But this was the other Sunday. Tonight she needed him and so probably he would not call. It was late, and the house was still. She pondered knocking on Mr. Schneider’s door, to ask him to keep her company in the kitchen while she ironed. Though she had banished the bogeys for the time being, the prospect of the lonely kitchen, in the basement of the house, and of the labor of putting up the heavy ironing board seemed infinitely wearisome to her. And she was afraid of being alone with her thoughts there, out of the protection of her own four walls.
Yet if she summoned Mr. Schneider, he would be bound to start talking politics with her, and this, she felt, would be disloyal to Gus. If it were not the Moscow trials, it would be the war in Spain. Mr. Schneider was hipped on a group called the “Poum” and he also favored the Anarchists, both of whom, according to Gus, were sabotaging the war. But according to Mr. Schneider, it was the Russian commissars who were sabotaging the revolution and thereby losing the war to Franco. Mr. Schneider said the Communists were murdering Anarchists and Poumists, and Gus said they were not and if they were it was because the others were traitors and richly deserved their fate. Polly could see how Gus as a practical man would logically support the Russians, who were the only ones who were sending help to Spain, but she could not control her instincts, which went sneaking over to Mr. Schneider’s side of the argument. Besides, Mr. Schneider was a better arguer than she was, who could only repeat lamely what Gus told her, which meant that Gus was worsted by proxy every time she let Mr. Schneider get started. Gus saw no harm in letting Mr. Schneider “blow off steam,” but Polly felt it was wiser to avoid the occasions of sin, for the truth was that she half liked listening to Mr. Schneider go on. It was a kind of eavesdropping, hearing what the party did not want people like herself to hear. Listening to Gus and then to Mr. Schneider describe the same set of events was like looking at the war in Spain through a stereopticon—you gained a dimension, seeing it from two sides. This was her justification for listening, and she thought that if someone like Mr. Schneider could get Roosevelt’s ear it might persuade him to lift the embargo, for if the Americans sent arms, then the Russians would no longer be in control. But really she was not so much interested in the fine points of the Spanish Civil War as in Gus, and what Mr. Schneider gave her, without meaning to, was another perspective on him. In this perspective, Gus appeared credulous—“the Stalinists and their dupes,” Mr. Schneider was fond of saying. But if Gus was a dupe, she ought not to want to know it.
Yet wanting to know was consuming her. She blamed the psychoanalyst for that. It was the psychoanalyst who had made Gus a mystery man, at least to her, and often, she suspected, to himself. The idea that there was another Gus who came out like a ground hog every afternoon at five o’clock was becoming more horrible day by day. At first she had minded the psychoanalyst because he was an obstacle to their getting married; now she hated him because, the longer Gus went, the more she speculated about what passed between the two of them. She was sure Gus told the doctor things he did not tell her. Perhaps he told the doctor that he was no longer so keen on marrying her or that he dreamed every night of Esther—how did she know? Or perhaps the doctor told him that he thought he loved Polly Andrews but his dreams proved he didn’t. He could not be going to an analyst all this time unless he had a “conflict,” but what was the conflict between?
Most of all, though, she hated the doctor because, thanks to him, she had seen things in herself that she hated. If there was another Gus, there was also another Polly. Not only a jealous Polly who engaged in murderous fantasies, but a suspicious, spying Polly. The worst was that itch to know. When she mentally slew Esther, she was not unduly disturbed, because the real Polly would not kill Esther even if she could do it by cosmic rays or by pressing a button. But the real Polly would give anything to be present, in a cloak of invisibility, in Dr. Bijur’s office. Why did she have to know? Feminine curiosity. Pandora’s box, the source, according to the Greeks, of all the evils in the world. Bluebeard’s closet. Yet Pandora’s box at least had been primed with genuine troubles, nasty little winged creatures that she let loose on humanity, and Bluebeard’s closet had been full of bloody corpses—the moral of those tales was that it was best to remain in ignorance. Polly did not approve of that moral; no science major could. It was another fable, she feared, that fitted her case—the story of Cupid and Psyche. Gus on the analytic couch, all innocent trust, was the sleeping Cupid, and she was Psyche, with her wax taper, trying to steal a look at his face, though she knew it was forbidden. What had Psyche expected—an ugly monster? Instead, she saw a beautiful god. But when the hot wax of her curiosity seared him, he woke up and flew away sadly. The moral of that story was that love was a gift that you must not question, because it came from the gods. What Polly was doing, to her sorrow, was like looking for the price tag on a priceless present. The penalty was that love would leave her. But she could not stop; that was the trouble with sins of thought. Once Psyche got the urge to see what Cupid looked like, she was done for, poor girl; she could not keep from wondering and speculating between his nightly visits—he came at the end of the business day, just like Gus. It showed gumption, Polly thought, on Psyche’s part, to take a candle and get it over with.
For her own part, she wished she could say “Choose between me and the analyst.” But she could not. She was too soft and pliant. Besides, she had kept hoping that the analysis would end soon. But lately, as though by reverse serendipity, she had been hearing stories that cast a new light on that. Kay Petersen knew a woman who had been going eight years. Why, at that rate, when the wedding bells rang, Polly would be too old, practically, to have children, and Gus would be on home relief. The only bright spot Polly could see was that Gus’s savings would run out before long. Analysts, apparently, did not extend credit; they were worse than the telephone company and Consolidated Edison put together.
Cheered by this thought, Polly went softly down to the kitchen and put up the ironing board. In his room, Mr. Schneider had begun playing his fiddle. She was in the middle of her third blouse when the phone rang on the landing. It was Gus. He wanted to know if he could see her for a minute this evening. Polly unplugged the iron and hurried up to her room to put on lipstick and powder. Before she had time to do her hair properly the door bell rang. He kissed her, and they climbed the stairs together.
“Looks like a laundry,” he commented, entering. “You’ve been washing your hair.” He approached her, sniffing, and dropped a kiss on her topknot. “Smells good,” he said. “Nice shampoo.” “Chamomile rinse,” said Polly. She poured them each a glass of New York State sherry. He glanced around her room. It was the first time he had been here on a Sunday evening. She waited, wondering why he had come; he did not take off his tweed topcoat but walked to her street windows with his glass, looked out idly, and pulled the shades.
“I had a talk with Esther this evening.” “Oh?” “We talked about my analysis.” “Oh?” The second “Oh?” was more cautious. Had he come to tell her that he and Esther had decided to call off the analysis? “She asked me how it was going. Hers is going great. She dreamt she went to her analyst’s funeral. ‘You’re telling me,’ he said, ‘that the analysis is finished.’ Next week she’s having her last hour.” “Well!” said Polly brightly. Gus coughed. “My own news wasn’t so good, Polly. I had to tell her I was blocked.” He fingered the avocado plant that Polly had grown from a seed. “Oh,” said Polly. “Blocked?” He nodded. “What does that mean, exactly?” “I don’t dream,” he said, flushing. “It’s funny, but I’ve stopped dreaming. Completely.” “Is that so serious?” “It’s a hell of a note,” said Gus. “But why? There are lots of people who don’t dream. I remember a girl at college who used to pay me to wake her up in the morning yelling ‘Fire’ to make her dream for a paper she was writing on Freud. That was part of Student Self-Help.” She smiled. Gus frowned. “The point is, Polly, if I don’t dream, I’ve got nothing to say to Bijur.” “Nothing?” “Nothing. Literally. Not
a damn word.”
He drained his sherry despondently. “Every day it’s the same story. I go in. ‘Good afternoon, doctor.’ I lie down on the couch. ‘Any dreams?’ says Bijur, picking up his notebook. ‘No.’ He puts down the notebook. Silence. At the end of fifty minutes, he tells me the hour’s over. I hand him my five bucks. ‘So long, doctor,’ and I leave.”
“Every day?” cried Polly. “Just about.” “But can’t you talk about something else? The weather. Or a movie you’ve seen. You can’t just lie there without making a sound!” “But I do. It’s not a social occasion, honey. You’re supposed to dredge up stuff from your unconscious. If I don’t have a dream to warm the motor, I’m stuck. I can’t start free-associating in a vacuum. So I just lie there. Once last week I fell asleep. I’d had a rough day at the office. He had to tap me on the shoulder to let me know the hour was up.”
“But you can free-associate to anything,” said Polly. “The word ‘fire’ for instance. What does it make you think of?” “Water.” “And water?” “Fire.” She could not help laughing. “Oh, dear.” “You see?” he said darkly. “That’s what I mean. I’m blocked.” “Have you tried talking about not talking?” “Bijur suggested that. ‘Why do you suppose you refuse to talk?’ he asked me. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. End of conversation.” He grimaced. “I’ve never liked the idea of talking to somebody who doesn’t answer, who just sits there behind you, thinking.”
“How long has this been going on?” “About a month. Longer, off and on.” Polly’s face crinkled into smiles. “If you only knew what I’d been imagining!” “About my analysis?” She nodded. “I never thought I’d tell you. I was afraid you talked about me.” “Why should I talk about you?” “Well, I mean, sex …” said Polly. “You goop,” said Gus tenderly. “The patient doesn’t talk about real sex. He talks about sexual fantasies. If he has any. I haven’t since I was a kid.” He paced about the room. “You know, Polly, what’s wrong with me? I’m not interested in myself.” “But Gus,” she said gently, “I think that’s an admirable thing. Doesn’t everybody strive for self-forgetfulness?” She was about to say “Look at the saints” and corrected herself. “Look at Lenin,” she said instead. “Did he think about himself?” “He thought about the masses,” Gus answered. “But frankly I don’t think much about the masses either. Not in those terms.” “What do you think about?” she asked curiously. “Sales conference. Dust jackets. Bookstore reports. Agents. A talk I have to give to the League of American Writers.” He brooded.
“I don’t think your doctor ought to take the money,” she said virtuously. “It’s unethical.” Gus shook his head. “According to him, it’s all grist to the mill. He told me that when I wondered whether I shouldn’t quit—stop wasting his time. He said most patients expressed their resistance through talking. I express mine by silence. But my silence, he claims, is valuable. It shows the treatment is working and I’m fighting it.”
Polly lost patience. Seeing Gus so upset and so humble made her angry. She asked the question she had resolved never to ask. “Tell me,” she said, trying to sound casual, “what are you being treated for? What’s supposed to be the matter with you? What’s its name?” “Name?” He sounded surprised. “Yes,” prompted Polly. “‘Compulsion neurosis,’ ‘obsessional neurosis,’ ‘anxiety neurosis’—one of those.” Gus scratched his head. “He’s never said.” “Never said?” “No. I think maybe it’s against the rules to tell the patient the name of what’s the matter with him.” “But aren’t you curious?” “No. What’s in a name, anyway?” Polly controlled herself. “If you went to a doctor with a rash,” she said, “wouldn’t you feel entitled to know whether he thought it was measles or prickly heat?” “That’s different.” Polly tried another tack. “What are your symptoms, then? If I were writing your chart, what would I put down? The patient complains of …?” Gus seemed suddenly irritated. “Get the hospital out of your mind, Polly. I went, I told you, because Esther and I agreed. Because our marriage had broken up, over my jealousy. Esther wanted a free relationship; I couldn’t take it.”
A feeling of alarm came over Polly. “Oh,” she said. “But that’s natural, surely?” He knitted his brows. “Only in our culture, Polly. You understand, don’t you, that there’s a conflict in me between Fall River and Union Square?” “There is in almost everybody, isn’t there? I mean of our generation. Maybe not exactly Union Square.” She hesitated. “What if there were nothing the matter with you, Gus? What if you were just normal?” “If there were nothing the matter with me, I wouldn’t be blocked, would I?” He sat down wearily. Polly touched his shoulder. “What did Esther say?” He closed his eyes. “She said I was sabotaging the analysis. Because of you.” “So she knows about me.” “Jacoby told her.” That was the book designer. Gus opened his eyes. “Esther thinks I’d unblock if I stopped seeing you for the time being.”
Polly stiffened. Her first impulse was to laugh; instead, she waited, warily watching Gus. “The way Esther looks at it,” he went on, flushing, “I’m throwing a monkey wrench into the analysis to keep from getting well. Because the part of me that’s weak and evasive clings to you for support or refuge. The fact that you work in a hospital makes me see you as a nurse. If I got well, I’d have to leave my nurse.” He looked at her inquiringly.
“What do you think of that?” “I think,” Polly said with a tight throat, “that Esther ought not to practice medicine without a license. Isn’t it up to Dr. Bijur to tell you these things, if they’re true? He should be the one to recommend that you stop seeing me for the time being.”
“He can’t, Polly. He’s my analyst. We’ve been over that before. He can’t advise me about my life-decisions. He can only listen when I report them.” “At least,” remarked Polly, “this will give you something to talk about in your next session.” “That’s a nasty crack,” said Gus. “Have I deserved that, Polly?” He wrinkled his nose appealingly. “I love you.” “But you’ve already decided, haven’t you?” she said steadily. “You’re going to do what Esther says. That’s why you came to see me tonight.” “I wanted to talk to you about it before I saw Bijur. And I have a lunch with an author tomorrow. But I haven’t decided anything. We have to decide this together.” Polly folded her hands and stared at them. “Hell,” said Gus. “I don’t suggest I believe what Esther said. But I might be game to try it as an experiment. After all, she knows me pretty well. And she has a good head on her shoulders. If we agreed to stop seeing each other for a week or so and I unblocked, that might prove something. And if I didn’t unblock, that would prove she was wrong, wouldn’t it?” He smiled eagerly. “She knows you very well,” observed Polly.
“Hey!” he said. “That isn’t like you, Poll. You sound catty, like other women.” “I am like other women.” “No.” He shook his head. “You’re not. You’re like a girl in a story book.” He looked around the room. “That’s how I always think of you, as a girl in a story book or a fairy tale. A girl with long fair hair who lives in a special room surrounded by kindly dwarfs.” For some reason, this friendly allusion to the lodgers was the thing that undid her. Tears streamed from her eyes; she had never thought he liked the two “dwarfs.” “And that’s why you’re going to let me go,” she said. “Because I’m part of a fairy tale. I’m unreal.” She brushed away her tears and poured herself another glass of sherry.
“Whoa!” he said. “I’m not going to let you go. This is just a temporary tactic. In the interests of the over-all strategy. Please understand, Polly. I made an agreement with Esther, and she’s going to hold me to it. If I don’t finish the analysis, no divorce.” “We could wait,” she said. “You could quit the analysis and we could wait. Living in sin. You could move in here or we could find another place.” “I couldn’t do that to you,” he said emphatically. “You weren’t built to live in sin. I would never forgive myself for what it’d do to you.” “Is that Union Square speaking?” “No, that’s Fall River. Granite Block.” She smiled mistily. “So you do understand
,” he said. “And you know I love you.”
Polly reflected, turning the gold-speckled glass in her hand. “I know. I must be crazy, but I know. And I know something else. You’re going to go back to Esther. You think you’re not, but you are.” He was struck. “Why do you say that?” Polly waved a hand. “Little Gus, the party, the psychoanalyst. You’ve never really left her. To leave her, you’d have to change your life. And you can’t. It’s all built in to you, like built-in furniture. Your job too. Your authors. Jacoby. I’ve always known we’d never get married,” she added sadly. “I don’t belong with the built-in furniture. I’m a knick-knack.”
“Are you condemning me, Polly?” said Gus. “No.” “Is there something you think I should have done different?” “No.” “Tell the truth.” “It’s just a silly thing.” She hesitated. “Nothing to do with us. I think you should have listened to Mr. Schneider about the Moscow trials.” “Oh for Christ’s sake!” said Gus. “I told you it was silly,” she said. “No, Gus, listen. I think you should go back to Esther. Or I think I think you should.” What she meant, she supposed, was that he would be doing the right thing, for him, but that she wished he were different. A better man or a worse one. A few minutes ago, she had suddenly realized a fact that explained everything: Gus was ordinary. That was what was the matter with him.
He was looking at her piteously, as if he felt naked before her eyes; at the same time, she observed, with surprise, that he still had his topcoat on, like someone who had come on business. “It’s been awfully tough, Polly,” he burst out. “These Sundays. You don’t know. With the kid always asking, when I bring him back, ‘Are you going to stay this time, Daddy?’” “I know.” “And Jacoby, with his drawing board and his dames. Not that he hasn’t been damn decent.” It was a minute before Polly recognized that he was taking her at her word: he was going home. As soon as he could with honor. And he was glad and grateful, as if she had “released” him. This was not what she had meant at all; she had meant that sometime in the future, eventually, he would go back. “I’ve loved you so much,” he said. “More than anyone, ever.” He sighed. “‘Each man kills the thing he loves,’ I guess.” “I’ll be all right,” she whispered. “Oh, I know that,” he said loudly. “You’re strong and wise—too good for me.” He turned his head and looked around the room, as if in farewell to it. “‘Like the base Indian threw a pearl away, richer than all his tribe,’” he muttered into her neck. Polly was embarrassed. They heard Mr. Schneider tune up his fiddle again. Gus kissed her and gently disengaged himself, holding her at arm’s length, with his hands on her shoulders. “I’ll call you,” he said. “Toward the end of the week. To see how you’re doing. If you need anything, call me.” It came to her that he was going to leave without making love to her.
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