorry you were arrested for it?”

      “Well, no, I didn’t mean—”

      “We’ll be working on that.”

      Susan glanced at Monica, then Tonya. They matched her subtle eye roll with ones of their own, bringing them into conspiracy together with a single common thought: No matter what this idiot says, sometimes when people get out of line, you just gotta let ’em have it.

      Danforth launched into a lecture about the difference between assertion and aggression, and, for the next hour and a half, Tonya interrupted him every few minutes to ask him to define the terms he was using, such as cognitive distortion and neuroanatomy of anger. Susan got the feeling Tonya didn’t give a damn about the definitions, but she sure liked messing with Danforth. Monica spent most of the class wearing a distinctly bored expression as if all of this was so not worth her time.

      Susan occupied herself by going over her mental to-do list, which she had to kick into action when she got home: check to make sure Lani had done her homework; do a load of laundry so she’d have something to wear to work tomorrow; pay the overdue electric bill; call Don and remind him about Lani’s basketball game. Then take a shower, climb into bed and dream of a world where money was plentiful, conflict was scarce and she had at least a few hours a day when she wasn’t somebody’s mother, somebody’s nurse, somebody’s ex-wife, or, in Dennis’s case, somebody’s worst nightmare.

      Finally, at ten till nine, Tonya asked Danforth if he thought there was any difference between being angry, being livid and being pissed off. He looked at her dumbly for a moment. Then he took off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose and dismissed class.

      Susan left the classroom and headed for the bathroom. Tonya and Monica followed. They each went into a stall, and a few minutes later they were standing at the sink.

      “Could you believe that guy?” Tonya said, swiping on enough lipstick to send Maybelline stock soaring. “I’ve never seen such a self-important little creep in my life.”

      “He’s definitely on my top-ten list,” Monica said, touching up her makeup with the precision of a micro-surgeon. The compact she held looked unfamiliar to Susan, which meant it had come from somewhere besides Walgreens.

      “Cognitive restructuring,” Tonya muttered. “Please.” She held up a middle finger. “Wonder how he’d like to restructure this?”

      Monica raised an eyebrow. “You’re not a particularly subtle person, are you, Tonya?”

      “As СКАЧАТЬ