You Did Not Respond.
“Mrs. Dockey predicted as much in ’53,” the Doctor went on. “Also, that your Guilt in the matter of Mrs. Morgan’s death was not suicidal, except figuratively. She predicted a long life for you, without content.”
“You must miss Mrs. Dockey,” you Ventured Sympathetically.
The Doctor considered. “A serviceable old twat. Very convenient for me in those days.” He paused. “But I miss no one.”
The subject of sexuality thus raised, there ensued an apparent digression from your Interview Proper to review those of the patients who were on Heterosexual Therapy. Tombo X, as a rule, services female patients under 40 whose schedules include this therapy, unless they require a Father Surrogate like the Doctor himself or unless miscegenation is judged antitherapeutic, in which cases either you or Monsieur Casteene accommodates them, depending. Your Own Services have proved most effective with elder women, in particular those pleasant Protestant widows who get through their summers at the old Chautauqua Institution, rocking with their silver-haired sorority on the wickered porches of the Athenaeum, but who tend to immobility in the dreary Great Lakes winters, which they have insufficient means to flee. Once convinced (by articles in the Reader’s Digest on Swinging Senior Citizens and the New Gerontology) that there is nothing amiss in the stirrings of their bereft and sluggish blood, they take pleasure in the tonic of decorous fornication. And generally they experience less guilt and enjoy more remobilization with you than with a partner coeval to their late lamenteds.
You have Lapsed into Writing. Stop.
But Tombo X had announced that he could no longer get it up for Pocahontas — a hard-edged, fortyish WASP divorcee from Maryland who he declared would unman a regiment of rapists. His recommendation was that either a troop of motorcycle toughs be engaged to sodomize her out of her mind, or she be introduced to her latent lesbianism on the pretext of appealing for her help with Bibi, a nymphomaniac, alcoholic ex-movie starlet also among our problem patients. But the Doctor rejected the former course as antitherapeutic to everyone concerned except Tombo himself, always inclined to retaliation; the second as likely to raise more difficulties than it resolved. Sexuality, he feels, is not at the center of Pocahontas’s immobility problem. What she needs for the present, in his opinion, is more testicles for her collection: when she has made aggressive conquest of and scornfully rejected all three male authority figures on the staff, perhaps a genuine program of therapies might be devised for her. Until then, since with refractory penises there is no reasoning, you will Replace Tombo X as her Mobilizer — always Bearing in Mind that women of Pocahontas’s age and circumstances approach heterosexual connection with more than normal ambivalence, which fact makes Undue Aggressiveness or Passivity equally antitherapeutic. A male patient of your Approximate Character (i.e., Submissive but not Immobile) would be better grist for her mill than any staff member. So to speak. As we have none present, and you Are by your Own Acknowledgment still a Low-Grade but Ongoing Therapee, you’re It. Enjoy yourself: those late-liberated, premenopausal WASPs can be in handsome condition and kicky in the bed when they keep their stingers in. But do not for a moment Let your Guard Down: they have hearts of ice and, unlike bees, can sting more than once.
You Pled Disqualification on the grounds of a Slight Prior Acquaintance, in college days, with Pocahontas’s ex-husband, the writer Ambrose Mensch.
“Do not Bother me with History,” the Doctor said. But troubled himself to inquire whether Pocahontas had been on the scene in those days.
“No. As a matter of fact, I Believe Mensch’s mistress back then was the Mack girl. The one we’re calling Bibi.”
“Incroyable. Both here at the same time. Do they know?”
So far as you Knew, you Reported, Marsha Mensch and Bea Golden (née Jeannine Mack of Maryland) were unacquainted with each other and with their historical nexus. You Did Not Bother to Add (the Doctor being uninterested on principle in case histories) that the middle-aged scholarly English gentlewoman who had been brought to the Farm from Toronto in 1967 by Monsieur Casteene to have a remobilizing operation under the nom de guerre of Lady Russex might also by this time be a friend of Ambrose Mensch’s, since she went from here to a visiting professorship at Marshyhope College in Maryland, where Mensch would be her colleague. The real connection between the three is not your Former Acquaintance anyhow, but the late philanthropist Harrison Mack: father of Bibi, family friend of “Lady Russex,” patron of both Marshyhope College and the Remobilization Farm, and thus indirect employer of Ambrose Mensch as well as yourself and, for that matter, of our former patient J. B. Bray of Lily Dale. Father too, finally, of the radical Drew Mack, whose activities are responsible for the Farm’s becoming — in your Private Opinion and apparently unknown to the Doctor but not to Tombo X — an underground remobilization center of a quite different sort, of which our debonair, anything-but-immobilized M. Casteene is the unacknowledged director. By rejecting history, the Doctor spares himself much bemusement at such pretty interlacings.
But Stay: this is Writing.
“And you are No Longer in Correspondence with the husband?”
Had not Been in Correspondence with anyone save yourself, you Admitted, since 10/27/53.
“Then there is no reason to fear a replay of the Morgan fiasco,” the Doctor concluded, “which is what you are Thinking of. In any case, you Can No Longer Impregnate; nor can Pocahontas, being divorced, achieve adultery. If it doesn’t work out, Set her up with one of our straighter-looking draft dodgers.”
In his latter years, especially since our removal from west New York to Ontario, the Doctor has become something of a chauvinist in the original sense, and espouses a hawkish line on U.S. involvement in Southeast Asia. He takes professional umbrage at what he calls the misuse of the precious word movement for an antiwar program whose chief tactic is obstruction by sit-in and going limp. Even the black civil rights movement, earlier in the decade, he would dignify by that term only in its marching, not its sitting, aspect, and he would not sing “We Shall Overcome” except at double its torpid tempo. For the young draft resisters who flock across the Peace Bridge from the States, he has only contempt. There are a number of them among the patients; very few, in your Opinion, suffer from clinical immobility. The Doctor agrees, and dismisses them as “kinetic hypochondriacs”; but they are here for another reason.
“What do the numbers 64502 and 79673 suggest to you, Horner?” In the Progress and Advice Room you can Cross your Legs Comfortably in neither the “masculine” nor the “feminine” manner.
“The second is a postal zip code,” you Hazarded. “Somewhere in Texas. Near Abilene? The first is the population of Clifton, New Jersey, in the 1950 census, give or take a dozen. By 1960 it was up over 82,000.”
“Horner.”
You Sighed. “Zip code and 1960 population, respectively, of a small city in northwestern Missouri.”
“Named for the first great cuckold in the Christian tradition. Do you Have him in your Hornbook?”
You Nodded: “After Jason and before Karenin, Alexis. As a saint, he could I Suppose be in the S’s, with Shahryar of The Thousand and One Nights.”
“Or in the M’s? With Menelaus?”
“And Harrison Mack and Malatesta,” you Added Hurriedly. “That’s Francesca da Rimini’s husband Giovanni Malatesta, not her lover Paolo Malatesta. And Isolde’s husband King Mark. And Atalanta’s husband Melanion, a.k.a. Hippomenes, that either Ares or Meleager cuckolded, I Forget which. Also Minos of Crete. But I put Mary’s husband with the J’s: Alphabetical Priority.”