Case of Lucy Bending (15 page)

"Tell me about it," she said.

He told her. It was a gathering of born-agains that met twice a week. Usually at the home of one of the members, or occasionally in a store, a garage, once in a parking lot.

"It is very informal," he said, his deep voice bubbling with laughter. "Very unstructured. Blacks and whites. All ages. We might have fifty at a meeting. One night we had three, We may sing a hymn. We may testify. If a brother or sister wishes to testify, so be it."

"But what do you
do,
Mr. Fitch?" she said.

"We support and comfort each other in the faith. We counsel and offer love. We do what we can. Visit the sick, the afflicted, the lonely and despairing. No monetary contributions are required or requested. Members do contribute: money, clothing, such things as hot water bottles and frying pans, as required. As I said, it is very unstructured, and we mean to keep it that way."

"And you are the minister or preacher?"

"Oh, no, ma'am. I neither minister nor preach any more than any of the other members. Perhaps you might call me a moderator. Yes, true, I endeavor to moderate. That is my role. I will read from the Holy Book on occasion. To offer solace to those of us who suffer, and forgiveness to those who sin. We make no effort to convert others unless they express interest first."

"How long has this, ah, group been in existence?"

"About a year. We started with four members. Now, as I said, we might have fifty at a gathering."

"Whites and blacks you said?"

"Oh yes, ma'am. Our youngest member is nine, our oldest eighty-six. I say 'members,' but there is no list, no registry. We are all equal in the love of Jesus. That is what we feel."

"Yes," she said, examining her fingernails.

There was silence a moment. Then:

"Mrs. Bending," he said gently, "would you care to attend one of our gatherings? I assure you that you would be most welcome."

She considered. "It would be difficult, Mr. Fitch. I have a husband and three young children. Your meetings are held in the evening?"

"Yes, ma'am. Most of our people are working folks."

"It would be hard for me to get away. I do, once a week, attend an evening prayer meeting at my own church."

"And what day is that, Mrs. Bending?"

"Every Wednesday night."

"The next time we plan to gather on a Wednesday evening, I could call you. If you wish ..."

"Just to observe," she said sharply.

"Of course, ma'am," he intoned. "Just to observe."

Before he left, she ordered a bottle of 100 alfalfa pills.

4

Ronald Bending, jaunty, even breezy, plopped into the chair across the desk from Dr. Theodore Levin. He lighted a cigarette with theatrical flair. He looked with some amusement at the bookcase of dolls and games.

"What's with the toys, doc?" he asked.

Dr. Levin switched on his tape recorder.

"I sometimes ask my young analysands to select a doll, toy, or game to play with. Their choice occasionally offers a clue to their behavior."

"You mean if a kid picks a popgun or rubber tomahawk, it proves he's aggressive?"

"Something like that."

Bending made a snorting sound. "Too bad you don't have a life-size Barbie Doll. I might be interested."

"Would you?"

"Just kidding, doc, for God's sake."

"Uh-huh," Levin muttered, busily peeling the cellophane from a black cigar, piercing it, lighting it slowly with a wooden kitchen match.

Bending viewed this ritual with a thin smile, then pointedly looked at his wristwatch.

"How long do you figure it will take, doc? I don't mean your lighting your cigar or this session today, but getting Lucy straightened out?"

"Would you object if I addressed you as Ronnie?"

Bending took a deep breath and blew it out, lips fluttering. "Yes, I would. I don't want to make a federal case out of it, but my wife is the only person who calls me Ronnie. I hate it. Ronnie, for Christ's sake! Makes you think of a freckle-faced kid with two front teeth missing."

"I'd be happy to address you as Ronald, if you'll call me doctor instead of doc." "Sorry about that. What the hell—let's go for broke; my friends call me Turk."

"Turk? How did you get that name?"

"Haven't the slightest. But it's been Turk since my college days. What do your friends call you—Ted?"

"Yes."

"Well, why don't we make it Ted and Turk?"

"That's agreeable to me."

Bending settled back comfortably, as if he had won a debate. Levin stared at him, eyes goggly behind thick glasses. As usual, he hunched forward, neck hidden in rounded shoulders. Bending endured the inspection calmly.

"Have you told your wife?" the doctor asked.

"What?" Bending said, startled from his pose. "Told her what?"

"How you feel about the name Ronnie?"

"Have I ever! But getting that woman to change her ways is like getting the Sphinx to yawn. So I finally gave up; just too damned much trouble arguing about it. When she drops dirt on my coffin, she'll say, 'Goodbye, Ronnie.' Well, enough about names; let's get back to my question: How long do you figure Lucy's treatment will take?"

Levin sighed noisily. "I cannot give you an accurate prediction.''

"How about an estimate? A rough estimate?"

"A minimum of a year. Possibly—probably longer."

Bending gloomed into space as he worked out the financial consequences.

"At one session a week, figure about five grand a year— right?"

"About."

"Well ... I guess I can swing it. It's going to hurt, but it's worth it if you can get Lucy back on the tracks. You think you can, doc—uh, Ted?"

"I think I can. But as I told you at our first meeting, I cannot guarantee success."

"So, in effect, I'm gambling the five grand?"

"Or more," Dr. Levin said with some relish.

"Or more. Okay, let's do it. She's such a terrific little girl, I want her to have every possible chance."

'' Very commendable

"You're a snotty bastard, you know that, Ted?"

"I meant it sincerely. I have always found that sarcastic people are very quick to ascribe that characteristic to others."

"You're right, and I apologize. I have a big mouth. It's gotten me in a lot of trouble."

They looked at each other with half-smiles. A little more relaxed now, but the wariness persisted. Levin pondered how he might thaw the adversary relationship he saw as blocking what he wanted revealed.

"Turk, I see by your questionnaire that you are president of a printing company. What kind of printing do you do?"

"Mostly financial statements and annual reports."

"That sounds interesting," the doctor said politely.

"Not very. And don't ask for stock tips. It's against the law to divulge insider information."

"I won't ask. How did you get into that line of work?"

"I studied fine arts. I wanted to be a serious artist." A twisted grin. "Ain't that a laugh? But I drifted into commercial illustration and graphic design. From there it was a short step to layout and typography. Now I run a printing plant. Who'd have thunk it?"

"Do you still paint or draw—for your own enjoyment?"

"Nah. I've got a wife, three kids, two cars, a mortgaged home—and now this thing with Lucy. Who's got time for painting? I had to give up all my wacky dreams. Ah shit, that's not fair. Grace wanted me to go on with my painting. What happened to me is my responsibility. I decided to throw away my paintbox."

"What decided you?"

"I was no good. Or not as good as I wanted to be. Ted, how is all this bullshit about me going to help Lucy?"

Levin sat back, splayed his hands flat on the desktop. He was finding this interview difficult. Not for the first time he reflected that he was better with children than with adults.

But he did know that frequently adults opened up simply because they enjoyed it. Someone expressing interest seemed to be a new experience for them. Which meant that, even after years of marriage, they were unable to talk to their mate.

"As I explained to your wife, I am trying to collect as much information as possible about Lucy, her parents and siblings. Perhaps I'll learn something that will help explain Lucy's behavior and give me a lead on how to resolve her problem."

"All right," Bending said, nodding. "That makes sense to me. Fire away."

"Turk, would you say yours is a happy marriage?"

"Wait a minute, Ted. Hold it! I'm talking to you in strict confidence—right? I mean, you don't repeat what I tell you to Grace, and you don't repeat to me what she says?"

"That is correct."

"Okay then. Now about our marriage ... It has its ups and downs. About average, I suppose. Better than some, worse than some."

"You've been married for how many years?"

"Uh, let's see . . . Thirteen, I think. Around there."

"How did you and Grace meet?"

"I picked her up at the Metropolitan Museum in New York. At a Degas exhibit."

"Your wife is a college graduate?"

"That's right. Radcliffe. I went to Brown."

For some reason Levin could not analyze, it was difficult for him to see this man as a college graduate who once had dreams of becoming an artist.

Bending was a bundle of contradictions. An obviously "masculine man"—the type Levin usually found difficult to relate to—but with an ironic and sometimes bitter wit.

"Turk, do you have any shared interests with your wife? In addition to your children and home?"

"You mean like hobbies?"

"Hobbies, sports, perhaps attending art exhibits or the theatre?"

"Nooo, I can't really think of anything. Well, we both like to entertain. She plays a pretty fair game of tennis, and occasionally we play mixed doubles. But that's about it. I usually work late and sometimes on Saturdays, so we don't have too much time together."

"Does your wife object to the long hours you work?"

"No. I think that secretly she's happy to have me out of the house."

"Why do you think that?"

"I don't know—just a feeling."

"Do you drink, Turk?"

"Sure, I take a drink. Why—are you going to offer me one?" "No. Would you characterize yourself as a light, social, or heavy drinker?"

"Social, I guess."

"Does your wife drink?"

"One or two weak highballs at a party. That's about it."

This line of questioning, the psychiatrist reflected mournfully, was getting him nowhere. He decided to push ahead boldly, to determine as soon as possible the limits of this man's candor.

"Turk, how would you characterize your sexual relations with your wife?"

"Nonexistent."

"What do you think is the reason for that?"

"A lot of reasons. My working hours, for one thing."

"And . . . ?"

"I don't really think Grace is particularly interested in that part of married life."

"You mean she rejects you?"

"No. Never."

"Then why do you feel she has no interest in sex?"

"Are you married, Ted?"

"Divorced."

That was a deliberate falsehood, and not the first time Levin had uttered it. He had never been married but, as he had explained to Dr. Mary Scotsby, the lie helped establish rapport. A husband or father with a wife or child in therapy was not apt to accept the expertise of a bachelor.

"Unethical, yes," Levin told Dr. Scotsby, "but let's not get into a philosophical discussion of whether or not the end justifies the means. All I can tell you is that my falsehood serves its purpose."

"Well then," Bending said, "if you've been married, you must have learned that there are a hundred ways of knowing when your wife isn't interested. She doesn't have to tell you she has a headache."

"Has your wife always had a lack of interest in sexual relations?"

"God, no! She used to be too much for me."

"So her, uh, coolness is a recent development?"

"Fairly recent."

"How recent?" "Say about, oh, three or four years."