“—don’t you agree, Doctor?” the patient had asked.
Rachel DeJong coughed, and wore the hood of sagacity, and when she had her bearings, she spoke. “We’ll go into my opinions later, Miss Mitchell,” she said. “Right now, as I have told you before, the important thing is that you have the source of this disturbance out in the open, where you can see it clearly. Soon, I think you will not require my opinion. You will acquire your own insight. You will see what must be done yourself.”
Miss Mitchell revealed displeasure, and turned her head on the doily so that her eyes were directed to the cool aquamarine ceiling. “I don’t know why I keep coming here or paying you,” she complained. “You hardly ever give me advice.”
“When advice is necessary, I shall give it,” said Rachel crisply. “Right now, the important thing is that you tell me all you can. Please try to go on.”
Miss Mitchell brooded in hurt silence a moment. At last she said, “Well, if you insist,” and she resumed her free association.
Rachel, as she had done several times in the past, secretly examined the person of Miss Mitchell. The patient was in her late twenties, the only offspring of an illustrious society family, its wealth inherited. Miss Mitchell had been well educated before and after Radcliffe, and had been well traveled and well attended by young swains. She was glacially attractive, from her impeccable blond bouffant hair-do to her long slanted face (so like the ancient Egyptian bust of Nefertiti) to her straight mannequin figure. Physically, she was desired by men, and never in want of attention from them, yet she had deliberately shied away from any attachment until recently.
Rachel tore her gaze from her patient, and stared at the carpet and at herself. If Rachel had a problem, it was not one of false modesty. She knew that she was, in her own way, as attractive to the opposite sex as was her patient. If she was not so tall or thin, if she was not so well groomed, she was still her patient’s equal in comeliness. In fact, this had always been a difficulty of hers with male patients. Their transference was often total, and on several occasions, aggressive. She wondered how Miss Mitchell saw her as female, not therapist. Rachel’s severe dark suits and high-necked blouses—the ensemble she wore today—did not entirely detract femininity from her appearance. Like Miss Mitchell’s hairdo, her own light chestnut-colored hair was bouffant, although less so. Her lynx-eyes were small and lively, her nose classically straight, her cheekbones high and full so that her face tapered to a firm triangular chin. Rachel’s body was long and bony, with broad shoulders, large but not deep breasts, wasp waist and boyish hips. Possibly her calves were too straight. But all in all, physically, she was not inferior to her patient or, indeed, to most of her friends. Yet, at thirty-one, she was still unmarried.
Her problem, then, like her problem’s twin possessed by Miss Mitchell, was not that of lack of appeal to the opposite sex. Rather, the malady of the twins was an interior one, a malady of fear, fear of the opposite sex. For both of them, the damage and crippling had occurred in early childhood, and for both of them the adult symptom was a withdrawal from all emotional involvements. Both cultivated an extreme independence, evading obligations to other human beings.
The patient’s voice intruded, and with its complaints and tortures, there came to Rachel a twinge of guilt, and she forced herself to direct her attention to Miss Mitchell Miss Mitchell was speaking. “I keep remembering, it keeps coming back, those first weeks after I met him.” Miss Mitchell paused, shook her head, closed her eyes, and resumed. “He was absolutely different from all the others, or maybe he wasn’t different but I was, that is, my feelings about him as a man were different. When the others tried to neck with me or pet, or when they proposed, I could always say no and not be sorry. I didn’t give a damn about any of them. They were children, spoiled children. But when he came along, I positively flipped. I wanted him. I mean I really wanted him. I was afraid I would lose him. Can you imagine me being afraid to lose a man? Well, he felt the same way about me—I’ve told you that a dozen times—but I was sure—still am sure—he loved me, too. Why in the devil would he want to marry me, if he didn’t? He had almost as much money as Dad, so that couldn’t be it. No, he wanted me for his wife. And I wanted to be his wife. But the night I was to go out with him—I mean hours before—I knew he was going to propose that night, I simply knew—and then I got sick—conveniently, you’ll say—go ahead—conveniently…I guess you’re right. I wanted to be wanted, and I wanted him, and wanted our kind of childish suspended engagement to go on and on, like a fairy tale, a nice fairy tale where there’s no sex—only platonic love—where there is no realness—no responsibility to meet—no adult contact—no having to give and give good, expose yourself, depend on another instead of just yourself—I know, Doctor, we’ve been there—I know—”
Rachel listened, wincing inwardly, and she thought: the hell you know, Miss Mitchell.
Rachel’s mind stumbled backwards, her twin joining Miss Mitchell’s twin in the not too distant past. All through medical school, and after, there had been men, sometimes students, sometimes older men. There had been proposals, too, nice ones, appealing ones. It’ll be perfect, Rachel, you’ll have your work and I’ll have mine. We can hire someone for the kids. We can buy two couches at once, and get a discount, ha-ha. Come on, Rachel, say the good word. Remember, the family that works together, stays together. And always she had had one stenciled reply. You’re a darling, Al (or Billy or Dick or John), but you see … and besides that … and so … and that’s why I’m afraid I can’t, I really can’t.
She had always tried to reduce passion and fervor to grayest friendship, and she had always succeeded. Only twice, in the year after she had made up her mind to specialize, to become a psychoanalyst, had she permitted a super-relationship to exceed friendship. One subject was a fellow student, an awkward, lanky boy from Minnesota. The setting had been his cheap bachelor apartment, the place his couch (they had made the joke about that simultaneously). She had come prepared for it, and endured it as stoically as having a tooth filled. She had given nothing, and he little more. That had played one performance. Still in quest of Experience—how could one guide others, in the future, without firsthand knowledge in one’s past?—she had flirted with a foolish young professor, husband and father, and managed a weekend with him in a hotel bungalow on Catalina Island. This provided a higher degree of professionalism, but no joy. She had kept her privacy, even when he was locked within her. Her role had been innocent bystander, impartial observer, and as far as she was concerned, he might have been masturbating. That one closed after three performances. He could not understand why she had cut the idyllic weekend short. It was the last of Rachel’s firsthand Experience. Thereafter, Rachel’s knowledge of the function came from lectures, reading, and, eventually, from her patients. She reassured herself that her libido rested in peace, a sleeping princess, and when the proper prince came along, she and her passion would awaken normally.
Fourteen months before this day, the right man had come along. And she and her passion had, indeed, awakened. All was on schedule. He was then forty years old, now forty-one, she then thirty, now thirty-one. He was a big, tender man, darling oxlike eyes, vigorous physique, a bachelor of sound education, the best instincts, the widest interests, the highest income. He was the Morgen of the brokerage firm of Jaggers, Ulm, and Morgen. Joseph E. Morgen. Fine family, too. She was awakened, and happy, and he was netted and liked it.
The chronology of the first ten months, condensed book version, was simple. Chapter I. Art galleries, museums. Chapter II. Theaters, movies. Chapter III. Nightclubs, assorted bars, come-by-for-a-drink. Chapter IV. His family’s house, his family, lovely people. Chapter V. Her friends’ houses, her friends, wonderful people. Chapter VI. Parties, lots of parties. Chapter VII. Parked car at Laguna, Newport, Malibu, Trancas, kissing, kissing. Chapter VIII. Her apartment, petting, petting. Chapter IX. Carmel weekend, the walk along the water at night …
Miss Mitchell had sobbed, and Rachel did not re
gret leaving that walk along the water at night. The moment that Miss Mitchell began to speak again, Rachel wanted to retreat, for she knew what was coming, had heard it before.
“All that day, on the Riviera, I felt it was right,” Miss Mitchell was saying. “I had rushed off like a frightened schoolgirl and he had the love to follow me, still determined to spring his question. But I was more settled, and when we drove back to Cannes, I was sure it was solved and I would say yes—I would say yes, and Christ, get it over with, get on with the happy ending. But the sun was still out and he wanted us to dress for the beach, get some of it, have cocktails on the beach. So I changed in the cabana, and then he did, and when he came out I felt I was going to become ill, upchuck, I mean it. The sonofabitch was wearing bikini trunks—I’d never seen him like that before—so gross—so animal—he, as a person, was no different, he was the same—but that other made it different. I couldn’t look at him, and then he sprawled out next to me, and right there he blurted it out—proposed—get married right away—and I knew what that meant—and I started to cry, and ran off to the hotel. The doctors kept him out—but what could I say?—and anyway, look at my condition—that was the breakdown, as you damn well know—that started it, that thing—that was the beginning—”
The end, that was the end, Rachel thought to herself.
They had found the lonely stretch of beach north of Carmel, and parked among the trees, and he had helped her down the steep slope to the sand. It was warm on the beach, and the water rippled gently in the moonlight. They kicked off their shoes, and padded along the surf, hand in hand. She knew that he would propose, this big sensitive man, so in love with her, and she with him, and she kept her silence, and he proposed. She had gone into his arms, thinking at last, at last, thinking not a second beyond this bliss, only nodding her head as he whispered endearments.
He wanted to celebrate. He wanted to go into the water with her. She wondered how that was possible. They had no suits. And he had said gayly that they needed no suits now that they were practically married. Bewildered at what was happening within her, she had dumbly assented, and wandered off behind the jutting rock to undress, and had unbuttoned one blouse button, and frozen, and stood there trembling, chilled and trembling for more than five hundred seconds. And then she had heard her name and heard the movement of him, and rushed around the rock to explain, somehow explain, and found him in nature’s state as he had expected her to be. The look of sheer horror on her face had instantly wiped the carefree smile from his own. She had stared at the massive hairy chest, and involuntarily, as if in a dream, had lowered her gaze … yes, Miss Mitchell, yes … and she had run off through the sand, falling, rising, running, with his shouts pursuing her.
When he had returned to the car, clothed, she was waiting, dry-eyed and controlled, and all the way home, the long, long way home, they were terribly reasonable and intellectual about it, so that by the time morning came, and Los Angeles appeared through the smog, it was understood that the fault had been his own. He should have known better, you see. Women are different, more highly strung, more emotional, you see. Men tend to barge ahead, be impetuous, forgetting. Her profession had nothing to do with her frail womanhood. She had given a pledge of marriage, and had been overwhelmed and overwrought. Agreed? They would be married, everything would iron itself out. It always does. I love you, Rachel. I love you, Joe. It’ll work out, Rachel. I know, Joe. Better start thinking of the date, Rachel. I will, I will, Joe. Tomorrow night, then? Tomorrow night.
There followed a period of four months of tomorrow nights, some appointments kept, some not kept. Joseph Morgen had pressed for the wedding date. Rachel had used every device known in the annals of femininity to avoid any date. Her defenses were built on emergency cases, a burden of free clinic work, psychiatric papers to write, conventions to attend, relatives to entertain, sicknesses to recover from, and suddenly, it was last week. A fight. She was making a fool of him, he said. If she didn’t love him, why didn’t she say so? But she did love him, she said, she loved him very much. Then why was she evading him, tricking him, really refusing to marry him? It would work out, she said, it would work out soon. And then he said and she said, and he said the last words, which were that he would not press her any more, but his desire was the same and his offer stood, and when she was ready she must come to him and tell him.
All that ruinous haggling was last week.
Last night, she had read in a Hollywood column that Joseph Morgen had been seen dining in Perino’s with an Italian film starlet.
She had not slept three hours in the night.
She became time-conscious. She noted the clock on her desk, and shifted in her chair. “Well, Miss Mitchell, I’m afraid our time is up,” Rachel announced. “This has been a most useful meeting. While you may not feel it, you are making progress.”
Miss Mitchell had sat up, smoothing her coiffure, and at last she stood, her face more relaxed than previously.
Rachel rose. “Have a pleasant weekend, and I hope to see you Monday, same time.”
“Yes,” said Miss Mitchell. She went to the door, Rachel behind her, and then she hesitated, and turned her head. “I—I wish I could be like you, Dr. DeJong. Will I ever?”
“No, nor would you want to be. One day, soon, you will be yourself, a self you will value highly, and that will be sufficient.
“I’ll take your word for it. Good-by.”
After the patient had left, Rachel DeJong leaned against the doorway arch, feeling oddly disoriented. It was with effort that she realized the hour was noon, and that she would have no other patient until four. Why was that? Suddenly, it came to her. She was to participate in a panel discussion, with Dr. Samuelson and Dr. Lynd, on the stage of Beverly Hills High School. There would be a discussion on adolescents and early marriage, and afterward, the meeting would be thrown open to the parents and teachers in attendance for questions from the floor. This had all been arranged several months ago, and it was to occupy her from one to three this afternoon. When it had come up, she had accepted the invitation readily. She had always enjoyed the give and take, the mental challenge and stimulation, of such events. Now she felt weak and weary, unhappy about Joe, disgusted with herself, and soggy with low self-esteem. She was not in the mood for flourishes and wit and psychiatric wisdom. She wanted to be alone to recuperate, to think, to solve herself. Yet, she knew that she could not default on the panel. She had never done so, and she could not do so now. It was too late for a substitute. She would have to go through with it, as best she could.
After coming out of the washroom, she made up her face, tugged on her coat, and left her office. Passing through the reception room, she saw her morning’s mail on the lamp table. There were half a dozen letters. She stuffed them into her pocket, locked the office door, and took the elevator down to the lobby of the building.
Outside, the air was chilly and the day as somber and weighted as her heart. She had intended to get her convertible, drive into Beverly Hills, have a drink and a quiet meal at one of the better restaurants, and hurry to catch the panel by one o’clock. Now she was too preoccupied for either a drink or a real lunch, and so she turned up Wilshire Boulevard and made her way, by foot, to the snack shop on the corner.
The counter was almost filled, but there were still two booths empty. She took her place in the nearer, for she wanted privacy. After ordering a bowl of bean soup, a cheeseburger medium well, and coffee, she sat, hands folded on the table, trying to construct something out of the wreckage of recent months.
She could not blame Joe for the date with the starlet, or for further dates in the future, that was clear. He had his life, too, and he had to live it. His date did not necessarily mean he was becoming emotionally involved elsewhere. It probably had no more depth than fornication. Joe had last said he wanted to marry her, and it was up to her. Well, dammit, she wanted to marry him, and it was up to her. The sensible thing, she saw, would be to go to him and simply lay it on the line, b
are herself, expose the degree of her inhibition. He was psychiatrically oriented. He would understand. With his understanding and support, she would return to her training analyst, and work it out. At last, she would be able to marry Joe.
To her psychiatrist self, this was simple and the only procedure. Yet, her female self—her utter female self—dissented. She did not want to reveal to him her basic problem. It spoiled things a little, very little. The bride has a problem; she cannot shed her veil. This was foolishness, sick foolishness, but it was there. She was confused again, and what had been briefly simple now knelt to encompassing complexity.
The lunchroom was steamy, stifling, and as she began to remove her coat, she felt her morning’s mail. She folded the coat and put it on the seat next to her, and took her mail from the pocket.
Spooning her soup, she sorted the mail. None of it interested her until she reached the last envelope. The return address read: “Dr. Maud Hayden, Raynor College, Santa Barbara, California.” This was surprising. While Rachel knew Maud Hayden fairly well, she considered Maud as no more than an acquaintance-friend, whom one always met professionally. She had never been to Maud Hay-den’s house, nor had Maud ever visited her apartment. Never before had either of them written the other. She could not imagine why Maud Hayden would write to her, but her admiration for the elderly woman whom she considered among the peers of anthropology was so great that she quickly ripped open the envelope. The letter lay before her, and the next moment she entered the distant world of The Three Sirens.
Finishing her soup, slowly munching her cheeseburger and sipping her coffee, Rachel DeJong read on. As she read one page, then two, and went eagerly to the extracts from the Easterday report, her private world—so filled with her problem self, with Joseph Morgen, with Miss Mitchell—was populated by Alexander Easterday, Captain Rasmussen, Thomas Courtney, a Polynesian named Moreturi, and his father and Chief, Paoti Wright.
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