Case of Lucy Bending (2 page)

"Ronnie! Please don't."

"Yes, I've got to say it. We had a lot of people in for a

Labor Day cookout. It lasted all day—a pool party. Things got kind of drunk later that night. I went into the kitchen to get more ice, and here was—here was this good friend of mine backed up against the sink. Drink in one hand, cigarette in the other. Lucy was standing between his legs and rubbing him up. He was wearing slacks, and she was rubbing his, uh, penis through the cloth. With both her little hands. Listen, he was stoned, I admit it, but also I swear it wasn't his fault. I'm not even sure he knew what was going on, but Lucy knew. Oh yes! He wasn't seducing her; she was seducing him. And when I came into the kitchen, she turned, gave me a great big gorgeous smile, and said,
⁴
Hi daddy!' as if what she was doing was the most natural thing in the world. I mean there was absolutely no realization that what she was doing was wrong. I yanked her out of there, cracked her behind, and sent her upstairs to bed. Maybe I shouldn't have done that, but I was so pissed off I wasn't thinking straight. Then I kicked his ass out of the house. But I know, I
know
, it wasn't his fault. It wasn't his idea; it was her idea. She came on to him. That's the way she is."

"I see," Dr. Levin said. He leaned back in his scuffed swivel chair. Slowly, deliberately, he relighted his dead cigar. He placed both thick hands on the desk top, palms down. He turned his searchlight eyes to Grace Bending. "Ma'am, is what your husband told me correct?"

She lifted her chin, poked slender fingers into her sun-streaked chignon. "Well, ah, of course I didn't see that particular incident, but I believe it. Yes, that's the way she acts with men. It's so distasteful. Disgusting. Kissing them and petting them and touching them. It's horrible enough in our own home, doctor, but what worries me, uh, us, is what might happen away from home. If some man picks her up . . . We can't be with her every minute. I just don't know ..."

Suddenly she was weeping, hunched over and biting a knuckle. Her shoulders shook. Little snuffling sounds came from her. Ronald Bending looked at her ironically.

"Please, ma'am," Levin said, "try to control yourself."

"We're not exaggerating, doc," Bending said stonily. "That's the way she acts. We've tried talking to her, explaining that she's annoying people. We've tried spanking her and sending her to her room without supper. We've tried everything we can think of. But she just doesn't seem to understand that what she's doing is wrong. She just keeps doing it. And she's really beautiful, with a great little body. So a lot of our friends welcomed her, uh, attentions—until they realized what was going on. Now some of them won't come to our house. It's just too embarrassing. Doc, may I ask you a question?"

"Yes."

⁴
'Have you ever heard of anything like this before? Have you ever treated a little girl who acts like that?"

"Sir, Lucy's problem, as you describe it, is not unique, I assure you. There is literature on the subject. And yes, I have treated a similar case in the past."

"And you cured her?" Grace Bending asked, looking up with teary eyes.

"You must pardon me, but I cannot discuss another case with you any more than I would discuss Lucy's case with anyone else."

"But you can cure her?"

"I don't like that word 'cure,' as if your daughter had some dreadful disease. I don't 'cure' my patients; I provide psychotherapeutic treatment and try to adjust their behavior to acceptable standards. For their good, and for the good of society. If you want me to guarantee success, no, I cannot do that; no medical doctor or psychiatrist can. All I can do is tell you that your daughter's behavior is not as outlandish or reprehensible as you may think, and the possibility of change and improvement does exist."

"Then you'll take her on as a patient, doctor?" Grace Bending said hopefully.

"We'll see, ma'am, we'll see."

"Well, what's the next step?"

"I think I should speak to Lucy."

The rusted air conditioner whined steadily, but the motel room smelled of roach spray and spent passions. A bent Venetian blind on the west window could not be closed tightly; the beamy Florida sun printed a ladder across Jane Hollo way's naked back. Ronald Bending traced shadow and light with a gentle finger.

"How do you get an overall tan?" he asked her.

She lifted onto her side, stretched across him for the cigarette pack. Ribs pressed glossy skin.

"You've asked me that before," she said. "Several times."

"And you've refused to answer—several times. I tell you things."

"Nothing important," she said. She rolled onto her back, blew a plume of smoke at the cracked ceiling.

"Tacky dump," she said.

"You picked it," he said mildly. "It doesn't make any difference, does it?"

"No."

The mildewed walls were a map of strange worlds. Every flat surface in the room bore a tattoo of cigarette burns. In the bathroom, a vending machine dispensed condoms in three colors. The sheets were stiff as sacking, the towels lacy from years of laundering.

From outside came the grind of a powered lawnmower and the whiz of traffic on 1-95. They heard the crunch of steps on the gravel parking lot and a woman's high-pitched giggle. A radio was playing somewhere, too faintly to distinguish the song, but they could hear the driving pulse.

"What about the all-over tan?" Bending asked again.

She turned her head to stare at him. "Persistent bugger, aren't you?" "Just envious. I'll tell you something important if you'll tell me how you get the tan. Deal?"

"Depends. Let's hear your news first."

"Well ..." Bending said, lighting his own cigarette, "Grace and I finally went to a psychiatrist in Fort Liquordale this morning. About Lucy."

"You should have gone years ago."

"I suppose."

"Is he going to take her?"

"He wants to talk to her first."

"That figures. What's he like?"

"The shrink? Seems like a no-nonsense guy."

"Young? Old?"

"About my age," Bending said. "Maybe a few years older. Short. Stocky. Beard and thick glasses. Young Doctor Freud. He's supposed to be a good man."

"How much, Turk?" she asked curiously.

"Hundred bucks an hour. Which is forty-five minutes."

"Jesus. He better be a good man."

"All right, that's my trade. Now how about your tan?"

She touched the indentation of her waist, pressed the hardness of her thigh. She felt the flatness of her abdomen, stroked her shoulder. He waited patiently. Finally she said:

"I have a friend in Plantation with a roof terrace above everything around. I suntan in the nude up there a couple times a week. No one can see me."

"Except helicopter pilots and the people in the Goodyear blimp. Who's the friend?"

She didn't answer.

"Man or woman?" he asked.

"Man."

"Do I know him?"

"I don't think so."

"What's his first name? You can tell me that, can't you?"

She considered a moment. "His first name is Randolph," she said.

He looked at her, blinking.

"My God!" he said. "Not the senator?"

"Ex-senator."

"Whatever. Jane, he's got to be eighty!"

"Pushing."

"What does he do—beat you with his truss?"

She showed her teeth. "Nothing like that. He's never touched me."

"Then what does he
doT'

"Just looks. Looking can be a pleasure, too, you know. I see you staring at the creamers on the beach in their string bikinis."

"Yes," he said, nodding, "that's true. And he's never touched you?"

"Never."

"What do you get out of it?"

"A perfect tan. Some good stock tips. Ripe gossip about local political bigwigs. Who's doing what to whom. Did you know there's a pillar of the community, who shall be nameless, who gets it off with little black sambos?"

"Big deal," he said. "I know a pillar of the community who gets it off with alligators."

She struck him on the shoulder with a clenched fist. "You're impossible."

He agreed.

He swung his legs out of bed, padded to the dresser. He took two Cokes from an insulated bag, just large enough to hold a six-pack. He popped the tabs, came back to bed.

Ronald Bending was a stretched, farmerish man. Hair sun-bleached brown. Ruddy complexion. Laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. A voice curdled with irony. Outsize gestures, almost theatrical. Eyes of faded blue. His body was all angles and edges. Skin a bronzy red above and below the white outlines of his swimming trunks.

He put one of the cold cans of Coke atop her stomach. She gasped and plucked it away. They lighted new cigarettes and sipped and smoked, smoked and sipped.

"Did Luther Empt say anything to Bill?" he asked her. "About a meeting tonight?"

"If he did, I don't know about it. Why?"

"Luther called me at the office, wants me to come over for a drink. Wouldn't tell me what it's about, but he sounded excited. As excited as Luther can get."

"That man's a lump."

"A smart lump. I take it he's one you've missed."

"You take it correctly."

"I know where he gets his jollies." "Not from his wife, that's for sure. Did you ever try that, Turk?"

"I tried," he admitted. "Got nowhere."

"You're too old for her," she advised.

"Too old?" he protested. "I won't be forty till March. She's got to have a few years on me."

"Two, to be exact."

Then they were silent. All this talk about age was disquieting. You rarely spoke of growing old, and death was taboo. You tanned your skin and played golf or tennis. You dressed young, listened to young music, danced young dances. Youth was where it was. Time was the enemy.

"You know who she has eyes for?" Jane Hollo way asked. "Teresa Empt?"

"I didn't think "she had eyes for anyone," he said. "I thought she had Rose's lime juice in her veins."

"Eddie," she said.

"Eddie?" he burst out. "Your Eddie?"

"That's right."

"But the kid's only sixteen."

"Going on twenty-five. You know how he's built."

"Teresa Empt and Eddie? You're crazy!"

"Am I?" she said lazily. "We're having a cookout next week. Keep an eye on her. You'll see I'm right."

"Does Eddie know anything about this?"

"Probably. But Bill doesn't."

"Does Bill know anything about us?"

"Doesn't know and couldn't care less."

"I hope you're right. Does he own a gun?"

"No. Do you?"

"Sure. And so does everyone else I know. So when all the dingoes start moving up from Dade County we'll be able to protect the sanctity of our homes and the chastity of our women."

"The first time you try to use it," she said, "you'll probably shoot off your whatzis."

"Probably," he said cheerfully. "And then where will I be?"

"Nowhere," she said. "You'll end up in a wheelchair like the senator. Just looking."

She smiled at the image and handed him her cigarette butt and empty can of soda.

Her hair was a silver-white trimmed to a brush cut, an inch long atop her head. Florida women looked at her strangely, but she didn't care. Her dark eyes glittered.

Small, hard breasts were bosses. Hip bones stretched tanned skin. Her hairless body, gleamed, arms and legs like peeled willow wands. Her face had been lifted once.

Everything about her was tight. Nothing was soft or saggy. She could grip a man with muscles within her and make him cry out. She used reddish brown polish on her fingernails, and gold on the nails of her long, prehensile toes.

She saw Ronald Bending glance at his wristwatch.

"Do we have time for another?" she asked.

"You're beautiful," he said with a clownish smile.

"I know," she said.

The terrace faced the beach, ocean, the Bahamas and, eventually, Morocco. A melon moon popped from the sea, rose swiftly, made a path of dark dazzles across choppy water. The air smelled of ruttish heat. In the dimness, white pages turned endlessly on the strand.

William Jasper Hollo way, a vague and melancholy man, came out onto the terrace carrying two small snifters of brandy. He paused to slide shut the glass door, locking in the air conditioning. He joined his father-in-law at the white wicker table, handing him one of the cognacs.