Gwen, in Green

King grunted. He was eighty-­two years old. A Freudian by training, he’d developed some rather independent ideas in thirty-­five years of practice in an area of the country where psychiatry was not fully understood. He was recognized as an authority, was often used as an expert witness in court cases, and was consulted by physicians all over the Southeast. There was something about the girl which appealed to him, something which roused his interest. However, his eighty-­two-­year-­old mind, although still sharper than many a third his age, had its moments of forgetfulness. There was something, but he couldn’t place it. He had done his best, during that first visit, merely to gain a measure of ease with the patient. It was expected that the patient would withhold information and skirt as far as possible the underlying cause of the problem. In past years he had been recognized in his circle as one of the more patient men, willing to ease up on problems. But now that he was eighty-­two, feeling time running out, each new case seemed to take on a sense of urgency. Dr. King didn’t like unfinished things. Ideally, at some future date about which he did not care to speculate, he would close his last case, wrap it up neatly, complete his report and file it and then go to sleep in his office chair and not wake up.

“You are much too pretty to be eaten by nightmare things,” he said, rising with effort, grunting, and stretching his old legs. “Please do me a personal favor and stay uneaten until you can see me next week.” He smiled toward the door, indicating that she was to go. “Sooner if you like,” he added.

George was in the waiting room. There were no other patients. He grinned and put both his hands on Gwen’s head. “Looks as large as ever,” he said.

Dr. King was in the doorway. “You have a seat, child,” he said to Gwen, “while I talk with your husband. We’re going to ask him to reveal all your weaknesses.” He chuckled happily. “Actually,” the old man said, when George had closed the office door behind him, “I just want to ask one or two questions. For example, what does she do?”

“Like when I’m working or something?” George asked.

“Like when she’s alone,” the doctor said. “When she has time on her hands.”

“Well, she paints a little.”

“Interesting. Is she involved with the painting?”

“Yes and no,” George said, thinking about it. “She’s not very passionate about it, I guess.”

“Get her other things to do.” He stifled a tired yawn. It was past his nap time. “How about children? Nothing better than a child for keeping a woman busy.”

“There’s nothing wrong with either of us,” George said, “at least not that the docs have found. We’ve done nothing to keep from having a child for months now.”

“She likes animals,” King said. “Get her a new puppy, a very young, sickly puppy. Nag her a bit about housework, in a nice way of course. From what I can gather you two live a lonely life. Get some people around you. Work her hard. Get her interested in as many things as possible. It is too early, of course, for me to offer an opinion, but in childless women of her age, there is often a tendency to grow lazy, morbid, moody. They feel life is passing them by. They need things to do.”

“O.K.,” George said.

“How’s your sex life?” the doctor asked bluntly.

“She didn’t mention it?” George frowned in puzzlement.

“Ah,” King said. “We have hit on it?”

“I’m surprised she didn’t talk about it. She had some rather bad childhood experiences with her mother.”

“I don’t want to hear it from you,” King said curtly. “From her. When she’s ready.”

“I think she was considering suicide,” George said.

“Why, do you suppose?”

“I have no idea. Honestly, I don’t. Things are touchy with the sex bit, but I don’t push it.”

“This is new?”

“Yes and no. It took a long time, but after a while she seemed to like it, sex. Now it’s back, all the old hang-­ups.”

“Be strong,” King said with a smile. “Don’t push her. Could you, by any chance, take a few days off? Take her on a trip?”

“Yes,” he said, although his shop was filled with jobs.