by Mort Castle
He had a master’s degree in clinical psychology. He’d been on staff for two years at the Manteno State mental health facility. He was working on his PhD, had finished the required course work and had written the first half of his doctoral thesis.
Other things about their teacher the students could observe for themselves. In his late twenties, six feet tall, Kevin Bollender looked like an athlete who had been shortchanged by his genetic background—not quite enough height for basketball in an era of giants and too slim for football when even high school second-stringers tipped the scales at better than 220. As he went from desk to blackboard to lectern, he had an easy way of moving typical of runners. His hair was brown and curly and all that prevented his being as handsome as any model in Gentleman’s Quarterly was a slightly oversized nose; as though proclaiming a lack of vanity, he didn’t mind calling attention to that feature with a thick mustache.
He was, Beth thought, sexy—a hunk in his blue jeans and checkered shirt and sportcoat.
A hunk? Now hold on! she sternly told herself. She was a… WifeandMother! She’d taken one step into middle age—All right, two steps!—and she had no business getting struck by crazily romantic ideas like this. That was for high schoolers (giggle-giggle, “fer sure!”), hung up on Tom Selleck or Pierce Brosnan, or for undergrads developing the classic and comical crush on my professor…
She wondered what his elbows looked like?
Oh, this was utterly absurd! Her thoughts were absolutely shameful!
Now cut it out!she told herself. She was getting all worked up over what was merely a minute’s fantasy, nothing more. Everyone had fantasies. That was the reason for the success of everything from paperback romance novels to—what else?—Fantasy Island!
And as for her ever acting on this fantasy, doing one single thing to bring it into reality, now that would be the real absurdity, just incredible. It could never, would never, not in a million years happen!
Beth made herself concentrate on what the teacher was saying, opening her notebook, raising her pen, looking down at the page.
“Now,” Kevin Bollender said, “there was a prerequisite for this class, so everyone in here has had at least one course in general psychology.” That had been her favorite class in her first (and only) year in college, Beth thought, the one that inspired her dream of a career in the field or in social work “—so you know that the word psychology literally means the ‘Science of the mind.’ But that’s pretty ambiguous. After all, when we use the word mind, we’ve got a vague and abstract term. Uh-uh—if we’re going to call psychology a science, we have to be more precise. We need some objective terms. How about this for a definition of psychology: The science of the behavior of organisms. Can everyone accept that?”
In her notebook, Beth wrote the definition.
A man in late middle-age raised his hand. “Wouldn’t that definition have to include something about studying thought and emotions?”
“Good point,” Kevin Bollender said, “and that’s certainly what we tend to think of when we’re talking about psychology. But remember, if we’re to have a true science, it must be objective. We can directly and objectively observe specific behaviors. We cannot observe a thought or an emotion, can we? Ideas and feelings are abstractions. We can only see a particular behavior and then draw some conclusions about the ‘internal’ mental and emotional—and let’s include chemical—processes underlying it.”
Kevin Bollender stepped away from the lectern and seated himself on the front of the desk. “Anybody else have a question?” He looked around the room, and then he smiled.
He had a bright smile, Beth thought, friendly and challenging. He seemed to be totally at ease in the role of a teacher.
“Okay,” Kevin said, “if you folks don’t ask me questions, then I ask you questions. Otherwise, we’d just sit here for two hours listening to one another breathe!”
Everyone laughed and Kevin continued. “This class is called ‘abnormal psychology,’ and that obviously means we’re going to consider abnormal behavior. But before we can do that, we really ought to try to figure out what normal behavior is. That way we won’t make a mistake and waste our time thinking about normal stuff when we want to get into the whacked-out, crazy stuff, right?”
Again there was general laughter, more so now that the class was relaxing, realizing that Kevin Bollender was not one of those instructors who monotonously read aloud from yellowing lecture notes and then gave tests measuring one’s ability to recall those notes verbatim.
“So the question for tonight, ‘What is normal?’”
No one offered an answer. Kevin Bollender, with a mock sigh, said, “The response is underwhelming. Because this is our first meeting, I’d say this group’s response to my question is…normal.”
He hopped down from the desk and waved both hands like a camp counselor getting ready to lead a. campfire singalong. “Let’s approach it another way, okay? Would everyone who is normal in here please raise a hand—and unless every hand goes up, I’m going to run right out the door.”
Sixteen laughing people responded as they’d been asked to.
“Fine.” Kevin nodded. “We know it’s considered normal behavior in this day and age to own a gun. I think the last survey said something like forty-nine percent of the US population is armed. So would all your normal people who own guns please keep your hands raised?”
There were five gun-owners, among them, the middle-aged man who’d asked the question on the definition of psychology. Kevin Bollender walked down the aisle to him and stood alongside the man’s desk. “Your name again, please?” Kevin asked.
“Lee, Lee Thompson.”
“Okay, Lee,” Kevin said, “you have a gun? A handgun? A rifle?”
Lee Thompson said, “A pistol. For protection.”
“What if you bring that gun to class next week and when I’m calling roll, you shoot me dead?”
Lee look puzzled. “That would be murder,” he said hesitantly.
“Murder, Kevin reflectively said, eyebrows knit, hands together. “Killing someone else. Would you call that normal behavior, Lee?”
“Of course not!”
“Hmm,” Kevin Bollender rubbed his chin thoughtfully and went back to the front of the classroom. “Can anyone think of a situation in which killing another person would be normal?”
Beth put her hand up.
“Your name, please. The sooner we all get to know each other, the better. That way we’ll be having friendly, intellectual discussions instead of impersonal screaming arguments like at the United Nations.”
Beth told the class her name—she felt as though she were really introducing herself to the teacher and that made her nervous—and she explained, “Killing someone else is what every war throughout history has been all about. It’s legal then, And it’s the normal thing to do.”
“Good!” Kevin Bollender said.
Beth blushed at his approval and immediately looked down at her notebook and scribbled a meaningless doodle.
“It seems that what is abnormal at one time in a specific situation might be normal if time and circumstance were to change. Here’s another situation: What if our friend Lee Thompson shot me dead because he was convinced he was Jesus Christ and I was the Anti-Christ?”
Everyone in the class agreed: abnormal—everyone except for Beth, who raised her hand and said, “Wouldn’t that depend on whether Lee really was Jesus Christ?”
“That’s not what it says on my driver’s license,” Lee joked from three rows over. And if you were the Anti-Christ?”
“It might,” Kevin said. “And how would you determine that?”
“I think…” Beth said, hesitating a moment. She had the heady, exciting realization that she was indeed thinking, using her mind for something more demanding than balancing the checkbook at the end of the month. “I think there’d have to be evidence, some proof that would let us judge Lee’s claims.”
“And that,” Kevin sai
d dramatically, “is right on-target! A solid answer. You’re asking for measurable, objective proof, behaviors that we can observe. Which goes right back to our basic definition of psychology, doesn’t it?”
A woman with rhinestone decorated glasses, snowy hair, and a sour turn to her mouth, raised a hand and said, “I’m sorry, but it seems to me that we’re going round and round in circles. I don’t understand. If there’s an answer to your question, ‘What is normal?’ can’t you just tell us?”
“I’m afraid not,” Kevin said with a shrug. “I’m a champ at dreaming up questions. I’m nowhere near that good when it comes to giving you answers.”
The expression of the woman with the rhinestone glasses clearly revealed that this was not her idea of the way to conduct a class.
“Let’s take the idea a step further. Is it normal to kill people because you consider yourself superior to them?”
“Of course not!” was the reply from the slender, long-haired young man who had the first desk in the first row. He seemed to be only weeks out of his teens and his voice still threatened to break into an adolescent squeak.
“Oh,” Kevin said. “Here’s the situation. You were raised in Hitler’s Germany. You’ve been a member of the Hitler Youth. You believe you are a member in good standing of the master race. Now you’re a guard at Dachan…”
“Uh-uh,” said the long-haired man, “you’re talking about an abnormal society. It’s not normal for people to believe they have the right to kill others because they’re superior to them.”
“Some years back,” Kevin Bollender said, “in our nice, normal society, we had a couple of guys named Leopold and Loeb…”
For the remainder of the class, the question “What is normal?” was the sole topic of discussion. Kevin’s prodding questions, his vivid examples, led to a stimulating exchange of ideas and opinions, and, at one point, the long-haired young man got worked up enough to pound his desk with a fist, his voice fulfilling its squeaking promise when he said, “Bullshit!”
Kevin Bollender glanced at his watch. “We’ve only got a few minutes gang, so, let’s wrap it up.”
Beth couldn’t believe that two hours had gone by. She felt mentally tired in the pleasantly worn way that follows intense concentration, really thinking, and she was not only pleased with her “in-class performance”—Uh-uh, she was no featherbrained housewife scarcely up to the challenge of remembering how many cups in a quart! She was a student—a learner!—She was pleased at being pleased with herself. That was a new feeling.
“For Thursday night,” Kevin said, “read chapters one and two—and hey, don’t be surprised if there’s a quiz, all right? The college wants me to prove I’m a teacher by giving you grades, you see. Now, before we end, any questions about anything at all?”
Not surprisingly, the woman with the disapproving attitude and rhinestone glasses did have something to ask. “What was the point of all this discussion tonight if we don’t agree on what is normal?”
“Fair enough question,” Kevin said seriously. “I do have an answer for that one.
The purpose was to get you thinking, to start looking at human behavior in the way a student of psychology must. You’ve got to realize that while there are plenty of simple questions in psychology, there are no simple answers. There can’t be, not when you’re dealing with something as complex as human beings.”
On the way out of the room, Beth Louden stopped at the front desk. She’d just had one of the best evenings she’d experienced in years. She felt alive and invigorated, and so it was only right for her to say, “Thank you.”
Kevin Bollender looked confused. “You’re welcome,” he said, “but I’m not sure I understand why I’m being thanked.”
Beth smiled. Suddenly, speaking to him alone, she was overcome with shyness—and, let’s get it said: I am ridiculously attracted to him, so there, damn it, and now we forget it!—and, feeling the heat of flush spread up her throat, she muttered, “Thanks for a good class,” and hurried out.
She’d had plenty of mental stimulation for this evening, she told herself, and she had better get home to her children and her husband, where she belonged!
On any scale of animal intelligence, the cavy, or guinea pig, does not rank high. Its brain is no more well-developed than that of a rat.
Like all living creatures, however, the guinea pig does respond to stimuli. The response of the white guinea pig as it was lifted out of its cage was typical of all warm-blooded, virtually defenseless creatures. It felt excitation. That excitement was not fear; the animal simply was primed to be afraid if its sensory receptors gave it cause.
The hand under its belly was gentle. The finger stroking its back was light. The guinea pig’s excitement became pleasure.
A finger and a thumb became an uncomfortable collar around the guinea pig’s neck and the animal wriggled. The grip tightened.
Now the animal was afraid. It would have fled had it been able, but it could not.
In the cage, the brown and white guinea pig furiously ran in circles, pinewood chips flying. It made hissing, whistling, clicking noises, an insane string of sound like an audiotape being played in rewind.
The white guinea pig struggled and then froze. Even so unintelligent an animal as a guinea pig can have a sense of its own imminent death. At that point, the creature surrenders to inevitability. The guinea pig moved again only after it was dead, its neck broken, its nervous system sending out final, convulsive signals to its legs.
The brown and white guinea pig stopped its wild running about the cage. It made no sound now. Only its nostrils quivered in the presence of death.
— | — | —
ELEVEN
WEARING HIS new charcoal gray suit, Michael walked into the kitchen. “Well?” Hand in front of him, right arm bent at the elbow, he adopted a model’s pose.
It was 5:30 Wednesday morning. The coffee was perked and Michael’s eggs were frying over easy. There was no reason for her to get up so early, he had told her, but Beth said she didn’t mind. It was a long ride to St. Louis, close to seven hours, and she wanted to get him on the road with a decent breakfast.
Beth nodded her approval. “You’re perfect, the very image of the successful young executive.”
“Wa-al, ain’t I just?” Michael comically drawled. “Shore ‘nuf, yuh gotta look the part.”
Beth buttered Michael’s toast and served him breakfast. “You really do seem eager for this trip, Michael.”
Sipping coffee, Michael said, “I guess I am. It’s a break in the routine, something new.” He laughed. “Or maybe a meeting with our paper products supplier, a chance to talk about all kinds of paper towels, single and double fold, mechanic’s rough brown or quality super-soft, is what you find exciting if you’re as dull a guy as I am.”
Ten minutes later, Vern Engelking to pick up Michael. Vern’s flamboyance and his room-illuminating smile were like orange juice for the soul, Beth thought. You felt good just being in the same room with Vern.
Beth realized that what she felt for Vern was far stronger than mere “like” and was in fact the kind of “happy-love” reserved for a special uncle: the uncle who does magic, reaching behind your ear and finding a quarter, and then gives you the quarter. “Could I fix you some breakfast, Vern?” Beth said.
“Ah, far be it from me to impose,” Vern said, “howsomever, before departing my domicile, I had but a cup of coffee, and so…”
“One egg or two?” Beth asked.
“Two, if you please,” Vern said.
Twenty minutes later, she saw the two men off. Michael assured her he’d be back tomorrow afternoon in plenty of time to watch the kids when she went to her class at Lincoln Junior College.
When she went to refill her coffee cup, Beth saw the hesitant rays of the rising sun through the window above the sink. It was a quiet and good time, she thought, and she relished having it all to herself. The kids wouldn’t have to be up to get ready for school for another forty
-five minutes or so. She didn’t even disturb her private sunrise silence time by turning on the radio.
She brought her abnormal psychology book to the table and looked over chapters one and two. She’d already thoroughly studied the material, highlighting important sections with yellow marker and making notes, but she found it a distinct pleasure to look at intellectual data and realized she did indeed have the mental equipment to process it. After years of mental stagnation, nothing more challenging than an occasional Reader’s Digest quiz, she had truly feared that she’d no more be able to understand a college level text than she could Einstein’s Theory of Relativity.
That was a foolish fear, she told herself. Then again, weren’t most fears foolish, without basis? That’s what she thought, anyway, on a morning that felt as uniquely right as did this one.
But that sense of rightness seeped away from Beth Louden’s morning.
Because when the girls were dressed and ready for school, at the breakfast table, Marcy was unhappy and Kim was quarrelsome. Snowball, Marcy said despairingly, the white guinea pig, wasn’t in the cage, Mom, and he was lost, and she’d looked all over for him, and Kim had been playing with him last night…
Well, Kim protested, she could certainly play with Snowball anytime she wanted to! After all, Snowball wasn’t Marcy’s anymore. Marcy gave Snowball…
But that didn’t mean Kim didn’t have to take good care of Snowball! Just because…
Well, Kim did so take good care of the guinea pig and she remembered “for sure” she had put him back in the cage and…
Beth in her sternest, no-nonsense, I-am-not-kidding voice told both children to “Stop it and I do mean now!”
“I just don’t want him to get hurt if he’s out of the cage, Mom,” Marcy said. Beth softened when she saw Marcy’s worried look.