He was talking now about the way he investigated the origins of phobias, tracing them to the conditioning given by parents and others.
Sarah heard without listening. She was torn in two. She could manufacture some excuse to leave this place and never see Ed Cunningham again. Or she could make him understand that she demanded to be treated as a unique individual, not one more client for the couch.
“Hey” — he cut into his monologue — “suddenly you look like the sun went out. What is it, Sarah? Did I say something terrible?”
His concern was real. It showed in his eyes.
Sarah said, “Why do you talk to me like I’m one of your patients?”
He frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. “Is that what I was doing? Christ, I hope not! That’s ridiculous. I mean, I didn’t bring you here—”
“Why did you bring me here? I’d like to get it straight. Is it just because I’m a self-cured arachnophobiac?”
He stretched out his hand and rested it on hers. “Little lady, understand this. I happen to like you enough to want to know you better. Okay? If you don’t want to participate in my work, just say so. That needn’t stop us from talking some more — if you want to, that is.”
“And have you dissect the rest of my life? No thanks, Ed.”
He was silent for several seconds. “That’s what this is about, then.” He shook his head slowly. “Oh, boy, am I getting old! I can’t even talk to someone as sweet as you without the shrink taking over... I’m really sorry. Would you let us start over?”
The earnestness of his apology made her uncomfortable. “I’d like to think about that. Tell me some more about your work.”
He described two of his patients, a woman who was terrified of birds and a man who constantly wore gloves because he could not endure anything touching his bare hands.
When he had finished, Sarah said, “Would it really help these people to hear about me?”
“I’m positive it would, or I wouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“Okay — but there’s one thing.”
“Name it.”
She got up and crossed the room to a framed certificate recording his membership in the American Psychiatric Association. “You belong to a profession that sets its standards high.”
He frowned slightly. “Of course.”
“The way you behave toward your patients has to be above reproach, isn’t that right?”
He nodded.
“I mean, if, for example, you were to kiss one of them, that would be regarded as unprofessional, wouldn’t it?”
“Absolutely.”
“And if the APA got word of it, you could lose your license to practice.”
“Aren’t we getting too hypothetical? It wouldn’t happen. All of us in the profession know that you have to keep personal attachments out of it.”
“Okay. So now that we both have it clear that I don’t seek your professional advice and you won’t feel obliged to give it, I want you to kiss me.”
He laughed in a way that showed he had seen this coming. “Then if I’m ever tempted to suggest psychoanalysis, you have a gun at my head. I’ll say one thing about your mind, Sarah: its defenses are in very good shape. Tell you what — I’ll give you a kiss. Not to put my career on the line, but because I’d like us to be friends. Do we have a deal?”
She smiled back. “I can’t see any objections.”
He came over to her and put his hands on her shoulders.
Sarah made sure that the kiss was mouth to mouth, but it was as light as his touch.
“Okay, then,” she said. “When do I come again?”
Around five on Friday afternoon, as Sarah was leaving the library, Don was close behind her, and caught up before she had reached the foot of the steps. This was not chance; he had been waiting twenty minutes in the catalogue hall for her to come by. Getting to talk with her away from the department required strategy, because she organized her life in a way that left little time for unscheduled contacts.
“Hi. Mind if I walk with you?”
In the sunlight of late afternoon her hair — she was wearing it loose and long — was almost pure red. She shook some off her shoulder and, without turning to look at him, said, “Why not, if we’re going the same way. I’m only going back to my room.”
“How about an ice cream first?”
“That sounds like a nice idea, but—”
“There’s a place at Ninetieth and Columbus.”
When they had been served, he said, “Sometimes it’s nice to talk without Bernice knowing about it.”
She smiled.
Don went on. “I mean, I hope I’m not totally paranoid, but it amazes me how much Jerry seems to know about what goes on in that place.”
Sarah nodded. “Did he, by any chance, have words with you this week about our research projects?”
“Why, yes. You, too?”
They exchanged smiles with some reserve in them.
“He seems to think you and I need a cooling-off period,” said Don. “Is that the impression you got?”
“Something like that.” She looked down at her ice cream. “This isn’t what he meant.”
Don grinned.
Sarah continued. “He figures you have hurt feelings about what happened over the TV program.”
“Is that so?”
“Well, do you?”
They had come to the point sooner than Don expected. “If you want it straight — yes, I do.”
“Would you like to kick my butt?”
“I bought you an ice cream, didn’t I? No, I’m not mad at you. If I’m mad at anyone, it’s myself. I didn’t want to do the thing. Not their way, anyhow. I let Jerry stampede me into it. My sequences were crap.”
“I’d like you to know that I didn’t cold-bloodedly plan to cut you out. The way it happened, I knew something was going on with TV, but I didn’t know the crew was coming in that morning. I got in early from Lake Pinecliff as usual, and Bernice told me. Naturally, I wasn’t wild about it. Okay, I admit I did a double-take when Bernice told me they were going to film you. But it was Jerry I was mad at. He hadn’t even mentioned it. I mean, he didn’t even-let me know the lab was being used that day. I could have stayed at Lake Pinecliff. That was why I made sure I was working in the lab when they arrived — to get back at Jerry. Oh, you bet it backfired. He wasn’t one bit put out. Just asked me to show them around. And that was how I got involved.”
“Sure.” Don believed her. This was the first time in a year she had volunteered anything outside their area of research. “No hard feelings, I promise you. And none on your side? For both our sakes, I wish Jerry had asked you first. That guy has a few things to answer for. What’s his game now, do you think?”
“According to what he told me, it’s called autecology—”
“And synecology,” chimed in Don.
They laughed together, and it was a new step in their association.
“Do you have family at Lake Pinecliff?” Don asked.
“No, it’s just a place where I go hang-gliding.”
That explained the crash helmet. “Hang-gliding? Hey, that’s terrific. You know, I figured there had to be something in your life besides spiders. But don’t you get scared launching off into nothing but air?”
“That’s the attraction.” She talked about the exhilaration of flying, and for a minute or so he was treated to the vitality he had previously glimpsed in the film interview. “You ought to try it,” she said.
“After a recommendation like that, how could I refuse?”
At this she looked startled, evidently realizing she had said more than she intended. She gave a quick, forced smile and said it was time she got home.
Don remembered something he had brought with him as a pretext for approaching her, and took it from his pocket. “Jerry lent me this to read. It’s a paper on the cryptozoa by some British professor. He seemed to think it might be useful. Would you care to have it for a few days? I couldn’t see too much in it that bears on my research or yours, but who knows?”