“There’s a lot to enjoy, isn’t there? I never knew it could be so beautiful. It’s so... real, Rog. Oh, damnit, there I go Ree again.”
“Is that what’s bothering you?”
“I thought you didn’t want to psych me.”
“I don’t.”
“Then stop asking me what’s bothering me. Nothing’s bothering me. I’m a nature-lover, protector of the royal oak. Besides, you haven’t got your couch. You said so yourself.”
“We could use that patch of pine needles for a couch. It’s shady there. We could pretend I’ve drawn the blinds.”
“Pretense again.”
“Most of living is, Deb; come to the couch.”
“Oh, all right.”
“Here, this way.”
“I’m afraid I’m not dressed for a jaunt in the country. My legs are getting scratched.”
“So long as...”
“So long as what? Why’d you stop?”
“No reason.”
“You were thinking, so long as I didn’t scratch my breasts, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you say so?”
“I... say, who’s psyching who?”
“Whom.”
“Well, you should have worn some sort of covering. Be a shame if...”
“See. You stopped again. I think you have a breast fetish.”
“In this day and age, my dear Deborah, that is a most sound diagnosis. Sit down and shut up.”
“All right. Oh, they’re soft.”
“Pine needles always are.”
“They shouldn’t call them needles then. Needles make me think of something sharp.”
“How do you feel, Deb?”
“Me? Why, fine.”
“You haven’t been looking well.”
“Are you starting to psych me? I mean, should I lie back or something?”
“Let’s forget I’m a psych; let’s talk as friends.”
“All right.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing, Deb?”
“Nothing important.”
“What?”
“I told you, it’s not important. I don’t like this game, Rog. Let’s walk some more.”
“Sit down, Deb.”
“You’re entirely too dominant, Mr. Moore. Doctor Moore. What was your real name, Rog?”
“What difference does it make?”
“I want to know. It’s like calling a maple an oak.”
“A stupid name.”
“What?”
“Americo.”
“Oh, not really.”
“Yes, really; my parents were naturalized citizens — born in Palermo, I think. They were pretty hepped up on the idea of America. They named me Americo. Americo Mancusi.”
“How’d you get Rog Moore from that?”
“I didn’t. I just chucked the whole works.”
“Americo. That sounds more majestic than Rog.”
“Majestic? God, it’s titanic; who could ever live up to a name like that?”
“Shall I call you Americo?”
“I prefer Rog.”
“My real name was Betsy. That’s sickening, isn’t it?”
“It’s a little unsophisticated, yes.”
“Dean is really my last name, though. I just changed the first part. Deborah Dean. It’s really alliterative, isn’t it?”
“Quite symphonic. What’s troubling you, Deb?”
“Are we back to that again?”
“I’m afraid we are.”
“You’re a hard man to dissuade.”
“I’m a psych.”
“You’ve already told me I’m not crazy. That’s what psychs are for.”
“What’s troubling you, Deb?”
“Rog, I... I... well...”
“That difficult, huh? Let’s see now. Mild anxiety coupled with extreme reticence. Stammering, stuttering, and stunned silence.”
“Rog, I...”
“Timidity, tonal tonsillectomy, and telltale tittering. I’d say paranoia, offhand.”
“You’re joking, but I’ve thought of that, too.”
“All right, Deb. Let’s have it.”
“The... the Inseminar.”
“What about it?”
“I’ve... I’ve been twice. Each time, I only got as far as the door. I... I couldn’t bring myself to go inside, Rog.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. That’s just it; I simply don’t know. I just froze on the front doorstep. I was the absolute picture of the virgin on her wedding night. That’s silly, I know. I mean, it’s just a test tube, after all.”
“Why were you frightened? Or were you frightened?”
“Yes, I was. Terribly so. And not only that, Rog. Something else. Something I don’t think I can explain easily.”
“Try.”
“I... I kept thinking of the Ree stories, Rog. About... about babies conceived this way being idiots and... and not normal. You know.”
“You mean babies conceived at the Inseminar?”
“Yes. You know the Ree jokes. Spare the rod and spoil the child. That sort of thing. I kept thinking of it, and I wondered if I were doing the right thing.”
“It’s only right if you believe in it, Deb.”
“Then I suppose I don’t believe in it. Like the maple tree, I suppose. I can tell myself it’s oak, but I know it’s maple.”
“Exactly.”
“But there was something else, Rog. A... a feeling of guilt. Yes, that was it; a terrible feeling of guilt... as if I had no right to do what I was doing. Is that being silly, too?”
“No, not at all.”
“Rog...”
“Yes?”
“Isn’t something wrong? I mean...”
“Yes?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
“You mean with us. With people? With Rees and Vikes.”
“Yes, everything, Rog. Oh, my God, I’m so confused. I don’t know what I want, and I don’t know what I should want. I know that’s awful. I’m twenty-three years old, and I feel like a thirteen-year-old with her first menst.”
“There’s nothing strange about that, Deb.”
“Isn’t there? Rog, I can’t explain the things that are going through my mind lately; and I feel as if I don’t know my own body, either. You remember, long long ago, when they burned women at the stake for being possessed of the devil? I feel as if I’ve been possessed, Rog. I feel as if some alien has entered my mind and body and taken complete control. I’m just a stranger — an outsider looking in— And I don’t understand what I see. I don’t understand it at all. Maybe I should be burned at the stake.”
“I hardly think so. I’d say your state of mind was normal... for our times.”
“But is it right to wonder so much about everything? I question everything I do now, Rog. The Inseminar was just one example. Why, when I sit and — forgive me — eat alone, I wonder why I’m doing it. Every time I pop off, even while the drug is raging inside me, I wonder why I’m putting needles into my thigh. Rog, that can’t be right; it can’t be healthy to have so many doubts about yourself. Is it? Please tell me, Rog. Please.”
“Don’t make me a god, Deb. I’m just an ordinary psych who hasn’t had much opportunity to practice lately.”
“How do you mean?”
“A psych is in business only when people seek him for help. When a man doesn’t know he’s troubled, he doesn’t look for aid.”
“Then there is something wrong? With everyone, I mean?”
“I couldn’t say, Deb.”
“Will we ever know?”
“Oh, yes; I’m quite certain we will. Perhaps sooner than we think.”
“Is everyone in such doubt? Do the Rees wonder about themselves, too?”
“There was; a man, Deb, a poet... a long time ago...”
“Yes?”
“He wrote a very lovely poem. It’s on the Ree Spit List, I believe, and most Vikes will have no part of it. There are some lines in the poem... well, no matter.”
“Say them, Rog.”
“I don’t know if I can remember...”
“Say them.”