Case of Lucy Bending (28 page)

"You say you had a very normal childhood. That was your term. Friends?"

"Of course I had friends."

"Girls or boys? Or both?"

"Both."

"You dated while you were in high school?"

"Yes."

"And in college as well?"

"Yes."

"Would you say your experience with men prior to your marriage was extensive?"

"Uh . . . average."

"You were not a virgin when you were married?"

She glared at him, opened her mouth apparently to make a sharp retort, then closed it so abruptly that he heard her teeth click.

"No, I was not," she said coldly. Then: "My husband had been married before." "Yes," Dr. Levin said. "Have you had any problems with the physical side of marriage?"

"Problems? No, I have no problems."

"In a previous meeting, you told me that you and your husband have sexual relations about once a month. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"You are satisfied with that frequency?"

"Yes."

"Surely you must be aware that once a month is hardly a, uh, hardly an average for married couples of your and your husband's ages."

"I don't really see how you can set any averages for something like that. My goodness, doctor, it's very personal, and everyone is different."

"From what you told me about your childhood and youth, I get the impression that you were closer to your father than to your mother. Would you say that is accurate?"

"I loved my mother," she said stiffly.

"I'm sure you did. But would you say you felt closer to your father?"

She didn't answer, which was answer enough.

"Mrs. Bending, were your parents churchgoers?"

"Oh yes. Regularly. My father was a vestryman."

"And you told me that yQU also attend regularly?"

"Yes, I do."

Levin had hoped after their previous meeting that she would continue to thaw, to be more forthcoming in her responses. But she now seemed as tight and frozen as during the initial interview. He searched for some way to shatter that chilly composure.

"Mrs. Bending," he said softly, "have you ever had sexual relations with a woman?"

"A woman?" she cried. "Of course not!"

"How do you feel about women who are physically intimate with each other?"

"It's disgusting!"

"And men? What about homosexual love?"

"It's so filthy!" she burst out. "I know what's going on today. You can't pick up a book or see a movie . . . Even on television! It's so ugly and degrading. I can't understand how people can do those things. Like animals! Whatever happened to love and faithfulness between a man and a woman? I feel very strongly about that. Very strongly."

Levin listened to this outburst with his hands clasped on the desk. He goggled at Mrs. Bending through his thick glasses, seeing her flushed features, her wild animation that came perilously close to hysteria.

But he didn't interrupt or attempt to calm her. He let her run down, then watched as she took a small square of cambric from her purse and patted at perspiration beading her upper lip and beneath her sharp chin.

He could appreciate how horrendous her daughter's behavior must seem to her. There was a leper in her home, her own guilty offspring. He reflected ruefully that it was Dr. Mary Scotsby who had suggested this woman might have a religious mania, and he had rejected that analysis. Now he thought it a thread in the skein.

"Mrs. Bending, to which church do you belong?"

"Officially, I am a Presbyterian."

"Officially?"

"That was my parents' church, I am a registered member, and still attend faithfully. However, I have become interested in other beliefs and faiths and sometimes attend their meetings as well."

"I see. And you have been doing this for how long?"

"Doing what?"

"Your interest in other beliefs and faiths outside the Presbyterian Church—when did this begin?"

"Oh . . . perhaps four or five years ago."

What beliefs? What faiths?"

⁴
'I became very interested in Oriental religions and religious practices. Buddhism, for instance. Yoga. And Zen. Recently, I have joined a small fundamentalist group. It is basically Baptist, I believe, but with a more, uh, a more, uh, an approach to personal salvation through confession and repentance."

"Does your husband share your interest in personal salvation?"

She looked at him hard, thinking he was mocking her, but he was not.

"No," she said shortly. "My husband has little interest in religion." "Tell me, Mrs. Bending, what do you feel is the reason for your present interest in a fundamentalist church?"

"It offers a hope of purification," she said, staring down at her hands. "Of cleansing the true believer, washing us free of our sins."

"You feel you have sinned?"

She raised her eyes to look at him. "Doctor, we are all sinners. Some worse than others, but none of us is without sin. Yet there is hope of the soul born anew, past mistakes confessed and forgiven. There is hope for a fresh life, of being born again."

"Have you tried explaining this to your husband?"

"He knows how I feel."

"And . . . ?"

"He laughs at me and goes his own way."

"Mrs. Bending, I would like to make a statement. An observation, really. But before I do, I want to assure you that it is not a judgment. But I would like to tell you my impression, and ask you if you think it is reasonably accurate. Do you understand?''

"Yes."

"It seems to me that you and your husband have drifted— are drifting apart. You have been married for—how long? Fourteen years?—and apparently it is, or was, a happy marriage. Your husband is successful. You have three children, a fine home. I am sure your relationship was not perfect; human relationships never are. But I get the sense of a growing estrangement. If I am wrong, please correct me. Am I wrong?"

"No."

"Thank you. The reason I am speaking so frankly to you is that I am trying to determine any possible contributing cause for,Lucy's behavior. Could you hazard a guess at the reason for this increasing animosity between you and your husband?"

"It's obvious," she said with a smirky laugh, "isn't it?"

"Not to me it isn't, Mrs. Bending."

"My husband is a woman-chaser. Anything in skirts. Or jeans. Or bikinis."

"Oh? Is this something you suspect? Or know?"

"I
know
it," she said definitely. "Without a shadow of a doubt. He has been seen with other women. Girls, really. He

stays out to all hours. He comes home smelling of them. Suspect? Oh no, doctor, I
know."

"How long has this been going on?"

"From the start. The very beginning. I wasn't aware of it at first. Now I can no longer disregard it. He really makes no effort to hide it. Everyone knows. All our friends."

"Have you talked to him about it?"

"I've tried. Many times. He denies everything. He lies, lies, lies!"

"Mrs. Bending, I am not going to make a judgment on the truth or falsity of your accusations. I have no way of knowing, of course, and my opinion is really not important. What
is
important is that you feel this way, and the growing rancor between you and your husband cannot help but affect your children."

"They know nothing about it," she said woodenly.

Levin sighed. "Mrs. Bending, one of my most difficult tasks is convincing parents how much their children
do
know. Children are remarkably sensitive to currents of emotion between their parents. Looks, tones of voice, the presence or absence of gestures of affection—all these things, and more, affect the children. Usually subconsciously Without analyzing it, or putting it into words, they are aware of the atmosphere of their home. And the home represents their safe haven. The one place where they don't have to worry about the foreign and hostile currents of the world outside. Anything that threatens the security of the home threatens
them.
So, frequently, when they feel that security is diminishing, they react in unexpected ways, seeking security elsewhere."

"Doctor," she said tensely, "are you suggesting that Lucy does, uh, the things she does because of the way my husband acts?"

"The way you
believe
he acts," he corrected gently, "and your reaction to that belief. I am not saying the relations between you and your husband are the sole cause of Lucy's disturbance. There may be other, more important factors. At this stage, I just don't know. I am just mentioning to you what I think could be affecting Lucy and the way she acts."

Levin watched while she pondered what he had said. There was suddenly, in her face, an expression of sorrow and guilt that saddened him. He had seen it before in the features of concerned parents: the shocking realization that they might have created their child's psychopathy.

"We never fight when the children are around," she said dully.

He was very patient. "It is not necessary for children to witness a fight to be aware of what's going on. Believe me, Mrs. Bending, they are more perceptive than you think."

"And they never forget," she said unexpectedly.

Then suddenly she was weeping, bent over, face in her hands. He listened to her sobs, an occasional "God help me" or "God forgive me." Levin thought the recognition of her possible culpability would do her no harm. He slid the box of Kleenex to her side of the desk.

Finally she quieted, dabbed at her streaming eyes with a tissue. She opened her purse.

"Pardon me," she said in a thick voice, stood, and turned her back to him while she inspected herself in a mirror and patted some powder on her cheeks.

Dr. Levin thought it was a charming gesture, but wondered at a woman who considered applying makeup such a private and intimate act that it must be hidden from men.

"Mrs. Bending," he said, after she was seated again, "I am sorry if I upset you. I tried to make it clear that I am not accusing you or your husband of anything."

"I understand, doctor," she said, head bowed. "What do you suggest that I—that we do?"

"Nothing," he said firmly. "At the moment. In this case, pretending emotions or an affection you don't genuinely feel is as bad as, or worse than, being honest in your relations with your husband. Perhaps Lucy can be persuaded to accept things as they are, and to be convinced that her personal safety and future are not threatened. We are just in the beginning of this therapy, Mrs. Bending. How long has it been—two months? I must ask you to have patience."

"It's difficult," she said.

"I know," he said sympathetically. "But Lucy's well-being is at stake. And that's what we both want, isn't it? Lucy's well-being?"

"Yes," she said in a low voice. "And mine."

He looked at her queerly.

"I think our time is up," he said.

It was a culture that demanded constant change. New fads, new follies. Clothes, drinks, jokes, cars, restaurants—what's the latest? Even the old welcomed the different.

That year the newest of dishes served at private dinners was called Noodles Alfredo a la Las Vegas. It was the traditional pasta, but with bite-sized pieces of crisp bacon and sauteed veal.

Mrs. Teresa Empt decided on Noodles Alfredo a la Las Vegas for the main course of her dinner party. It would be preceded by a seafood cocktail appetizer: chunks of stone crab, prawns, and crayfish. It would be accompanied by a ratatouille and an astringent salad of endive and romaine. Lemon ice and key lime pie for dessert.

The wine, she decided, should be white, a dry California chablis. Knowing her guests, she was certain they would be well-lubricated with cocktails before sitting down to dinner. A good French pouilly-fuisse would be wasted.

Having planned this menu, Teresa hired people to prepare the meal; she had no intention of spending all day in the kitchen. A Palm Beach caterer supplied a chef and assistant. The Empts' black houseman, John Stewart Wellington, would serve.

In consultation with Mrs. Grace Bending and Mrs. Jane Holloway, it was decided that everyone would dress formally for this affair, the women in long gowns and the men in white dinner jackets. An exception would be made for Professor Lloyd Craner, whose formal wear was an old, rusty black tuxedo with wide faille lapels.

Luther received news of the planned dinner with calm resignation. Since Bending and Holloway were now his partners, he could write off the entire cost of the party as a business expense. He bought sufficient whiskey and wine so there would be enough left over to see him through the Christmas season.

The dinner was held on the last Friday night in November. The weather had been delightful for that time of year, with cloudless days of 75 to 80 degrees, and mild nights in the high 60s. News of an early blizzard up north made everyone happier.

On Friday afternoon, Mrs. Teresa Empt drove to her favorite florist in Boca Raton and selected flowers for the party. She chose tall branches of red and white gladioli for the living room, and low arrangements of daisies, sweetpeas, rosebuds, asters, and maidenhair fern for the dinner table.