followed by the thought that probably Milo did not need his sympathy? It was an enigma.
Jay himself had minded only one thing about Gloria Wealdon’s portrayal of him, and that was her emphasis on the fact that he was not a medical doctor. It had angered him, in fact. All of his patients understood that he was a psychologist and not a psychoanalyst, and in the county he really had no competition. So his anger was not inspired out of any feeling that she had exposed him, or driven potential patients to an M.D. in the same area. It was rooted primarily in two sentences of conversation in the novel, when two women were discussing entering analysis:
“Don’t go to Dr. Hammerheim,” said Gina to Fernanda, “if you have to get psychoanalyzed. Go to a real doctor, an M.D. Then you can take it off your income tax as a medical expense, but you can’t do it unless you go to a real doctor.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Fernanda exclaimed. “Why, I’d never thought of that!”
Neither had a good many people in Cayuta thought of that, Mannerheim knew; neither had the local tax inspectors. It had probably never occurred to them to notice this very technical but terribly damaging fact. Jay was a perfectly legitimate psychologist, but the tax exemption rules could not be clearer. Only last week at Tuesday’s Rotary, Bill Farley, one of the county government men, said, “That’s a Ph.D. you’ve got, eh, Mannerheim.”
“Yes,” Jay had said. “Why?”
“I just got to get all these D’s straight,” Farley’d smiled. “Ph.D., M.D. — just try to sort them out.”
“Sure,” Jay had said. “That’s your job.”
“ ‘At’s right.” Farley’d clapped him across the back, chewing his half-smoked cigar. Then, unnecessarily, he’d added: “I got nothin’ against either, mind you. It’s just that I gotta keep ‘em straight.”
• • •
Remembering it, Jay shrugged. She was a bitch, all right, he thought, boy she was a bitch! He turned west on Genesee Street, and as he did he spotted Stanley Secora idling on the corner. It reminded him that the front windows of his office needed cleaning, and he slowed to call the boy over to the car. Even Secora was not unaffected by Gloria Wealdon’s novel, Jay mused, as he waved at the young fellow, though how Stanley Secora managed to squeeze himself into the confusion, Jay couldn’t figure out. He supposed Secora just had a good case of celebrity worship. The last time he had done the windows for Jay, her picture, cut from a newspaper, had fallen out of his trousers’ pocket as he had reached there for a rag to wipe dry the panes.
Nine
He taught school, but whatever he inspired in his students was a mystery, save for Gina’s guess that he might inspire all of them to want to be anything in this life but a teacher…. Who would want to be like Miles?
— FROM
Population 12,360
A FTER he had been dropped off at the high school by his wife, Milo stopped by the tennis courts to watch little Mickey Lewis practice for the term play-offs. A few of his students were also watching, a scattering of them on the white benches behind the high rails. He waved at them and then thought what he was always thinking lately — they were talking about him. He had an idea that what they said was favorable. He knew there were jokes around about Gloria’s book, and he knew that a few of his pupils even called him Miles behind his back, but he also knew that for the most part everyone wondered why he stayed with Gloria, why he didn’t divorce her because of the book. He knew he was well-liked, but he knew lots of the boys in his classes wanted to ask him the same question Mickey Lewis had asked him last week:
“Mr. Wealdon, sir, why don’t you divorce her?”
It had just popped out of Mickey’s mouth, and his quick gesture of clamping his palm across his lips had not saved the moment for Mickey.
“She’s my wife,” Milo had answered. “You know, Mickey, it’s a
Jay himself had minded only one thing about Gloria Wealdon’s portrayal of him, and that was her emphasis on the fact that he was not a medical doctor. It had angered him, in fact. All of his patients understood that he was a psychologist and not a psychoanalyst, and in the county he really had no competition. So his anger was not inspired out of any feeling that she had exposed him, or driven potential patients to an M.D. in the same area. It was rooted primarily in two sentences of conversation in the novel, when two women were discussing entering analysis:
“Don’t go to Dr. Hammerheim,” said Gina to Fernanda, “if you have to get psychoanalyzed. Go to a real doctor, an M.D. Then you can take it off your income tax as a medical expense, but you can’t do it unless you go to a real doctor.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Fernanda exclaimed. “Why, I’d never thought of that!”
Neither had a good many people in Cayuta thought of that, Mannerheim knew; neither had the local tax inspectors. It had probably never occurred to them to notice this very technical but terribly damaging fact. Jay was a perfectly legitimate psychologist, but the tax exemption rules could not be clearer. Only last week at Tuesday’s Rotary, Bill Farley, one of the county government men, said, “That’s a Ph.D. you’ve got, eh, Mannerheim.”
“Yes,” Jay had said. “Why?”
“I just got to get all these D’s straight,” Farley’d smiled. “Ph.D., M.D. — just try to sort them out.”
“Sure,” Jay had said. “That’s your job.”
“ ‘At’s right.” Farley’d clapped him across the back, chewing his half-smoked cigar. Then, unnecessarily, he’d added: “I got nothin’ against either, mind you. It’s just that I gotta keep ‘em straight.”
• • •
Remembering it, Jay shrugged. She was a bitch, all right, he thought, boy she was a bitch! He turned west on Genesee Street, and as he did he spotted Stanley Secora idling on the corner. It reminded him that the front windows of his office needed cleaning, and he slowed to call the boy over to the car. Even Secora was not unaffected by Gloria Wealdon’s novel, Jay mused, as he waved at the young fellow, though how Stanley Secora managed to squeeze himself into the confusion, Jay couldn’t figure out. He supposed Secora just had a good case of celebrity worship. The last time he had done the windows for Jay, her picture, cut from a newspaper, had fallen out of his trousers’ pocket as he had reached there for a rag to wipe dry the panes.
Nine
He taught school, but whatever he inspired in his students was a mystery, save for Gina’s guess that he might inspire all of them to want to be anything in this life but a teacher…. Who would want to be like Miles?
— FROM
Population 12,360
A FTER he had been dropped off at the high school by his wife, Milo stopped by the tennis courts to watch little Mickey Lewis practice for the term play-offs. A few of his students were also watching, a scattering of them on the white benches behind the high rails. He waved at them and then thought what he was always thinking lately — they were talking about him. He had an idea that what they said was favorable. He knew there were jokes around about Gloria’s book, and he knew that a few of his pupils even called him Miles behind his back, but he also knew that for the most part everyone wondered why he stayed with Gloria, why he didn’t divorce her because of the book. He knew he was well-liked, but he knew lots of the boys in his classes wanted to ask him the same question Mickey Lewis had asked him last week:
“Mr. Wealdon, sir, why don’t you divorce her?”
It had just popped out of Mickey’s mouth, and his quick gesture of clamping his palm across his lips had not saved the moment for Mickey.
“She’s my wife,” Milo had answered. “You know, Mickey, it’s a
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