I'm getting at. I've never found any
way of getting what I wanted except going out and taking it. But that's
not going to work with Anita. We all know it, you, me and her. You talk
to her.
--On your behalf?
--Fletcher, I'm going to show you something. I'm going to show you
me. After that, maybe we'll understand each other.
That was all the warning Fletcher got. Then, in the mind of Ian Ross,
he was suddenly enveloped in, surrounded by, submerged in the nineteen
years of Ross.
Ross was an orphan. His parents were killed in a car crash three weeks
after his birth, on their first night out together in more than six
months.
They would have loved him. They were very young and devoted to each other,
but not very wise. Their crash and death had been entirely their own
fault; the responsibility of Harry Ross, then eighteen, a year younger
than Ian Ross was now.
The baby passed to the care of an aunt and her husband, dutiful,
childless people who could never have slept in peace again if they
allowed the child of Harry and Mary Ross to go to a Home.
But they failed to give him one.
They found little Ian, chiefly, dirty. He was always soiling himself
and had to be cleaned by one of them. Up until the baby's arrival, the
house of Meredith and Gastone Doyle had been one of the most immaculate
dwellings in the civilized world. Later, when Ian began to walk he always
managed to find puddles to fall into, animal excrement to tread on,
and disgusting objects to trail back with him.
They tried hard and patiently to train him, and, of course, they
succeeded. On his first day at school he was the cleanest, shiniest,
most immaculate small boy the teachers and the other pupils had ever
set eyes on. He was also a precocious prig, begging to be punctured.
Little Ian was punctured many times in the next ten years. He asked for
it. Uncritical of the standards of Meredith and Gastone Doyle, he was
critical of everything he encountered outside them.
All this might not have mattered, but the most signal failure of the
Ross aunt and uncle was their failure to exhibit (and probably to feel)
any affection for the child they had never wanted and had accepted only
owing to their strong sense of duty. They were not only always correct,
they were very fair. Later on, when they knew a little more about growing
children, they congratulated Ian on every success and chided him only
for failure he could and should have avoided. But they never took pride
in his success.
When, much later, hn Ross studied psychology, as many others did
because of his own need for reassurance and justification, he found
many significant things in what he learned, as such people always
do. What struck him most was the confirmation that the human mind often
went perversely by opposites. The son of a miser was a spendthrift;
the daughter of a nymphomaniac was frigid; the children of religious
fanatics were pagans.
Yet there were things that could not be reversed. In particular, a child
who had never known warmth could not be warm.
So Ross prospered at school and was correct and dutiful. Then Meredith and
Gastone, who had always regarded Ian's parents' death as their own fault,
were killed in a crash themselves. They left their not inconsiderable
possessions to him.
In other respects, Ross developed as far from the teachings and examples
of Meredith and Gastone as possible. He drank, he gambled, he swore,
he fornicated, he blasphemed, because they did not.
Yet he could not love, because they did not. And now he ached for Anita.
--Thank you, said Fletcher.
--For what?
--Honesty, said Fletcher.
--I can't help it, Ross retorted.
--I would if I could but I can't. That reminds me, have you ever heard
the line from some nonsense poet "What would you do if you were me to
prove that you
way of getting what I wanted except going out and taking it. But that's
not going to work with Anita. We all know it, you, me and her. You talk
to her.
--On your behalf?
--Fletcher, I'm going to show you something. I'm going to show you
me. After that, maybe we'll understand each other.
That was all the warning Fletcher got. Then, in the mind of Ian Ross,
he was suddenly enveloped in, surrounded by, submerged in the nineteen
years of Ross.
Ross was an orphan. His parents were killed in a car crash three weeks
after his birth, on their first night out together in more than six
months.
They would have loved him. They were very young and devoted to each other,
but not very wise. Their crash and death had been entirely their own
fault; the responsibility of Harry Ross, then eighteen, a year younger
than Ian Ross was now.
The baby passed to the care of an aunt and her husband, dutiful,
childless people who could never have slept in peace again if they
allowed the child of Harry and Mary Ross to go to a Home.
But they failed to give him one.
They found little Ian, chiefly, dirty. He was always soiling himself
and had to be cleaned by one of them. Up until the baby's arrival, the
house of Meredith and Gastone Doyle had been one of the most immaculate
dwellings in the civilized world. Later, when Ian began to walk he always
managed to find puddles to fall into, animal excrement to tread on,
and disgusting objects to trail back with him.
They tried hard and patiently to train him, and, of course, they
succeeded. On his first day at school he was the cleanest, shiniest,
most immaculate small boy the teachers and the other pupils had ever
set eyes on. He was also a precocious prig, begging to be punctured.
Little Ian was punctured many times in the next ten years. He asked for
it. Uncritical of the standards of Meredith and Gastone Doyle, he was
critical of everything he encountered outside them.
All this might not have mattered, but the most signal failure of the
Ross aunt and uncle was their failure to exhibit (and probably to feel)
any affection for the child they had never wanted and had accepted only
owing to their strong sense of duty. They were not only always correct,
they were very fair. Later on, when they knew a little more about growing
children, they congratulated Ian on every success and chided him only
for failure he could and should have avoided. But they never took pride
in his success.
When, much later, hn Ross studied psychology, as many others did
because of his own need for reassurance and justification, he found
many significant things in what he learned, as such people always
do. What struck him most was the confirmation that the human mind often
went perversely by opposites. The son of a miser was a spendthrift;
the daughter of a nymphomaniac was frigid; the children of religious
fanatics were pagans.
Yet there were things that could not be reversed. In particular, a child
who had never known warmth could not be warm.
So Ross prospered at school and was correct and dutiful. Then Meredith and
Gastone, who had always regarded Ian's parents' death as their own fault,
were killed in a crash themselves. They left their not inconsiderable
possessions to him.
In other respects, Ross developed as far from the teachings and examples
of Meredith and Gastone as possible. He drank, he gambled, he swore,
he fornicated, he blasphemed, because they did not.
Yet he could not love, because they did not. And now he ached for Anita.
--Thank you, said Fletcher.
--For what?
--Honesty, said Fletcher.
--I can't help it, Ross retorted.
--I would if I could but I can't. That reminds me, have you ever heard
the line from some nonsense poet "What would you do if you were me to
prove that you
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