Case of Lucy Bending (20 page)

"Miz Empt, I've never been there with
anyone.
I mean, it's like a secret place—you know? Where I can be by myself and think."

"Yes, Eddie," she said gently, "I understand. Well, you just keep going there. I have no objections at all."

"Gee, thanks, Miz Empt," he said gratefully. "I really appreciate that."

They reached the inlet and turned back. It seemed to him that she had moved closer. Occasionally the backs of their hands brushed, bare arms touched.

"Oh look!" she said, put fingers on his warm shoulder, turned him toward the sea.

There, twenty yards offshore, two skin divers came lurching out of the water. They were wearing black wetsuits, with masks, tanks, flippers. Weighted belts about their waists, knives strapped to their legs.

Teresa Empt laughed uncertainly. "They look like denizens of the deep," she said.

"Yeah," Eddie Holloway said, not quite sure what "denizens" meant. "They probably been out to the reef. Lots of good shells and coral out there."

Her hand slipped lingeringly from his smooth shoulder. They resumed their homeward walk.

"Do you go to the gazebo every night, Eddie?" she said, looking straight ahead.

"Almost every night, Miz Empt."

"About what time?" she asked in a shaky voice.

"About nine o'clock," he said, and thought exultantly: Got her!

"You know what I saw last week?" Lloyd Craner said. "At the Boca Mall? A woman with a goiter."

"No kidding?" Gertrude Empt said. "My God, I haven't seen one of those in fifty years. When I was a kid, it was all goiters, infantile paralysis, and chicken pox. None of that anymore."

"No," he said shortly. "Now all the sickness is in their heads."

"You can say that again, kiddo," she agreed. "Where are you taking me?"

"To a motel," he said.

"Oh, you mad, impetuous fool," she said. "We'll register as Mr. and Mrs. Smith, you'll hustle me into a room and try to get in my bloomers."

"Bloomers?"
he said, laughing. "I haven't seen
those
in fifty years."

When he had retired, and had decided to accept his daughter's invitation to live with them in south Florida, Professor Craner had driven down from the small Montana college town in his ancient, high, bulge-bodied Buick.

He took it easy—the trip lasted three weeks—and he figured he averaged about eight miles to the gallon. But he didn't care; he had the money and the time. He reckoned the two were running out at about the same rate, and he was satisfied with that.

He still had the Buick. It was in mint condition, and every so often some antique car nut would offer him ten times what he paid for it. But he wasn't interested. He thought of it as good, dependable, comfortable transportation. He didn't want to think of it as a museum piece.

Now he and Mrs. Empt were luxuriating in the front seat, driving sedately south on A1A. They paid no attention to the stares their ancient conveyance attracted. The windows had been cranked down; the early afternoon breeze smelled young and hopeful.

"I've been exploring," Craner said. "Stopping here and there to get an idea of rents on an annual basis."

"I haven't made up my mind yet," she said sharply.

"Of course you haven't," he said mildly. "Didn't expect you had. But it doesn't do any harm for you to look, does it?"

"Guess not."

"Just to see what you think of the appearance of the place ... It's south of Lighthouse Point. Near the Fourteenth Street Causeway. On the west side of the Intra-coastal."

"Right on the Waterway? Lots of bugs and smells and crazies revving their boat engines."

"Oh no," he said. "Not
on
the Waterway. Closer to Federal Highway. Near the Pompano Fashion Square."

"That's nice," she said. "I'm so interested in fashion—as you can tell by the way I dress."

"Convenient for buying bloomers," he said, and they both laughed, and she poked him.

When they got there, he pulled off onto the verge, and they inspected the motel without getting out of the car. He pointed out the features: twenty-two units in two one-story buildings. Swimming pool. Shuffleboard court. Neat landscaping. Metal lounge chairs on the trimmed lawn. Everything seemed freshly painted in pink.

"What do you think?" Craner asked casually.

"Not too bad," she said grudgingly. "Pink I can do without, but I guess I could get used to it. Looks like it's kept up okay."

"Spotless," he assured her. "It's owned by a retired New Jersey cop and his wife. They got a black who does repairs, runs the mower, and things like that. About a third of their units are rented year-round, and they do very well on seasonal bookings. The same people keep coming back year after year."

"That's what they told you, perfesser," she said cynically.

"That's right," he agreed. "That's what they told me."

They sat in silence, watching the motel. People in swimming costumes came out to the pool. A couple began a game of shuffleboard. Two men flapped their newspapers on lawn chairs.

"Kids?" Mrs. Empt asked.

"A few," he said. "None of the permanent residents have children, but the snowbirds do. It seems to be a quiet place."

"Lots of old farts," she observed.

"Younger than us," he said gently.

"And how much are they asking for this palace?"

"They have two different efficiency units available," he explained. "On a yearly basis, the smaller unit is three hundred a month. That's one room, kitchenette, bathroom. Cramped. I don't recommend it. The larger efficiency has a small living room, separate bedroom, also small, a bathroom, a kitchen large enough for a table and chairs. That's four-fifty a month."

"Mmm," she said. "Maid service?"

"Not for the units rented on an annual basis, unless you want to pay extra. Would you like to look at the apartments?"

"Not right now."

"All right," he said equably, starting the engine. "Let's go get some lunch. I found a nice place right on the Waterway, down near Atlantic Boulevard. We can sit outside at an umbrella table and watch the boats go by."

"Screw the boats," she said. "Can you get a drink?"

"Of course."

"I couid use one."

They lunched on a concrete dock, six feet from the water's edge. Their faces were shaded by a fringed table umbrella. The patio bar was getting a big play, mostly from boaters off moored outboards. But only a few of the tables were occupied.

She had a beer and he had a Gibson on the rocks, both drinks served in soft plastic glasses. Then they both had rare hamburgers, french fries, and small salads. They ate swiftly and silently. Then they had another drink.

They sat placidly. They watched the roistering drinkers at the bar who thought youth was permanent. They watched the boats go by on the Waterway. They watched their perky waitress chatting up the single customers. It was pleasant to see it all, and understand.

"When did your wife die?" Mrs. Gertrude Empt asked, almost lazily.

"Ten years ago," he said, just as indolently. "Three years before I retired. On a Saturday. I was home, and she was going out to a bridge game. She said to me, 'Don't forget to take the roast out of the oven.' Then she went into the hall and I heard this terrible thump. She was gone when I got out there. Heart."

"My old man didn't go sudden like that. Just downhill. His liver. The booze got to him. Eventually."

"What did he do, Gertrude? His work?"

"Construction. Foundation work. He worked hard and brought home a good dollar. When he wasn't on the sauce. But he was all right."

"Is Luther your only child?"

"No. I got a married daughter in Texas and another daughter in California. God knows what she's doing. She never writes except to ask for money."

"Those things happen," he said. "Jane is my only child."

"Uh-huh," she said. "She's doing okay. Married to a banker and all."

"Yes," he said. "How about another round?"

"Why the hell not?" she said. "Let it all hang out."

He was wearing his white suit; white Panama and cane on an empty chair. His white mustache and white goatee jutted. Fierce eyes were squinched against the glare off the water. He sat erect, his back not touching the chair.

"What were you a perfesser of?" she asked him idly.

"Geology." He smiled briefly. "Foundation work."

"Yeah," she said with a slow grin. "I get them, don't I?"

She turned her head to watch a motor launch maneuver alongside the dock. He stared at her. She sat solidly in her printed cotton shift, and he thought her a strong, vital woman. She had been around the block twice, he imagined, and there wasn't much that could shock, dismay, or frighten her.

"Gertrude," he said carefully, "I'm serious about this thing. About you and me."

She turned back to look at him with her snappy brown eyes.

"I know you are," she said. "I know you're serious."

"As long as you know," he said. "Take your time; I'm not rushing you."

She didn't answer. They had two more drinks and he drove extra carefully on the way home. They decided they had better take a long stroll on the beach to walk off the alcohol, and so they did.

By that time the sun was dipping; the light was a rich apricot. Her bare legs were the color of tea, and his face was smoothed and glowing with the radiance. And the Gibsons. They walked along slowly, and they talked.

What didn't they talk about! Penny candy. Following the tar wagon down the street and chewing on a gob of the hot, gummy stuff to whiten your teeth. Packing a snowball around a stone.

They chivied each other and laughed a lot. Once she goosed him.

Dr. Theodore Levin had declined an invitation from Dr. Mary Scotsby to share a spaghetti dinner in her apartment. Instead, he locked himself into his own cluttered penthouse atop a nineteen-story condominium on the Intracoastal Waterway.

He showered and donned a flannel bathrobe, duplicate of the one he kept in Mary's apartment. Then he put an Isaac Stern on the tape deck, opened a bag of Pepperidge Farm mint-flavored Milano cookies, and poured himself a waterglass of Gallo Hearty Burgundy. He lighted a cigar. Then he got down to work.

At home, he was the most disorganized of men, and he knew it, despaired of it, and never reformed. His books, pamphlets, and papers were stacked higgledy-piggledy in wall-to-wall bookcases, tossed onto chairs, piled on the floor, tables, bureaus, desk. It took him longer to find what he wanted than to read it.

By midnight, he had pored through whatever he could find on the sexual pathology of latency children, including papers by Pandey, Kay, Anthony, Fraiberg, and Kaplan. He found no reference to a case exactly like Lucy B's. But that was hardly unusual; the literature of psychotherapy rarely included cases that were "exactly alike."

Then, the wine, cookies, cigar, and Isaac Stern finished, he poured himself a small brandy and went out onto his rarely used terrace. He took off his robe. He spread it across a webbed plastic chair so his softly fleshed body would not be imprinted with a waffle pattern.

The cool night breeze felt good on his bare skin. It was like taking an air bath. He slumped, laced fingers across his furred belly, and contemplated the night lights of Fort Lauderdale.

He could make out the blaze surrounding the airport, the glow of a racetrack in the distance. And in between, necklaces and garlands of lights. Beacons on tall buildings. Steady lights. Flashing lights. Twinkling lights. And on the black scar of the Waterway, green and red lanterns of slowly moving boats.

Noises were muted. Airliners coming in or taking off. Street traffic below. Occasionally boats hooting for a bridge to be raised. But these were background sounds, aural wallpaper. Over all was the stillness of a clear, gigantic night, stars forever, and space that hummed gently if you listened for it.

He was convinced that his analysis of Lucy B was correct. Despite her age, she was not a latency child at all, but in the early stages of adolescence. The world had changed, was changing at an accelerating rate, from the days when Papa Sigmund had set down the age limits of latency.

If he was right, if Lucy was already an adolescent, that would account for the end of genital anesthesia, for reactivated sexuality. But valid or not, his thesis could not account for her particular aberration.

That, he supposed sadly, had been triggered by an infant or childhood experience that he could not, at the moment, imagine. He saw it in terms of a trauma, a psychic wound, that had set her on her way.

He grunted with displeasure at his own romantic maunder-ings, and took a gulp of brandy. He knew how rarely psychopathy could be traced to a single incident, one cataclysmic happening that determined a life. Usually, people were bent by repeated experiences, a whole distorted youth.

But still, the single momentous and violent psychic hurt was not alone the stuff of opera, myth, novels, and Shakespeare's plays. Rapes, murders, seductions, treacheries— these things did occur in real life, and he would ignore them at his peril.