Envy by Kathryn Harrison Page A

almost.”
    â€œShe’s rich, Dad,” Will says. His father nods, chews. “But that can’t be—” Will is suddenly aware that he’s pinching the skin over his Adam’s apple, pulling at it absentmindedly as he does sometimes while concentrating, especially on something that bothers him. “There must be something else,” he says.
    His father looks at him, raises his eyebrows. “There is.”
    â€œOh, God,” Will says. “Don’t tell me this is about sex.”
    â€œI didn’t introduce the topic.”
    â€œIt is about sex?”
    â€œWill,” his father says. He puts his knife and fork down and leans forward over his plate. “I take it your mother told you I was having an affair. Doesn’t that imply that it’s about sex?”
    â€œBut . . .”
You’re seventy-four,
he was going to say, his mind already jumping to Viagra, and then to one of his patients, only two years older than Will, who uses a cocktail of Viagra and Cialis, each prescribed by a different physician, neither of whom knows about the other or that the man doesn’t even have a problem with sexual performance. “My happiness,” the patient had said when Will challenged him, “is predicated on my getting this reward. The only time I feel really good, really alive, is when I’m getting laid. And everything I do, all the effort I put into my career, my wife, my kids—it’s all about earning my right to have relations with as many ladies as possible.”
    â€œAs many as possible,” Will repeated. The man nodded.
    â€œI feel okay about that,” the man said. “I work hard. I couldn’t work any harder. I feel I’m entitled.” He looked at Will. “Who’s getting hurt?” he demanded, and then he answered himself. “No one, that’s who.”
    Across the table, Will’s father is smiling. “Will,” he says, “I’m not asking for your permission, or your advice, or congratulations. Let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about you. How’s work?”
    Will shakes his head. “I have a problem,” he says.
    â€œYeah? What sort?”
    â€œI’m not sure. I’m trying to figure it out.” His father tilts his head to one side, frowns.
Come on,
the expression says,
get to the point.
Will draws a deep breath. “For the past month or so, every time I’m in session with a female patient, I end up, I don’t know, having this, uh, physical response to her. It’s weird. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.”
    â€œPhysical meaning sexual?” his father asks, and Will nods.
    â€œAs if she were the most desirable woman on earth, and I the most sexually starved man. Makes no difference what she looks like.”
    â€œHuh,” his father says. “So what do you do?”
    â€œWhat do I do? Nothing, of course.”
    â€œNot with your patient. I mean, what do you do about dealing with the problem?”
    â€œCheck in with Daniel, I guess. I’ve made the appointment.”
    â€œDaniel, your what’s it called, trainer?”
    â€œTraining analyst,” Will says. “Basically, the mandate is that any time an analyst experiences feelings that are inappropriate or that might compromise the relationship between him and a patient, he goes back to his own analyst. Whoever it is he sees when a situation like that comes up.”
    â€œCountertransference,” his father says, nodding.
    â€œRight. But countertransference is a neutral term. It isn’t necessarily wrong or even untherapeutic. Just sometimes.”
    â€œYou see Mitch?” Will asks to change the topic. His father wrinkles his forehead in an expression of something that looks like apprehension. “On TV,” Will clarifies, and his father shakes his head.
    â€œWhen was this?”
    â€œSunday last. CNN, I think. Some