Case of Lucy Bending (41 page)

"I remember Ronnie telling you, yes. But I told you, I didn't actually witness it."

"But you believe such an incident occurred?" "Yes."

"And when, exactly, did this happen?"

"Last Labor Day. We had a cookout."

⁴
'But surely there had been similar incidents before that?"

"Yes, but none so—so—so ugly."

Levin pondered a moment. He remembered what a professor had once told him: "There are no wrong answers; just wrong questions."

"Mrs. Bending, this man involved with Lucy in the kitchen incident, is he still considered a friend by you and your husband?"

"Well, he was drunk, you see. He didn't know what was—"

"Is he still considered a friend, Mrs. Bending?"

"He still visits at our house, yes."

"Do you know of any other incidents between Lucy and this particular man?"

"No."

"Now I want you to think carefully and try to remember: When did you first become aware that Lucy's behavior was abnormal?"

"Oh," she said vaguely, "maybe four years ago. Around then."

"And was there one particular episode that convinced you that she might need help?"

"Well . . . Ronnie had some men over, and they were sitting on the terrace having a few drinks. I was in the kitchen making sandwiches. Lucy was supposed to be in bed hours ago. But she suddenly walked out onto the terrace. She had taken all her clothes off."

"I see. She was about four years old at the time?"

"About. Maybe a little older."

"And what happened then?"

"All the men laughed. And my husband came back to the kitchen to get me to put Lucy back to bed."

"You spanked her?"

"No, but I tried to explain to her that young ladies didn't do things like that."

"But the incident obviously upset you?"

"Yes. It was the first time she had done anything like that."

"Tell me, Mrs. Bending," Levin said idly, not really

knowing where he was going, but wanting to keep her talking, "was one of the men on the terrace the man with whom Lucy was, ah, involved with last Labor Day in your kitchen?"

She paused.

"Mrs. Bending?"

"Yes," she said finally. "He was there."

"If this happened four years ago—Lucy walking naked into a party of men—why did you wait so long before seeking professional help for the child?"

She looked down at her hands, gripped so tightly that knuckles jutted. "We thought she'd outgrow it. That it was just a phase."

She looked at him helplessly, and he nodded in what he hoped was a sympathetic manner. That part of her story he could believe. What parents wanted to acknowledge they were incapable of curing their children's woes?

"I gather," he said, "that it was your decision to seek help."

She lifted her chin, looked at him defiantly. "Yes, I made up my mind and talked Ronnie into it. We should have done it years ago."

The child was ready, Levin reflected sadly, but you weren't.

"I asked you, Mrs. Bending, if Lucy has a crush on one particular man or woman. You denied it. From what Lucy has told me, it seems that you're correct. But I'd like to talk about this man, the family friend, who was on the terrace when Lucy appeared naked and who later was the object of her—"

"Why do you keep coming back to him?" she said testily. "My goodness, he's got nothing to do with it. He's just a man."

Dr. Levin was surprised by the heat of her response. He did not think his query merited that much spleen.

"Mrs. Bending, I'm just trying to determine if there may be a special relationship between Lucy and this man."

"Well, there isn't," she said sharply. "He isn't the only one. She makes up to other men, too. It's not just him."

Levin let it go for the moment. Sometimes it paid to tell the interviewee baldly that he or she was lying. He didn't feel that such a ploy would be productive in this case.

He came at her from still another direction, determined to prove his hypothesis of the traumatic incident, the psychic wound that had generated Lucy's deviance.

"Mrs. Bending, about the same time as the initial happening—Lucy exhibiting herself naked to the men on the terrace—you began to investigate other religious beliefs and faiths. Isn't that true?"

She looked genuinely bewildered. But Levin could not believe that she had not, consciously, made the connection.

"About the same time," she admitted. "But I don't see what one thing has to do with the other."

"Let's talk about it," he said gently. "Your daughter behaves in a manner that upsets you. In a manner you consider, ah, immoral. Did you feel that her conduct was a reflection on your worth as a mother? Did you think that her failure was
your
failure?"

"I was worried," she said.

"Of course you were worried. A very normal, understandable reaction. But instead of seeking help for Lucy, you sought help for yourself. Spiritual solace to see you through this difficult time. You think that an accurate assessment of how you felt?"

"I don't know," she said confusedly. "I just wanted to . . ."

Her voice trailed away.

"Seek forgiveness?" he suggested. "For not being a proper mother? You were aware that something had happened, was happening, to your daughter. Something that you considered—well, I don't think 'evil' is too strong a word. That is the way you felt. And because you believed you had failed to protect your daughter from this evil, you were guilty. And the only way to expiate your guilt was to devote yourself to a strong faith that demanded confession and allegiance to a new spiritual life. Is that close to the truth, Mrs. Bending?"

She hung her head.

"Yes," she said. "Yes."

He thought he was almost home now.

"An incident," he said. "In the sanctuary of your own home. Involving someone very close, very dear to Lucy. We need not go into details at this time. But your daughter either witnesses it or is aware of it. A trauma that turns her around. She cannot cope with it. She is, after all, a child. And this, uh, accident is a cataclysm to her. It upsets her world. And she begins to act in a manner she may know is wrong, but which she cannot resist. A sexual incident, Mrs. Bending? Could it have been that?"

She did not answer.

"Yes!" he said, slapping the desk top with a heavy palm. "A sexual incident! It reveals to Lucy a whole new world she never guessed existed. New relationships, new sensations. Could such a thing have happened, Mrs. Bending?"

She raised her head slowly to stare at him blankly, no expression in her features, no light in her eyes.

"I don't know what you're talking about, doctor. There was no such accident or incident in my home. Something may have happened to Lucy in school or on the beach. Something like what you're suggesting. But she never mentioned anything like that to me." Then, sharply, eyes suddenly glittering, "Did Lucy tell you anything like that?"

He looked at her a long moment. "No," he said.

"Then you're imagining. All this is just your theory."

"Yes," he said softly, "just my theory."

He watched as will and resolution flowed back into her. She straightened in the chair. Pushed long hair back from her temples. She pulled her skirt lower over her bare legs.

"I don't believe anything like that happened," she said severely. "My husband did not have an affair in our home—if that's what you're thinking. At least, to my knowledge he didn't. Nothing happened that suddenly made Lucy start acting the way she does. I'm afraid you're wrong, doctor."

"I may be," he said placidly. "But we're only at the beginning of Lucy's therapy, are we not, Mrs. Bending? We'll have ample opportunity to look into this matter further."

"If you wish," she said, once more composed and in control.

"And now," he said, glancing at his desk clock, "I see our time is up. Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Bending."

Empt sat at a scrambled desk in his air-conditioned office. With Ernie Goldman looking over his shoulder, Luther was inspecting a mock-up of the sales carton for the video cassette of
Teenage Honeypots.

"You checked the size?" he demanded.

"The dimensions are okay," Goldman said, blinking nervously. "About an eight-inch leeway all around. But it's a kinda cheesy package, don't you think?"

"Yeah," Empt said heavily. "Real schlock. Do they want this one back?"

"The messenger said no. He said Mr. Santangelo would call at five o'clock to get your reactions."

Luther sat staring at the empty cardboard box. It was thin, grayish in hue, with four-color labels pasted top and bottom. The labels had "X-Rated" in big type, then the title of the cassette, running time, and an illustration of a young girl in a topless bikini eating a banana.

Nowhere on the carton were the names or addresses of performers, director, producer, manufacturer, or distributor.

"Real schlock," Empt repeated. "We worked our ass off on that lousy film, and it's going to be marketed in this lousy package? I wish I could show it to Jane Holloway; she'd have some idea on how to dress it up."

"Why don't you?"

"Yeah, I will. When that bum calls tonight, I'll tell him to hold off until Jane has a chance to see it. You know, Ernie, we could do a better job of packaging than this. Scoville over in Margate could do the box, and What's-his-name in Boca— the printer?"

"Thomas Associates?"

"Yeah, that's the outfit. They do great four-color work on labels. Maybe I'll talk to Santangelo and see if we can get a

contract on the packaging. Not only could we do a better job, but we could make a nice coupla bucks—right?"

"Right," Goldman said.

"Okay," Luther said. "I'll take it from here. Anything else, Ernie?"

"Well, uh, yes," the other man said in his breathless, quavery voice. "I was wondering if—"

"Jesus Christ!" Empt cried. "Not another advance?"

"Not a full week," Goldman said hastily. "A hundred would help."

Luther wheeled his swivel chair back and looked up at the man. Ernie was blinking frantically. His complexion was yellower than ever. His shoulders seemed bent lower; his stick body looked ready to snap.

"The sharks again?" Luther asked.

"Uh . . . yeah," Goldman said. "Kinda."

"You're never going to get even," Empt told him, his raspy voice almost sympathetic. "You know that, don't you?"

"Sure I will," Goldman said hopefully. "One big win."

"How much you in for?"

"Almost ten. Ten thousand."

"Good God!" Empt said. "How come they let you in for so much?"

"Well . . . uh . . . you know ... I own a car and a house."

"Yeah," Empt said with a cruel grin, "and a wife and three kids. Ever think of them?"

Suddenly Ernie Goldman was weeping, slow tears oozing down his sallow cheeks.

"I don't know what to do," he said, choking.

"Okay, okay," Luther Empt said hastily. "I'll tell Sylvia you can draw a hundred. What's it for? The juice—or a hot tip?"

"Groceries," Goldman said, sniffling. "It'll all go for groceries."

"Sure it will," Empt said, and watched the man shamble from his office. He figured it would take Ernie about two minutes to get on the phone to his bookie and lose the hundred.

He stood, thrust hands into his pockets, wandered to a picture window overlooking a crowded parking lot. He stood staring down at neat rows of brightly colored cars reflecting the noonday sun.

Weaknesses like Ernie's disgusted him. He could not understand how a man could get hooked to the point where he endangered his wife, children, his job, car, home, everything. Maybe even his own life.

It must be a sickness, Empt decided. As fatal as cancer or syphilis. You caught it and that was the end of you. He shivered and crossed his fingers. It was all luck; he knew that. Everything, when you came down to the nitty-gritty, was luck.

He poured himself a belt of scotch at the office bar. He felt depressed, restless, fretful. That lousy package for the cassette. Ernie Goldman's addiction and the thoughts it engendered. He needed a lift.

He went back to his desk, pawed through papers, glanced at his appointment calendar. There was nothing that couldn't wait. Just that call from Rocco Santangelo. But that was five hours away.

He dialed on his outside line. The one that didn't go through the switchboard. He had never visited May during the daylight hours, but suddenly he wanted to see her. He had to see her.

She lifted the phone after the second ring.