The door was opened by Mrs. Pearson herself.
They exchanged polite but wary greetings. She told him she was just on her way out to visit a friend, but she’d be very glad if he’d come in.
“I won’t stay a minute,” he said. “I was just passing and thought I’d drop in.”
She went into the sitting room and he followed her. She was jumpy, but he noticed with professional interest that she looked very well. Her eyes were bright and clear and there was a good color in her cheeks, though she seemed to have lost weight in the past week. He wondered whether it was diet or worry over Pearson or the effect of the dress she was wearing. He didn’t ordinarily pay attention to women’s clothes, but he was so used to Mrs. Pearson’s dowdy black suits that the dress struck his eye immediately. It was some soft, honey-colored material with a wide red belt and bands of red around the shoulders.
“How is he?” she asked directly.
“I saw him yesterday,” MacNeil said. “He’s getting along fine. You haven’t anything to worry about.”
“Did he get my letter?”
“I gave it to him.”
“And he didn’t say anything?”
“No.”
She appeared to be relieved at that. “I wrote him a rather hysterical letter. I’m glad he didn’t pay any attention to it. I was feeling depressed that day.”
“You had reason to. If there’s anything I can do...”
“Oh, no. I’m all right now, thanks.”
He smiled. “That’s understatement. You look amazingly well.”
“I do?” Her hand jerked up to her throat.
“A bit nervy, perhaps,” he said. “I could order you a sedative, if you like.”
“I never use drugs. I’m perfectly healthy.”
She looked it, too. There was good sturdy stock in her, MacNeil thought. It would be part of her appeal to the aesthetic Pearson, and perhaps part of the antagonism between them.
“Besides,” she added, “you came here to talk about Charles, didn’t you?”
“So I did.” He was embarrassed by the rebuke. “But you’re important, too, you know. There are usually two people involved in a marriage.”
“Our marriage is no concern of yours.”
“It is, as it affects your husband. In addition to being my patient, he asked my advice.”
“Charles and I are both intelligent people. If there’s anything wrong between us, we’ll work it out for ourselves.”
She stood up. She was half a head taller than he was, and he looked up at her with pleasure. On the purely physical level, she was a magnificent woman. What a shame that she was wasted on Pearson, just as Pearson was, in another sense, wasted on her.
“I hope you do work it out,” he said, ignoring her obvious wish that he leave. “I had a case last week which is similar to Mr. Pearson’s. Perhaps if I told you about it, you’d understand your husband’s difficulties more fully.”
“Tell me then.”
He began to pace up and down the room. “The patient is a woman about your age, an only child, unmarried, lives with her father and mother. One night last week her father brought a young man home to dinner. The girl became violently ill when she drank her coffee. Though she has a long allergy history, she never had any reaction to coffee previous to this. Now she can’t even bear the smell of it. I questioned her about it; she’s intelligent and tries to help. The only explanation she could give was that she took an immediate and intense dislike to the young man her father had brought home. That’s all right as far as it goes. But why the dislike? And if it was immediate, why didn’t she react to something served at the beginning of the meal? Why, in fact, was it necessary to react to anything? Of course, I can theorize. She wanted attention, for one thing. She was attracted by the young man and tried perhaps to attract him in turn. Unsuccessful in using ordinary measures, she resorted to extraordinary ones — she became ill.
“But the explanation may be much more complex than that. The girl’s abnormally sensitive and self-critical. When she failed to interest the young man, her vanity was wounded and she may suddenly have loathed herself for trying. ‘I dislike you’ so frequently means, ‘You make me dislike myself.’ Her reaction to the coffee would then be an expression of self-hate and a mild form of self-destruction. So there are three levels of explanation. The first, she had a simple allergic reaction. The second, she wanted to attract the young man’s attention. At the third and deepest level, she killed herself.”
“It sounds far-fetched to me,” Martha said.
“Any interpretation may be wrong, or far-fetched, as you call it. But the death wish is a fact; it’s very strong in some people.”
“Do you mean Charles?”
“It seems probable, don’t you agree? It’s been nearly two months now since he went into anaphylactic shock after the aspirins. These things don’t usually linger on. Anaphylactic shock is quick; either it kills or it disappears rapidly. There’s nothing organically wrong with your husband. Even his sterility, as far as we’ve been able to ascertain, doesn’t seem to have a physical cause. If we could find one, we’d have an easy and pat explanation for his mental problems — that they are the result of his sterility.
“I don’t know. I’m feeling my way. I’m not a psychoanalyst, which is what he needs. But I’m hoping that I can... not cure his neurosis, which I believe is impossible, but direct it into more constructive channels. Briefly, he’s got to have something to live for and to pin his hopes on.”
He saw her glance toward the door. “I hope I’m not keeping you from your appointment?”
“No, of course not,” she said politely.
“I have to leave now anyway.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t tell you anything about Charles that might help you. As a matter of fact, I really don’t know him very well.”
If there was irony behind the remark, it didn’t show in her face or voice. It appeared to be a simple and unashamed confession of ignorance. MacNeil thought of his own wife and her rather exasperating habit of telling him she could read him like a book. He thought, somewhere between the two extremes...
When he went out, he met Laura coming up the front steps. She was skipping like a little girl but as soon as she saw him she stopped, rearranged her bones and proceeded into the house with awesome dignity.
“What have you done with your hair?” Martha said.
“Like it?”
“Not very much. It’s like a sheepdog’s.”
“Steve says it makes me look like Lauren Bacall.”
“Whoever she may be.”
“Oh, she’s gorg, simply gorg! Of course, Steve was just kidding me.”
“It’s more than possible,” Martha said coldly. “I suppose you’ve forgotten I told you not to go over there and bother him.”
“But he likes me to!”
“That makes no difference. We can’t have people talking.”
“Why should they talk? I mean, he’s an old friend, isn’t he? We’ve known him for ages, it would be plain silly not to...”
“For heaven’s sake, will you shut up!”
She hadn’t intended to say it like that. She knew it would be awkward to antagonize Laura. She continued, more reasonably, “I’m sorry I have to be harsh with you, but you’ve really got to learn a few of the conventions. You sometimes forget that you have certain responsibilities now. You can’t do exactly what you like. You may enjoy talking to Steve, but it just isn’t done.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so. I hope you’re not going to be difficult.”