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 regret 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
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 regret 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
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