Case of Lucy Bending (40 page)

He would have wept if he let himself go. But he would not. He bit into his tongue, clenched his fists, tightened muscles, and did not cry. It was a small win, but important.

After a while he crawled to his feet, rose cautiously, tried to stretch his stinging body. He looked up and around. Nothing had changed. The moon still sailed. The sky went on forever. A wind blew from nowhere to nowhere.

He shambled homeward, trying to brush himself off. His nose had stopped dripping blood, but there were tender patches on his cheekbones, jaw, ribs. His balls ached dully, but he supposed that would go away. It didn't matter.

Nothing mattered.

On a drizzly day, the sky as colorless as an elephant hide, Lloyd Craner picked up Gertrude Empt and proposed they take a ride in his ancient Buick.

"Why not?" she said chirpily. "Maybe we can take a closer look at those motel units where you're planning to get in my bloomers."

It was the first time she had displayed any real interest, and he was careful not to show surprise or delight.

"Fine," he said casually. "We'll look the place over, and then perhaps we'll drive down A1A and have lunch at the Sea Watch."

"As long as you're paying," she said.

They drove slowly south, windshield wipers going and headlights on because it was a gloomy, misty day, the grainy sky pressing down.

"Remember the other day?" she said. "We were talking about the kids?"

"I remember," he said.

"They got their own lives to live," she said, "and they can go their own way; I don't care. But sometimes I feel sorry for them."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"Look at your grandchildren. And the Bendings' kids. They don't seem to be getting a hell of a lot out of life. Oh shit, I know all kids feel miserable at times. I did. But these kids seem to be missing a whole part of life."

"Innocence," he said. "They have no innocence, the best part of being young. They seem to have been born old."

"If you say so," she said. "You're the perfesser. All I know is that they run around half-naked, smoking their mug-gles, and if they haven't made out by the time they're ten, they figure something's wrong with them. You know something? I'm glad I'm old. I wouldn't want to be a kid today. Too much of a hassle."

The motel unit they inspected was the one-bedroom apartment with a kitchen large enough for a dinette set. The ex-New Jersey cop, or his wife, obviously had a passion for pink.

"You could lose a flamingo in here," Gertrude Empt observed.

The potbellied owner showed them around with pride.

"All your modern conveniences," he said. "Your toaster, your mixer. Your vacuum cleaner. Your twin beds with Sealy Posturepedic mattresses and box springs. Your television set with remote control. Your radio in the bedroom. Alarm, naturally, with Snooz-Control."

"And how much is this palace?" Gertrude asked.

"Four-fifty a month," potbelly said, "on an annual basis. A two-year lease. That includes use of the pool, shuffleboard court, patio, outside shower, and so forth. You pay Florida Power and Light, and Southern Bell. Take your time, folks. Look around. I gotta run now. Just slam the door when you leave. You won't find a better buy in south Florida, that's for sure."

They wandered about, opening cupboard drawers, inspecting kitchen cabinets. The apartment was completely furnished with linens and cooking equipment and implements.

"All we'd have to bring are our toothbrushes," Craner said.

"Not much closet space," Gertrude said.

"I don't have all that many clothes. Do you?"

"No," she said shortly.

She bounced up and down on one of the beds.

"Not bad," she admitted. "Firm. The way I like it."

"Nice bathroom," he offered. "At least it's got a tub."

"You think he'd let us redecorate?" she said. "Get rid of this pukey pink? Do this place in white, and it'd look twice as big."

"I'm sure he would," the professor said, "if we paid for the painting."

He sat down on the bed alongside her. He picked up her worn hand. She let him hold it.

"Well?" he said. 
_v

She sighed. "It's a big decision." "Not so big," he said gently. "What's the worst thing that could happen? It doesn't work out. You could always go back to your son's home."

"Not me," she said. "Once I cut loose, I'm
loose."

"I'd try to make it work," he said. "I promise you that. I suppose we're both a little old to be talking about love and undying passion. But I do have a real affection for you, Gertrude, and I hope you feel the same way about me. Do you?"

"I guess," she said.

"Well then," he said. "With a little effort and a few laughs, I think we could make it work."

"Ah shit," she said, troubled. "I just don't know."

"Let's go have some lunch," he suggested.

Outside, they took a closer look at the grounds. In that mournful drizzle, everything seemed a bit bedraggled. But there was no denying that the pool was clean, shuffleboard court freshly painted, lawn trimmed, palm trees cropped.

"It's nice," she allowed. "Small but nice."

"Like us," he said.

"Yeah," she said, laughing wryly. "Just like us."

In the restaurant, they sat close to big picture windows, looking out onto a deserted beach, smoky sea beyond. The sky had brightened a little; there was a sun up there somewhere. But still the mist fell.

. . droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven,'" Lloyd Craner said.

Gertrude said: "I'll bet that's from Shakespeare."

"You're exactly right," he said, smiling. "
The Merchant of Venice.
How would you like a Gibson straight up?"

"Is that from Shakespeare, too?"

"No," he said, laughing, "that's from me."

"Grand," she said, "but make it on the rocks."

They had a second drink, and ordered hamburgers and a salad. Meanwhile, they looked out at the scrimmed scene. It was elegiac, the professor thought. That sad, dripping curtain. And on the wet sand, the restaurant's props: splintered dinghy, anchor, bleached this and that. All rust, wear, age.

They ate their meal in silence, smiling. Finally, when it came time for black coffee and fresh strawberries, he looked at her closely and said, "You want to tell me something?"

"I don't know . . . It's been so long since I've felt anything for a man, it's like I've got to learn all over again how to do it. I just wondered if you thought it was possible. Between us, I mean."

He leaned stiffly across the table to stare into her eyes. "Yes, I think it's possible. No guarantee, but I think it's possible."

Then he straightened back into his chair. "And now," he said, "how about a brandy?"

"You sure know the way to a girl's heart," she said.

Dr. Theodore Levin, looking over his appointments for the day, saw he had Mrs. Grace Bending scheduled for 3:00
P.M.
He paused, stared upward at the paper stars pasted on his office ceiling.

It was amazing how often familiarity bred respect. At first meeting, he had thought her a stiffish woman. Subsequent sessions had mellowed that judgment. He saw her now as softer, more vulnerable. Her search for spiritual guidance had become touching.

What
does
a wife do who is linked to a sexual profligate? Burdened by children disturbed by their parents' hostility? Ape her husband, Levin thought: become as lickerish as he. Or seek divorce. Or the path Grace Bending had apparently taken: the comfort of Jesus and hope of redemption.

Or, he thought with some bemusement, take a hatchet to her husband's skull.

He warned himself, not for the first time, of the dangers of labeling. His discipline, like all others, had its special vocabulary. That was necessary. But a hazard lay in categorizing. In his field, the variations were infinite; there was no neat filing system. Each case different, each case unique.

He put his cigar aside and was brushing ashes from his lapels when he rose to greet Mrs. Bending promptly at 3:00
P.M.

He had little awareness of fashion (male or female), but it seemed to him there had been a "feminization" in Mrs. Bending's dress since the initial interview. Just as her manner and response to him had thawed, so had her costumes become gentler and softer.

Today she was wearing a flowered shirtwaist dress of some gossamer stuff that flowed. Her good legs were bare, feet in a cobweb of straps. Her long hair flung free, and there was makeup and vitality he had never noted before. She seemed especially alive to him, alert and eager.

"Well, now," he said with his smile of heavy benignity, "have there been any developments? Any new incidents involving Lucy?"

"None at all, doctor," she said. "I really think her, uh, talks with you have done her the world of good."

He shifted in his swivel chair uncomfortably. "I would like to take credit for it, Mrs. Bending, but in all honesty I cannot."

"Well, my goodness, she hasn't misbehaved since she started seeing you."

He sighed. "She will. Eventually. I have not yet been able to establish the cause of her, ah, aberrance. Until we do that, I cannot promise any improvement. You must not be too shocked if more incidents do occur. Lucy is a very disturbed child, and a long way from adjustment."

And that, he thought morosely, was the bullshit double-talk you gave the parents of nutty kids. What did "disturbed" mean? Or "adjustment"? It sounded calm and authoritative. What it came down to was a poor, possessed child driven by furies she (and he) could not understand.

"But surely, doctor," Grace Bending said, twisting her wedding band nervously, "you've made
some
progress?"

"Perhaps," he said noncommittally. "Mrs. Bending, what happened to your family four or five years ago?"

He threw it at her that fast, hoping to elicit a spontaneous reaction. He thought he saw her stiffen, but he could not be sure.

"Four or five years ago?" she said. "I don't understand."

Then he was certain she was stalling, framing her reply.

"Four or five years ago," he repeated patiently. "Probably in your own home. An incident which Lucy witnessed, or of which she was aware, that may have triggered her deviant behavior.''

She gazed fixedly at a point over his head. She went through all the expressions of thoughtful consideration: head cocked, features composed in frowning intensity.

"I don't remember any incident like that," she said. "My goodness, Lucy couldn't have been more than three or four at that time. She wouldn't remember anything."

"Uh-huh," he said.

He thought about the vagaries of memory. His own earliest recollection was of being given a cup of warmed milk with a blob of butter in it. He could not recall where that happened, or how old he was—four or five he guessed—but he could still see that cup of golden milk clearly, and taste it.

Most people, he knew, could not consciously recollect anything that had happened prior to their fifth year, of life. That did not mean the memories were not there, hidden, encrusted. Ask Papa Freud.

But now, faced with Mrs. Bending's obduracy, he decided on another approach.

"You told me," he said, "that you are aware that your husband has been unfaithful to you on several occasions."

Her relaxation at this change of subject was obvious.

"Many," she said. "Many occasions."

"I don't wish to probe into matters that give you pain, but there are things I need to know. You are certain of your husband's infidelity?"

"Yes."

"Have you any idea where these incidents have occurred?"

"Where?" she said wildly. "Where? Why, all over, I suppose. Hotels, motels. In his car. In his office. Anyplace."

He paused a moment, staring at her.

"In your own home?" he asked.

Her reaction was more than he expected. She started, flushed, glanced about frantically as if seeking an escape.

"Uh . . ." she said. "Uh . . . Why do you ask that?"

"Was your husband unfaithful to you in your own home?" he persisted.

"No," she said in a low voice, hanging her head. "No. Not to my knowledge."

He wondered why she insisted on defending her husband, and decided to come at her from a third direction, trying to pry from her an acknowledgment of her spouse's guilt.

"Mrs. Bending, during our first interview, your husband told me of an incident that occurred during a party in your home. He caught Lucy in the kitchen with one of your friends. A male friend. He described in graphic detail exactly what Lucy was doing to this man. Do you recall that?"