Case of Lucy Bending (18 page)

The next step, a recent one, was a self-dialogue, spoken aloud, during which he debated, sometimes even argued with himself.

"Luther Empt wants you to play golf on Saturday."

"I don't know if I want to go."

"Maybe you should."

"What for?"

"To see what's happening with the new factory."

"I don't care. And I don't feel like playing golf on Saturday. Especially with Empt. The man's an animal."

"You need the exercise. Fresh air."

"I'll play a bad game. Drink too much afterward."

He knew it was happening. He knew he spoke aloud to himself when alone, but it didn't frighten him. He found it almost amusing. He went along with it. Where was the harm?

His decision to purchase a handgun was the result of one of these voiced dialogues:

"What do you need a gun for?"

"Empt has one, and Turk Bending."

"But why do
you
need one?"

"Crime is increasing. Protect the family, the house."

"You don't know how to handle a gun."

"I can learn. It's simple: you point and pull the trigger. I did it with Luther's gun that night on the beach. It felt good. Maybe I won't buy a gun as heavy as Luther's. Just a small one."

"You'll go to a gunshop and some redneck will laugh at you. He'll see you don't know a damned thing about guns. He'll be contemptuous, rude."

"So what? I'll treat him coldly. I'm the customer. I'll get a good gun and insist he shows me how to use it. I'll be firm and definite."

So, convinced, he went to a gunshop on Federal Highway. The clerk turned out to be no redneck at all, but a vested executive type who spoke William Holloway's language. He didn't even ask his customer's reasons for wanting to purchase a firearm.

"Sir," he said unctuously, "if your experience with handguns is limited, may I suggest this truly beautiful and efficient weapon? It is a Colt Detective Special, a six-shot, thirty-eight caliber, all-steel revolver with a two-inch barrel. Total length: six and three-quarters inches. Total weight: only twenty-one ounces. May I call your attention to this snag-eliminating ramp front sight, ejector rod shroud, and wrap-around grips of checkered walnut? Just handle this beauty, sir, and judge the heft."

Obediently, though somewhat gingerly, William Holloway took the gun into his palm.

"It is unloaded, sir," the clerk said gently. "I assure you."

Emboldened, Holloway gripped the weapon tighter. He swung it up, aimed at the far wall.

"Feels fine," he said confidently.

"Oh yes indeed, sir. Light, but with sufficient up-front weight to provide perfect balance. And small enough to provide convenient concealment at home or carried in your car, as conditions warrant."

"All right," Holloway said, "I'll take it."

"Very good, sir," the clerk said. "Now this model is available in blue or nickel finish."

"Uh . . . nickel would be nice. And I'll need some bullets."

"Of course, sir. And may I show you some very handsome holsters to add protection and prestige to your purchase?"

So, after showing identification, signing documents, and learning about the waiting period, William Jasper Holloway paid for gun, bullets, black leather holster. He was assured the firearm came with cleaning kit and a pamphlet providing information on loading, firing, and maintenance.

He returned to the gunshop three days later and picked up his purchases. It was almost 3:00
P.M
., and he decided not to return to the bank. On the drive home he had one of his dialogues:

"Well, I did it!"

"I still don't see why you need a gun."

"Protection. Reassurance. Confidence."

"You'll be careful with it?"

"Of course."

"It can kill."

"I know that."

"It can kill."

"I said I knew that."

"It can kill."

"Oh shut up!"

Jane and his father-in-law were out somewhere, the kids were at school, and only Maria was at home, banging pots around in the kitchen and singing a Spanish lament in a reedy voice.

Holloway poured a heavy vodka over ice, added a squeezed wedge of lime. He took the drink and his purchases up to the master bedroom and locked the door from the inside. He sat on the edge of the bed and examined his treasures.

He inspected the gun closely. It seemed to have a light,

smooth film. He sniffed it and smelled oil, steel, wood. It was really, he decided, a precise, polished piece of machinery. It filled his hand, compact and solid. It felt good.

He read the instructions. He made certain the weapon was unloaded. He aimed at the opposing wall, sighting along the front ramp sight. His hand was steady. He pulled the trigger. It resisted more than he thought it would, but then there was a satisfying click.

"Bang," he said softly.

He repeated this process, aiming at the bedroom door and the pillow on his wife's bed. Each time he said, "Bang. Bang."

He sat there, revolver dangling casually from one hand, while he took several sips of his iced vodka. Then, consulting the instructions again, he loaded the chambers, handling the bright cartridges with slow, exaggerated care. He eased the loaded cylinder back into place.

"Now it can kill."

"I know that."

Keeping his forefinger carefully outside the trigger guard, he reaimed at his three targets: the opposing wall, bedroom door, pillow on his wife's bed. His repeated "Bang! Bang! Bang!" was louder now.

"Why not you?"

"Why not?"

Still with his finger carefully away from the trigger, he pressed the muzzle of the gun to his chest. To his genitals. Then, mouth stretched wide, he inserted the short barrel of the weapon between his teeth.

He withdrew it, tasting not the oil or polished steel of the gun but something as bitter as an old penny. He stared at the precisely turned and manufactured machine in his hand. Power. His.

He moved to the window with a zany smile. Through the palm fronds he saw glittering sea, gleaming beach. Men, women, children sporting in skimpy, brightly colored suits. Holloway could almost smell the brine, suntan oil, sun-baked flesh.

South Florida was a painted harlot, doused with dime store perfume. Too crass, too importunate, too gaudy.

Still keeping his finger outside the trigger guard, William Jasper Holloway aimed his new gun through the closed window. At the palm trees. Beach. People. Sea. Florida. World. Life.

"Bang," he said in a low voice. "Bang."

"Regarding the case of Karen J," Dr. Theodore Levin said pontifically, "I listened to the tapes and I think you're handling it exactly right."

Dr. Mary Scotsby nodded. "It seems to be a textbook case of kleptomania."

"I concur. You don't happen to have another bottle of this wine, do you?"

"I do, but I have something better."

"No no, this will do fine. You know my vulgar tastes."

She went into her kitchen and brought back another bottle of the cheap California burgundy they had been drinking. Levin broke the seal and filled their glasses. Scotsby curled up in one corner of the corduroy-covered couch. Levin sat solidly in a worn wing chair.

They were both wearing bathrobes. Hers was a pale yellow chenille. His was an old-fashioned flannel with an all-over carpet design and a cord sash. His fleshy feet were bare. She was wearing frolicsome mules with blue pom-poms.

"It's really a very raw wine, Ted," she said. "I only buy it for you."

"I know," he said. "I have no palate at all. Probably all those cigars I smoke. I can't taste anything."

"I hope you tasted that curry tonight."

"That
I tasted," he said, smiling wanly. "You saw me sweating, didn't you? Mary, can we talk about the case of Lucy B?"

"If you like."

"You listened to the tapes?"

She nodded.

"Any immediate reactions?"

"I think you're handling the parents very well. They're opening up. I have a feeling that Lucy has you buffaloed."

He thought about that.

"You may be right," he said finally, sighing. "An extraordinarily beautiful little girl. I thought she looks like a miniature woman. Did you get that impression?"

She frowned a moment, biting her lower lip. "Yes, I'll go along with that."

"When you examined her, did you notice if her breasts were overdeveloped?"

"For a child her age? Perhaps they were. Not the breasts of a woman, you understand, but more like the breasts of an adolescent. The nipples were well defined, almost erectile."

"Uh-huh."

She stared at him through her wire-rimmed glasses. "What are you getting at, Ted?"

He shifted his bulk in the soft armchair. He took a gulp of his wine.

"I've been anxious about something," he said. "For some time now. The case of Lucy B has brought it to a head. Briefly, I've been wondering if my entire approach to psychotherapy is too parochial. I've been thinking that perhaps I should give more weight to other factors. Sociological. Cultural. Physiological.''

"Physiological? Lucy appears to be in perfect health."

"Mmm. Still . . ."

She waited patiently for him to continue. She was a rawboned woman, taller than he, with bony shoulders. Awkward arms and legs, long feet. Her breasts were small and muscular; rib cage and pelvic bones pressed fair, freckled skin.

They had showered an hour ago. Her face, washed free of makeup, was clear and shining. Brown hair was pulled straight back from her high brow and fastened with a plain gold barrette.

It was a sharp face, nose and jaw jutting. Pale lips were thin. Small, convoluted ears hugged the skull. No lines, wrinkles, or crow's-feet. The eyes gave nothing away. A stretched neck, and then the hard bones of her chest.

"When I came down here about ten years ago," he said slowly, "I became aware that the cases I was getting were different from those I treated in Denver. I was seeing more deviance and perversion. More aberrant sexual habits. I've been wondering why this should be so."

"The climate," she said wryly. "It is tropical, you know."

"Oh yes," he said seriously, "I do believe that's a factor. The total environment. Hot sun, glorious beach, relaxed outdoor living. It's difficult to resist pleasure as a way of life. But I think other factors are involved. For instance, since you've been down here, have you ever met anyone who was born in Florida?"

"No."

"I have. One old man. But everyone else is from somewhere else. So you have this feeling of rootlessness. No one really belongs, in the sense of having family that's lived here for generations. No foundations. When you go to a foreign country, you have a tendency to cut loose. I think it's a very human reaction, in a new and strange place, to slough off old rules, old repressions and constraints."

"I concur," she said, staring at him with steady, unblinking eyes.

"And another factor . . ."he went on. "A1 Wollman and I were talking about why the children down here, and particularly the young girls, seem so physically mature for their age. I'm sure you've seen twelve- and thirteen-year-old girls on the beach with the bodies of eighteen- to twenty-year-old women. Very well-developed breasts. Tall. Well-defined waists, hips, buttocks."

"And with heavy makeup," Scotsby said. "Some of them look like young hookers."

"Yes," he said. "A1 thinks it may be due to the fact that so many go on the Pill at a very early age. All those estrogens. Plus the fact that so much of our meat, especially chicken, has been treated with growth-accelerating hormones. Plus the current fad for vitamins and food supplements. Does all this sound completely nuts to you?"

"Well . . . no," she said cautiously. "Not completely."

"So now we have several factors—environmental, sociological, cultural, physiological—all of them adding up to a speeding of maturation, and particularly amongst infant, latency, and adolescent children."

"And you feel you haven't been giving these factors sufficient weight in your diagnosis and treatment?"

"I think it's a very real possibility. Now let's get back to the case of Lucy B. Ten years ago, in Denver, I would have pigeonholed her as middle latency."

"Ted, Bornstein subdivided latency into two phases. Lucy could be early-latency or late-latency."

"Did you read Pandey's paper dealing with prelatency, latency, and postlatency? So now we have three phases. But my point is that, due to accelerated growth caused by the factors I mentioned, Lucy B, in spite of being eight years old, may not be a latency child at all, but in an early stage of adolescence."

"An interesting theory, Ted."

"Latency, according to Freud, is a sexual lull, a period of genital anesthesia with a definite decline in masturbatory activity between the ages of about five to ten or twelve. Her mother says Lucy does not masturbate. Do you believe that?"