Mood Swing. Jane Graves
endomorphic little person, he wore tattered slacks that had lost their crease years ago, a plain white dress shirt with cuffs rolled to his elbows and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. And on his head was a tuft of hair so flaming red it would stop traffic on the tarmac at Dallas Fort Worth International.
She scurried into a seat and slung her purse over the back of it. “Sorry I’m late. I had an emergency at the hospital—”
“Seven sharp from now on. We have a lot of ground to cover.”
No problem. Next time she’d just walk out at a quarter to seven and leave the acute arterial bleeding for the next shift.
“This is our class, ladies,” he said. “I’m thrilled there are so few of you. Some groups are so large we have to move to another classroom, which, of course, is indicative of the societal trend toward the manifestation of anger in unhealthy and aggressive ways.”
Of course.
“I’m Dr. Hugh Danforth. I have a Ph.D. in behavioral psychology. It’s my job to ensure that when our eight weekly sessions are up, you’ll have the tools you need to face stressful situations in a constructive manner and perhaps—” he stopped short, fanning all of them with a supercilious stare “—keep the amount of time you spend in a court of law to an absolute minimum.”
Susan felt her eyes crossing. She was in for eight weeks of this? Danforth was clearly one of those guys who stroked his chin a lot and looked pensive, as if his brain was constantly at work on some esoteric Theory of Great Importance even as he was forced to muck around with individuals who didn’t share his stunning intellect.
Danforth consulted his notebook. “Which one of you is Tonya Rutherford?”
The woman to Susan’s right raised her hand, her metallic gold nails glinting in the fluorescent light. She had short, spiky hair in an unnatural shade of red-orange that was probably very fashionable, but it looked to Susan as if she’d dyed her hair with Mercurochrome. Her knit top and denim skirt showed way too much cleavage and way too much leg for a woman her age, which had to be close to forty. Then again, if Susan had been blessed with that woman’s generous C cup, instead of her own paltry A, and if her legs weren’t crawling with spider veins, maybe she’d consider baring a little more skin, too.
“What do you do for a living, Ms. Rutherford?”
“I own a hair salon.”
“Please share with the class why you’re here.”
“Uh…a judge sent me here?” Tonya replied.
“What was the nature of your offense?”
“Oh, that. My husband had me arrested for assaulting him.”
Okay, now, Susan thought. Maybe this class will be interesting after all.
“Specifically, Ms. Rutherford. What was the situation that culminated in your arrest?”
“Hmm. Let’s see…oh, yeah. I found out my husband cheated on me. I sent a few pieces of stoneware across the room in the general vicinity of his head. He called the cops and pressed charges. I ended up with a bastard of a judge who loves creative sentencing, so here I am.”
“I’d like to remind you, Ms. Rutherford, that had you not lost your temper and taken the unfortunate action you did, a judge wouldn’t have had the opportunity to exercise creative sentencing.”
The edge of Tonya’s mouth lifted in a screw you smirk. “Well, then,” she said, with extra emphasis on her healthy Texas twang, “I certainly apologize for my inappropriate observations about the inappropriate action the judge took as a result of my inappropriate anger.”
Somewhere in the middle of all that there was an inappropriate comment, but Danforth let it go. Either that or he wouldn’t recognize sarcasm if it bit him on the nose.
“Monica Saltzman?”
The woman to Susan’s left came to attention. Actually, she already was at attention, one of those women born with excellent posture who didn’t know the meaning of the word slouch. Dressed in a silk blouse and tweed pants with coordinating handbag and shoes, she was the picture of polished professionalism. As a nurse, Susan was good at spotting women who’d had work done, and this woman hadn’t. Still, at least at first glance, she could pass for thirty-five, even though early forties was more likely.
Susan, on the other hand, knew she looked every day of her 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.