(1987) The Celestial Bed

by Irving Wallace

  ‘So do I,’ said Hunter. ‘But that’s not what I want to talk to you about. If not for her, I’d be the mess I always was. Anyway, she loved me as much as I loved her, and she is the one who encouraged me to go into therapy with Dr Freeberg. When she told me about the clinic and what was going on there, about you, and the other sex surrogates, that’s when I forgot her real purpose in confiding in me. That’s when I went haywire.’

  ‘Chet, what’s on your mind?’

  He gulped. ‘You know, I’m responsible for your arrest as well as Dr Freeberg’s.’

  ‘I know, Chet. The District Attorney showed me your journal.’

  Hunter shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Gayle, I really am. I meant neither you nor Dr Freeberg any harm. I just wasn’t thinking ahead. I couldn’t see what my machinations might lead to. I could think only of myself and my immediate future. I was totally the victim of an all-consuming ambition. All I could see was the chance to get the inside story on the clinic and its operation, on Dr Freeberg and one of his sex surrogates, because I knew the expose would land me a job as a writer on the staff of the Hillsdale Chronicle.’ He paused. ‘I simply got too involved with getting someplace.’

  Gayle nodded. ‘We all do sometimes.’

  ‘After Suzy read the report, she got mad and pounded some sense into my thick skull. Luckily she found a few brain cells containing decency and morality. She made me see you for what you really are - and I wanted to tell you … and beg your forgiveness.’

  ‘All’s long since been forgiven.’ Gayle smiled at Hunter. ‘You saw me for what I really am - what am I, Chet?’

  ‘A guardian angel.’

  ‘Oh, come now.’ Gayle eased herself off the stool. ‘You know what I really am?’ She pulled open the laboratory door. ‘I’m someone who knows how to use the squeeze method.’ Hunter laughed. ‘The angel of squeeze.’ ‘Exactly,’ said Gayle, and she left the laboratory.

  Paul Brandon was slouched on the sofa, cold pipe in hand, wishing he could smoke, when he saw Gayle come back into the waiting room. Observing her cross the room, he once more admired her feline grace, and he desired her again.

  He jumped to his feet when she reached him, then settled down on the sofa with her.

  ‘Any news yet?’ Gayle inquired.

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘Oh, God, let him be all right.’

  Brandon nodded towards the hallway. ‘You and Chet Hunter, what was that all about?’

  ‘Confession. Expiation. Cleansing the soul. Chet just wanted me to know he was sorry. And grateful to me for you know what.’ She eyed Brandon. ‘What have you been doing while I was next door? Ogling the other surrogate ladies to find someone prettier?’

  ‘How did you know? As a matter of fact, yes. Look at that Lila’s legs. But to be honest, I have a preference for women with fat legs, like yours.’

  ‘Beast.’

  Brandon had become serious. ‘To tell you the truth, I’ve been eavesdropping.’ He was seated with his back to Nan and Demski, who were sitting in chairs to one side of the sofa, and he indicated them with a movement of his head, lowering his voice. ‘I wondered if they would be too shy to make contact after they were introduced.’

  Gayle glanced past Brandon. ‘Clearly, they’re not too shy.’

  ‘Did you see how the first half hour they sat alongside each other like two wooden Indians? I was nearby when Nan became aggressive. She mentioned something about the weather.’

  Gayle continued to watch them. ‘They’re talking a blue streak now. I wonder what they’re talking about?’

  ‘Maybe about us.’

  ‘Maybe about themseles,’ Gayle guessed. ‘I wish we could hear.’ *

  Nan Whitcomb had moved her wicker chair a few inches closer to Adam Demski, so that she could address him without being overheard.

  ‘No,’ she was saying in an undertone, ‘I don’t mind telling you how I got to Dr Freeberg. I had some trouble and an MD recommended him. I had what they call vaginismus.’

  Demski, puzzled, mouthed the strange word. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Muscular spasms in the vaginal area that make sexual intercourse difficult and painful.’

  Demski blushed. ‘I - I guess I never heard of it. Uh, how - how did it happen?’

  ‘It can have many causes, according to Dr Freeberg,’ explained Nan. ‘One cause can be some bad experiences with men. In my case it came from a terrible experience with a man named Tony Zecca.’

  Demski looked blank for a second, and then seemed to recall the name. ‘You mean the fellow who shot Dr Freeberg? I’m sorry about his being killed.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Nan. ‘He was an animal — and dangerous.’

  ‘Why did he do such a terrible thing?’

  Nan was silent, and then she spoke. ‘I can tell you why. Maybe I shouldn’t, but — ’

  ‘You can tell me.’

  ‘I lived with Tony briefly. It was horrible. He gave me such great physical pain that I went to see an MD, and that’s how I was referred to Dr Freeberg. I finally saw there are decent men in the world, so I walked out on Tony. Just left him. I guess he figured I’d run off with another lover. Somehow he traced me to Dr Freeberg. He must have thought Freeberg was my lover — or at least that he was responsible for my walking out. Tony wasn’t used to that. He was terribly possessive. I don’t know what happened next, but I guess Tony decided to get even by killing Dr Freeberg.’ Nan emitted a sigh. ‘I feel responsible for what happened to poor Dr Freeberg.’

  Spontaneously, Demski patted Nan’s forearm, then quickly withdrew his hand. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Demski reassured Nan. ‘If he could, Dr Freeberg would be the first to tell you that.’

  Nan sighed again. ‘Maybe you’re right. Dr Freeberg’s a wonderful man.’ She gazed directly at Demski. ‘What brought you to him? Or shouldn’t I be asking?’

  ‘You’ve been frank with me. I don’t mind saying.’ Demski’s Adam’s apple moved. ‘I - I’m from Chicago - an accountant … And I am — was — ’

  Nan touched his hand. ‘You don’t have to - ’

  ‘Impotent,’ Demski blurted, hastily adding, ‘but I’m cured now. Thanks to my surrogate.’

  ‘How wonderful. Who was your surrogate?’

  In an almost hidden gesture, Demski pointed to Gayle on the sofa.

  ‘Gayle Miller?’ Nan whispered, her eyes holding on the attractive brunette. ‘No wonder you’re cured. I’d give anything to look like that.’

  ‘You do,’ Demski said, gulping. ‘Even - even better.’

  ‘You do know how to flatter a girl’

  ‘I mean it,’ said Demski. ‘Who - who was your surrogate?’

  Nan put a finger to her lips, and with her thumb indicated Brandon on the sofa.

  Demski took in Brandon, and whispered, ‘He sort of looks like a movie star.’

  ‘Oh, he’s nice. But I find an accountant easier to talk to than any movie star type.’ This time she blushed, then glanced off toward the doorway. ‘I wonder when we’ll hear about Dr Freeberg?’

  Five minutes later, a nurse poked her head into the waiting room. ‘The surgeon is on his way here.’

  She disappeared.

  An immediate hush fell over the waiting room, all eyes converging on the entrance.

  Seconds later, a tall, lean, bespectacled physician, still garbed in his green cap and green gown, materialised in the doorway, kneading his fingers together.

  He took a few steps into the waiting room.

  ‘I’m Dr Conerly, the chief surgeon at Central, and I’m sorry to have kept you this long, but the news I have for you was worth waiting for. Dr Freeberg is fine, couldn’t be better, considering his ordeal.’

  It was as if a single exhalation of relief permeated the waiting room.

  Dr Conerly went on. ‘We’ve just rolled Dr Freeberg out of

  surgery, and will place him in the intensive care ward briefly, just to be certain his recovery is complete. Without going into clinical d
etail, I can tell you that Dr Freeberg’s wound was not life-threatening. It was his good fortune that the bullet which lodged under his left clavicle missed his heart and lungs, in fact did no damage to any vital organs. In surgery, we removed the bullet. No permanent damage, not even serious damage aside from his trauma. We were able to patch him up nicely. We’ll want him here several days, just to keep an eye on him. If everything goes as we expect, he will probably be able to be back at his desk — on a much shorter work schedule for a while - in ten days. You can all relax now and go home.’

  The visitors were beginning to rise, when Dr Conerly called out, ‘Oh, yes … Are Miss Miller and Mr Brandon here?’

  When Gayle and Brandon stood up and moved toward him, Dr Conerly said, ‘I want to speak to you for a minute before you leave.’

  Dr Conerly waited for Gayle and Brandon at the door. ‘I have a message for you from Dr Freeberg. He wanted me to tell you he’d made a table reservation for tonight at eight thirty at Mario’s Gardens. Since he can’t be the host he asked if you two would invite the other guests and sit in as hosts for him. Do you understand?’

  ‘We do, and we will,’ said Gayle.

  ‘Oh yes, Dr Freeberg asked me to tell you - have yourselves a great Tom Jones dinner. Well, good luck.’

  After the surgeon had left, Brandon looked down at Gayle, puzzled. ‘What was that about a great Tom Jones dinner?’

  Gayle winked, slipped her arm through Brandon’s, and said, ‘You’ll find out.’

  After supervising the removal of the last piece of padded furniture, the Reverend Josh Scrafield watched from the doorway as the shippers loaded it into the van to put in storage until they heard from him in St Louis.

  Scanning the street without success for the return of Darlene Young, Scrafield wheeled back into his empty quarters and began to gather together some of his smaller personal effects.

  After about ten minutes, Scrafield heard the front door open and he hurried into the living room to make sure that it was

  Darlene who had returned. She was carrying a small paper bag, and frowned at him as she handed him the bag.

  ‘Here’s the pickup you wanted,’ she said. ‘From Hanover Hardware Store. Mr Hanover wasn’t there, but he left this with one of his clerks, a young guy named Charles. As it turned out, Charles gave me more than this bag.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Darlene moved closer to Scrafield. ‘He gave me some information I didn’t know. Said a couple of policemen are his customers, and they passed along a titbit of gossip. That you were arrested last night for trying to rape one of Freeberg’s sex surrogates named Gayle Miller.’

  ‘What kind of bullshit is that?’ snapped Scrafield. ‘Rape her? Hell, I’d like to kill her for coming on to me the way she did. A really cheap whore. She tried to blame me, and I was arrested by mistake. But you see me here now, quite unarrested.’

  ‘Then why are we going to St Louis tonight?’

  ‘Better offer. Just came up. Don’t worry, you’ll even get a raise. Are you all packed, ready to go with me?’

  ‘A job’s a job,’ she shrugged.

  ‘Just remember that,’ said Scrafield sourly. He busied himself removing a small bottle with yellowish liquid from inside the bag. He began to loosen the cap that had been screwed on.

  ‘Hey, you better be careful with what you’re doing,’ Darlene said. ‘That’s sulphuric acid. If it gets on your skin, the hardware clerk told me, it can disfigure you for life.’ Darlene hesitated. ‘What do you need sulphuric acid for?’

  ‘It’s the best known drain clearer around. I want to see that our new place is clean. Now enough of this crapping around. Let’s get going. You drive.’ He paused. ‘By the way. One brief stop before we head out of town. You know a restaurant called Mario’s Gardens?’

  ‘Everyone does.’

  ‘OK, stop in front of the place for a minute and wait for me. I have to see someone inside, and then we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘Whatever you say.’

  ‘That’s what I say,’ growled Scrafield, as he headed for the front door.

  They went out to Scrafield’s Buick, and Darlene settled behind

  the wheel, waiting for the preacher to get comfortable beside her. Then she drove off.

  Their round table at Mario’s Gardens was near the dance floor.

  As host and hostess, Brandon and Gayle dominated the group. To one side of them sat Nan and Demski, at the other sat Hunter and Suzy, and the seventh chair meant for Dr Freeberg was removed.

  They’d been finishing dieir drinks, as well as their chopped Italian salads, when a waiter took their plates, and two further waiters appeared and served them their hot pasta main courses.

  Observing Gayle twisting her spaghetti around her fork, Brandon said, ‘You still haven’t told me something.’

  ‘Told you what?’

  ‘The meaning of a Tom Jones dinner.’

  ‘This is it, right now,’ said Gayle. ‘Remember that old movie, Tom Jones? There was a terrific eating scene in it. The hero and the heroine were eating together, eating food out of each other’s plates and staring at each other. It was the sexiest scene in the whole movie. Somehow, the therapy surrogates, from the very onset of their treatment, adopted this eating scene as their graduation ritual.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Brandon.

  ‘Because there’s a pretty close link between food and sexuality,’ said Gayle. ‘What we’re doing here this evening is merely symbolic of an actual Tom Jones dinner. The real Tom Jones, if it’s scheduled to take place, occurs in the last exercise between surrogate and patient. Each brings finger food, and you don’t talk, but sit side by side and feed one another and maybe have some wine. It’s not a sex session, but it is lusty. A way of being intimate and saying good-bye. Eventually, there is talk, of course. The surrogate and partner review their close relationship, what went well in it, what went poorly, what was funny, what was sad, and what they could do to make things better in the future. They recollect their original fright and nervousness, and the high points of the days behind them. Talking, we know we may never lay eyes on each other again as long as we live, but what we experienced together can never be taken away from us as long as we live. We talk about how we’re closing our relationship with each other, and

  setting out to form new relationships, always retaining a fresh view of the sweetness and richness of life. We pleasure each other by exchanging food and remembrances. And, symbolically, that was what Dr Freeberg wanted us to enjoy together tonight. So let’s enjoy our Tom Jones dinner.’

  Gayle held her forkful of spaghetti up to Brandon’s mouth, and he nipped and sucked at it, eating and swallowing, and then speared a fork of fettuccine and fed it to Gayle.

  Chewing, she looked around the table.

  ‘All of you, get into it. Chet, you feed Suzy, and let her feed you. And Nan and Adam, you do the same. You’ll see what fun it can be.’

  They busied themselves with the ritual, and halfway through their main courses, they started to engage in conversations recollecting the best and the worst times of their therapy, and all agreeing that on this night they all felt happy and exalted.

  Eventually, the music from the five-piece orchestra resumed, and Gayle and Brandon could see that Suzy and Hunter were already in each other’s arms on the dance floor, and that Nan and Demski were leaving their chairs holding hands, and dreamily beginning to dance together.

  For a while, Gayle and Brandon, their fingers entwined, silently watched the two couples swaying and moving about the partially darkened room.

  ‘Want to join them?’ Brandon asked quietly.

  Gayle shook her head. ‘I just want to join you, as soon as we can leave here.’

  Brandon nodded. ‘I’ll see that it’s very soon.’

  Darlene and Scrafield drew up before the ivy-covered exterior trellises of Mario’s Gardens.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Darlene. ‘What next?’

  �
�You stay behind the wheel, double park, keep the engine idling. I’ll be out in a minuted

  Inside, in the foyer of the restaurant, Scrafield accosted the short, slick-haired maitre d’.

  ‘I’m looking for someone who is dining here tonight,’ said Scrafield. ‘Miss Gayle Miller. She’s at Dr Freeberg’s table.’

  ‘Oh, yes … ‘ As the maitre d’ started away, he paused. ‘Who should I tell her is asking for her?’

  ‘Tell her Mr Lewis. She’ll know. Tell her I have something I want to give her.’

  Observing the maitre d’ leave, Scrafield smiled to himself. He was getting adept at using other people’s names and Voices. When he had hit upon his scheme, he had called Dr Freeberg’s secretary and told her that he was Otto Ferguson and he wanted to know where he could talk to Gayle Miller. The secretary had told him that Dr Freeberg had reserved a table at Mario’s Gardens for this evening, and that Gayle Miller would be among the guests.

  That had been easy. So was this, using Hoyt Lewis as bait.

  Scrafield fingered the bottle of sulphuric acid in his pocket. When he gave Gayle what he intended to give her, what she deserved, she would look like the Phantom of the Opera, even worse. No man would ever again be enticed by the little whore.

  That instant, he saw the maitre d’ returning, and a step behind him - one last look at that beautiful face, those wiggling hips -was Gayle Miller.

  The maitre d’ gestured towards Scrafield, and turned away to his reservations.

  Puzzled, Gayle approached Scrafield. ‘It’s you! The man said Mr Lewis was here. What do you want?’

  Scrafield took a step closer to her. ‘I wanted to leave you something to remember me by.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Scrafield dug into his pocket for the sulphuric acid, unscrewing the top as he tugged it free.

  Holding the uncapped bottle in his hand, he swiftly raised his right arm, pointing the mouth of the bottle at Gayle’s face, about to fling its contents at her.

  As his arm came back slightly to spew the contents over her, another arm suddenly came from behind Scrafield, under his throwing arm, smashing up hard beneath his arm, lifting it and the opened bottle toward his own face.