Case of Lucy Bending (16 page)

"But would you say that Grace is a good wife? Other than the sexual estrangement between the two of you?"

"Yes, she's a good wife. Keeps the house squeaky clean. A great cook."

"And a good mother?"

"A marvelous mother." Bending sounded sincere.

"Has Grace been faithful to you?"

"I think you better ask her that."

"And have you been faithful to her?"

"Ted, are you sure this is going to help Lucy's treatment?"

"I'm sure."

"Well, I won't lie to you; there have been a few times in our marriage when I've strayed."

⁴
'How many times?''

"A few."

"More since your wife has shown a lack of interest in sex? More infidelity in the last three or four years?"

"You really go for the jugular, don't you?"

"You haven't answered my question."

"Yes, possibly more in the last three or four years."

"Is Grace aware of these affairs?"

"No. I don't think so. And even if she was, I don't think she'd object. Might even be relieved."

"Why do you say that?"

"Just a feeling I have."

When Dr. Theodore Levin started his practice, he had been inclined to give weight and importance to analysands' statements: "It's just a feeling I have." Or, "My instinct tells me so." Experience had taught him that "feelings" and "instincts" were frequently mask-words for prejudices and desires.

"Turk, do you think your children are aware of their parents' sexual, ah, enmity to each other?"

"I wouldn't call it enmity. I still think Grace is a damned attractive woman. I hope she still thinks I'm not completely repulsive."

"Perhaps 'enmity' was a poor choice of words. Will you accept 'indifference'? Would you say that you and your wife are sexually indifferent to each other?" "I guess so, Ted. I guess we're indifferent, as far as bed goes."

"Do you think your children are aware of this?"

"Of course not. How could they be?"

The psychiatrist stifled a sigh. It was hopeless trying to convince parents how much their children knew of the "secret" life of the master bedroom. Not knew intellectually, but sensed, felt, and were so influenced.

"Your older son—that's Wayne, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"He's twelve, isn't he?"

"That's correct."

"Have you been responsible for his sex education?"

"What there was of it. Believe me, Ted, he knows everything—or thinks he does. He sure knows a hell of a lot more than I did at his age."

"And the younger boy?"

"Harry? He's only five. He hasn't asked any questions yet. Too busy making radio sets. The damned kid's a genius."

"And what about Lucy's sex education?"

"I left that to Grace."

"Lucy never asked you questions?"

"A few times. I told her to ask her mother. Do you have any children, Ted?"

"Twin girls," Levin said, lying smoothly. "Their mother has them. I see them for a month out of every year."

What began as a simple lie ("I was married; I am divorced") had escalated into a blooming fantasy. With some pleasure, Dr. Theodore Levin had added to and embellished the basic falsehood.

Now he was divorced, with twin daughters he visited every year. He could describe the mythical wife and the mythical children. Even the home in which they had once lived, the domestic routine, the crises and the picnics.

He had confessed this fantasy to his own analyst, A1 Woll-man, who had stared at him a long moment.

"You're nuts," he said finally.

"Well, Ted," Bending was saying, "you wouldn't believe how smart kids are about sex these days. I mean, they get it in biology courses at school and sometimes in special sex education instruction. With films yet! Last year Wayne brought home a booklet from school that had everything in it: drawings of a man's joint, a woman's cooze . . . just everything. So they don't have to ask as many questions as they used to. Thank God."

"But when Lucy asked you questions, you sent her to her mother?"

"That's right."

"When Lucy became, ah, overly loving with you, how did you handle it?"

"I told you. I tried not to reject her. I didn't get angry or wallop her or anything like that. I just made it plain that she was annoying me, that I didn't like what she was doing."

"And she stopped?"

"Yes."

"How did it affect her attitude toward you?"

"As far as I can see, it didn't. She's still affectionate, but in a normal way. She kisses me every morning at breakfast, and throws her arms around me if she's up when I get home. But she doesn't try to feel me up or grope me. And she doesn't come onto my lap unless I ask her. My turning her off hasn't made her hate me, if that's what you think."

"But she continues her hypersexual behavior with other men? Friends and visitors?"

"Yes."

Levin put his cigar butt carefully aside. He sat back, hands laced across his belly. He stared down at his intertwined fingers, reflecting on the endless variety of the human animal.

"Turk, do you think your sons are aware of Lucy's, ah, unusual conduct?"

"Not Harry. Probably Wayne. Yes, I'd guess Wayne knows what's going on."

"Has he ever said anything about it?"

"Not to me."

"Have your sons ever seen Lucy naked?"

"Only Wayne, and not since she was a little baby."

"Have your children ever seen you and your wife naked?"

"Good God, no! What a question! Oh, wait a minute . . . Wayne and I play golf together occasionally at the club. He's seen me naked in the locker room. But not the other kids."

"Not Lucy?"

"Certainly not! Goddamn it, Ted, what are you getting at?"

"I'm not getting at anything. I'm just asking questions." "You don't think I've exhibited myself to Lucy, do you?" "Have you?" "No!"

"Have either of your sons?"

"They better not! I'd break their goddamned necks!" "Well, I think our time is up. Thank you for your patience. You've been a big help."

"I have? I'll take your word for it."

Starting around midnight, a series of sharp squalls swept eastward from the Naples-Ft. Myers area on the west coast. They flooded the Everglades, then slammed at east coast communities from Miami north to West Palm Beach.

Streets were hubcap-deep, lawns soggy, the beach itself gullied into miniature rivers and tributaries. The sky was low, roiling and muddy, with lightning flashes like far-off photographers' bulbs. Thunder did not crack, but rumbled and grumbled all morning.

Then, around noon, the front passed through; rain ceased, the sky began to clear. People ventured out, tentatively at first, then with more confidence. Patches of blue appeared, a bloated sun burned through the haze. By 2:00
P.M
., it was a perfect day, and the world was drying.

Wayne Bending, sitting alone on the rear benchseat of his school bus, watched eagerly for a glimpse of the sea. He hoped the storm had left a strong swell running. Then he might get in some late afternoon surfing.

But the ocean, when he glimpsed it, was a disappointment. It was high, but choppy and rough; small waves crested several times before they spilled onto the beach. No surfing. And even a swim didn't seem too attractive.

His mother and Lucy and Harry were in the living room, eating peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and drinking milk from lap trays. They were watching some dopey TV show with puppets and a real-life guy wearing a fireman's suit. Wayne nodded coldly in return to their greetings, and went directly to the kitchen.

He made himself a thick ham and Swiss cheese sandwich on rye bread, slathered with mayonnaise. He took that, a can of Coke, a handful of chocolate-chip cookies, and went up the back stairs to his own bedroom. Inside, he locked the door, switched on his radio to a rock station, and kicked off his loafers.

In bed, his back against the headboard, he ate his sandwich and cookies, gulped his Coke and, not listening to the music, decided he might as well be dead.

Since that night of the Hollo ways' party, he had not spoken to Eddie. He had only seen him once, from a distance, and even then Eddie had turned away. Wayne was convinced that Eddie was avoiding him, disgusted with any guy who would kiss another guy, even after smoking a joint.

Why had he done such a stupid thing? It was the grass; he was sure of that; it had zonked him without his being aware of it. Everyone said pot made a sex maniac out of you. He had just felt this tremendous urge, and he had done it, and he was lucky Eddie hadn't hit him.

But now Eddie had time to think about what had happened, and it probably sickened him. He probably thought Wayne was a screaming fag, and he wanted nothing more to do with him. Maybe Eddie had told the other guys what Wayne had done. The thought was enough to shrivel Wayne's insides, and he felt like weeping.

He finished his food and wiggled down until he was lying on the bed, head on the pillow. He stared at the ceiling and thought about death. He supposed it was like sleep, just like sleep, only you never dreamed, and you never woke up.

Thinking such somber thoughts, he felt himself growing drowsy. He let go, went along with it, hoping he might never wake up. But just before he was completely out, the bedside phone shrilled. His entire body jerked as if he had been pierced with one of those long steel needles his father used to barbecue chunks of beef.

The phone was Wayne's own, his private phone in bright red, a gift on his twelfth birthday. He had his own number and was listed in the book, like most of the other guys he knew. He rolled over and grabbed for the handset.

"'Lo?" he said in a sleepy voice.

"Hey man," Eddie Holloway said, "how they hanging?"

Wayne came awake abruptly, swung his feet onto the floor. He sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the phone so tightly that he saw his hand trembling.

"This and that," he said as casually as he could manage. "What's doing?" "Dull dull dull," Eddie said cheerfully. "I was hoping there'd be some surf after the storm, but no luck. Where you been keeping yourself?"

"Here and there," Wayne said lightly. "Going off my nut with the bullshit around here."

"Yeah," Eddie said, "you're singing my song. Listen, dumbo, the old lady got in a new shipment. I guess the shrimp boat landed. Dig?"

"Oh yeah. Sure."

"So how's about you and me turning on?"

"Suits me. When?"

"Tonight. Nine. Can you make it? Same place."

"No sweat."

"I'll bring an old blanket," Eddie Holloway said. "The ground's still damp. Listen, can you lift some sauce?"

"Uh . . . maybe. Yeah, I think so. I'll try."

"You're my main man," Eddie Holloway said.
"Hasta la vista, mi amigo.
I just learned that today. It means
⁴
Up yours, Charlie.'"

"Yeah," Wayne said, laughing. "I know where you're from."

Then he went downstairs to the living room where his mother, Lucy, and Harry were still watching the boob tube.

"Hi, gang," Wayne Bending said brightly.

As usual, his father didn't show up in time for dinner. Out shagging some quiff, Wayne figured, but he couldn't have cared less. As long as he paid the bills.

There was pot roast with vegetables, a salad with creamy garlic dressing, and key lime pie for dessert. His mother, as usual, insisted on saying grace before they began eating.

Wayne thought that was funny, a woman named Grace saying grace. But he couldn't have explained exactly where the humor was.

After dinner, he helped clear the table. He stacked the dishwasher. He put the linen napkins into their proper initialed plastic rings. He even took out the garbage.

He stalled around until his mother shepherded Lucy and Harry upstairs. Lucy could bathe herself, but Harry had to be watched in the shower. Then they'd be put to bed. Wayne figured he had an hour before his mother came downstairs again. Now if only his father didn't show up unexpectedly . . .

He went to the kitchen cupboard where his mother kept empty jars, used pieces of aluminum foil (smoothed out and neatly folded), plastic containers, string, and old wire ties.

He selected an empty pint mayonnaise jar. He took it back to his father's liquor cabinet in the living room. There were three full and sealed liters of vodka, and one opened liter that was three-quarters filled.