Case of Lucy Bending (7 page)

"Do you know any men who are mean and spiteful?"

She considered that. "Nooo," she said thoughtfully, "not really. I can't think of any men who are mean and spiteful. Just women."

"So you can be nice to men?"

"Oh sure. I like some of them better than others but, well, you know ..."

"Do you kiss the men you like?"

"Well," she said, lowering her eyes and smiling secretly, "some of them are so funny and sweet, I wouldn't mind kissing them."

"Lucy, does it embarrass you when I ask you questions like that—about kissing?"

She was startled. "Of course not. Why should it?"

"No reason. I'm glad it doesn't. But hasn't your mother spoken to you about kissing boys?"

"I don't kiss boys," she said primly. "Except my brothers, of course. But those don't count. Those are just family kisses."

"But you kiss men?"

"Sometimes."

"Did your parents tell you that you might be annoying the men you kiss?"

"They told me, but I don't see how."

"Do you touch men, Lucy? Stroke them?"

"You mean like petting? Yes, it's so funny; they get all red and giggly. Like tickling—you know?"

"Do you think the men enjoy the, ah, tickling?"

"Oh yes."

"Do
you
enjoy it? Doing it?"

"I like to love people."

"Men, Lucy. Mostly you like to love men."

"Yes, Doctor Ted," she said seriously, "that's true."

He tried hard to remain expressionless, but didn't quite succeed. Her innocent frankness had a perfume, a scent of sweet youth, flowers, and an unspoiled world. For the first time, he wondered if corruption might be part of his job.

"You know, Lucy," he said, "some people—some men don't like to be touched." "I don't see why not."

"Well, some men are like that; they just don't want to be touched. Do you have your own bedroom, Lucy?"

"Of course."

"How would you like it if someone, say your brother, came into your bedroom and rummaged through all your private things? You wouldn't like that, would you?"

"I wouldn't care."

"Most people would. We want a certain part of our lives to be private. We want to hold back a little bit of ourselves,
for
ourselves. Don't you ever want to be alone?"

"All alone? By myself?"

"Yes."

"No, Doctor Ted, I don't believe I do. I don't like being by myself."

"Does it frighten you?"

"I just don't like it."

"Are you frightened when you sleep by yourself?"

"Well, my goodness, that's
sleeping.
So how can you be frightened?"

He envied her. His own sleep was a wrestle with terror. A1 Wollman, his occasional analyst, had suggested that his dread of sleep was a fear of losing control over his reasoned, structured life. Levin thought that a simplistic explanation.

One of his worries sprang from his acknowledgment of psychiatrists' high suicide rate. Most laymen, he supposed, believed psychiatrists fell apart under the weight of other people's problems.

Dr. Theodore Levin had another theory.

He feared that a psychiatrist's life force gradually leaked out. It was expended on sympathy, understanding, the obsessive need to heal and help create whole lives. Other people's lives. But always from the outside. Always the observer. Then one day he would wake up and discover that he himself was empty, drained.

That was one reason Levin did not welcome sleep. The horror persisted that he might awake to find himself a hollow man.

"Have you ever had bad dreams, Lucy?" he asked.

"I used to, when I was a little kid, but I don't anymore."

"Are you getting tired of this? Are we talking too much?"

"Oh no. I like this. I like you." "Thank you. I like you, too. I really want to help you, Lucy."

"I'm sure you do, but I don't know how. I mean, I really don't need any help. Do I?"

"Let's get back to what we were talking about before . . . Suppose a man came to visit at your house. A friend of your parents. Would you be nice to him?"

"If he wasn't mean and spiteful, I would."

"You'd pet him? And kiss him?"

"Yes, and love him."

"Would you sit on his lap?"

"I might."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because it's nice and cuddly. I like that."

"Would you touch him between his legs?"

"I might."

"Why would you do that?"

"That's when men get red and giggly, like I said. They like it."

"How do you know?"

"I just know."

He stared at her. There was a surety about her that daunted him. He had never before seen it in one so young. Her mother had called her "poised." She was more than that; she was knowing and certain.

In addition to her flirtatiousness, he thought he detected an unadmirable slyness about her. It wasn't as deliberate as deceit, but there was a foxiness beyond her years. He didn't want to imagine how age and experience might enlarge and fix this gift of cunning.

He asked: "Do you know what men have between their legs, Lucy?"

"Of course, silly."

"What do they have?"

"A peter and nuts."

"How do you know that?"

"Everyone
knows that. My goodness, Doctor Ted, I'm not a child."

"Has your mother told you how babies are born, Lucy?"

"Some. And some I learned in school. And some the other kids talked about."

"Suppose you tell me, Lucy—how does a baby get born?" "Don't you know?"

"I'd like you to tell me."

"Well, a man has this peter between his legs, and he puts it in the hole between his wife's legs, and then a baby comes out."

"Has a man ever tried to put his peter in your hole, Lucy?"

"That's silly! My goodness, I'm not old enough to be a wife."

He could not decide if that was the ingenuous reply of a female child of eight, or the ironic answer of a mature woman. There was nothing in her wide blue eyes to suggest that she might be mocking him. Still . . .

"But you like to touch a man's peter?"

"Sometimes. If he's nice. I don't see what's wrong with it."

♦ "Did I say it was wrong, Lucy?"

"Well ... my mother is always saying it's wrong."

"And your father?"

"Sometimes. But mostly my mother."

"Do you trust me, Lucy?"

"Trust you?"

"Do you think I'd lie to you?"

"Nooo . . ."

"If I told you that kissing men and touching them the way you do is wrong, would you believe me?"

"Well . . . you'd have to prove it."

"I see. Lucy, I think we'll end this now. I want to tell you that I've enjoyed meeting you, and I thank you for answering all my questions so honestly."

"Will I see you again, Doctor Ted?"

"I'll let your mother know. She'll tell you."

"I hope I see you again. You're very nice. Your beard is so funny."

"Why is it funny?"

"It's so bristly. You're not mad at me, are you? Because I said your beard is funny and bristly?"

"Of course I'm not mad at you. It
is
funny and bristly."

"I love you, Doctor Ted."

Their combined age was more than a century and a half—but they were peppery. Scoundrels, both of them.

"Good morning, Gertrude," Professor Lloyd Craner called, tipping his white, wide-brimmed Panama hat.

She looked up at him and grunted.

He leaned elegantly on his cane, punched into the dry sand. She was grubbing about in the surf with a long-handled net. Her legs and feet were bare. The hem of her skirt was sodden, but she didn't care.

"Shelling again, I see," he observed.

"No," she said, "I dropped a dime, and I'm looking for it. Wanna help?"

He smiled genially and gazed out to sea. A dazzling morning. But a solid block of rain, about two miles out, was moving slowly southward.

"Ten-minute squall out there," he said.

Gertrude Empt glanced up, shaded her eyes, stared.

"It'll miss us, perfesser. Probably hit Lighthouse Point or Pompano Beach."

She came trudging out of the ocean, carrying her net and a plastic grocery bag.

"Any luck?" he asked.

"Half-a-dozen whelks. Four olives. A couple of nicked sea fans."

When she came closer, he hefted her bag of treasures, peering at the wet shells.

"I'll take the brown olive," he said.

"Fat chance," she said, and he laughed.

They strolled along together. Without shoes, she barely came to his shoulder. Beneath her loose, flower-printed shift, her body was stocky, tanned, firm. He had seen her in a bathing suit. He had noticed.

Her skin had the translucent purity some fortunate older women achieve: a smooth porcelain gloss. Her dark brown eyes were snappy. Gray, wiry hair was pulled back with a barrette. Her teeth were her own, and she showed them frequently in a wisenheimer grin.

"Beautiful morning," he offered.

"They're all beautiful," she said.

They paused to watch two early-morning joggers go pounding by. The woman was in her late twenties, tall, erect, lithe, and muscular. Her companion was a potbellied older man, bandy-legged. His face was reddened with effort, his chest pumped in and out as he strained.

"He's ready for cardiac arrest," Professor Craner commented.

"A lot of shitheads in Florida," Gertrude Empt said.

"True," he agreed. "But then there are a lot of shitheads everywhere. One must pick and choose one's companions."

She glanced at him a moment, "If you say so, perfesser."

They sauntered on, stooping to examine a dead blue that had been savaged by barracudas. There was a piece of timber covered with barnacles; a cork float that had once been painted red; a clump of bleached coquinas that weren't worth picking up.

"Looks like we'll get a raise in Social Security next summer," he said.

"Looks like," she said. "The more the merrier."

"How's your health?" he asked suddenly.

She stopped, and so he stopped. She turned to face him, her expression boldly scornful.

"I know you old Florida geezers," she said. "The next thing you'll be telling me about your BM."

"I'd never mention it," he assured her. "I was just making a polite inquiry about how you're feeling."

"Hah," she said.

They strolled on.

"I'm feeling fine," she said finally. "Thanks. You?"

"Tip-top," he said. "You happy living in your son's home?"

"What's this?" she demanded. "Twenty Questions?"

"Just trying to make conversation," he said mildly.

"Am I happy in my son's home?" she repeated. She flipped a palm back and forth. "So-so. Are you happy living in your daughter's home?"

"So-so," he said. "I like Bill. Still, it's not like having my own home."

"I know what you mean, perfesser," she said. "Boy, do I know." -

"I get a pension," he said, staring straight ahead. "Almost four hundred a month. In addition to Social Security."

"I got a nice block of Ma Bell," she countered. "Not a lot, but enough to make me feel independent."

"That's the way I'd like to be," he said. "Independent."

She gazed up at the pellucid sky.

"Npt many cheap rental properties around," she said thoughtfully.

"Not many," he said, nodding. "But when you get off the beach, on the other side of the waterway, there are reasonable places. Some of them not so bad. And sometimes you can work out a deal with a motel on an annual rate. Fve been looking into it/'

She stopped again, and again he stopped. They faced each other challengingly.

"What are you getting at?" she said.

"You," he said.