Gwen, in Green

When Irving King finally lay down for his nap he was so tired he fell asleep instantly. The assistant waked him in time for his last appointment of the day and he told the woman, who was a first-­timer, that what she needed was a marriage counselor, not a psychiatrist. “You keep running them away,” the assistant grumbled.

“Who needs them?” King asked, putting away his papers for the day. The rubber plant was still in his office. He looked at it and mused on what George had told him and on what he, himself, had seen on the polygraph when George crinkled one of the large leaves in his hand. Very interesting. If he were younger, he’d definitely explore it further. But he was eighty-­two going on three and he was tired.

Nice kid, that George Ferrier. Smart. Fixed the damned machine so that it was working perfectly. And his wife, a nice kid, too. Too bad she had decided to drop out of treatment. She wasn’t a mental basket case, but she needed help. But with a husband like George, she’d probably make it.

More interesting to speculate on those plants. Wild thought, to believe that they could receive thoughts tele­pathically. Opened up whole new fields of investigation. He’d have to write to Gerheart and see if he’d read anything about it.

“I’m leaving,” the assistant said, sticking her head in the door. He waved impatiently. He heard the door slam and then he rose, ponderously and tiredly, stretching and feeling the weight of his body on his brittle bones. Another day. How many more? Not enough, surely. Not enough to accomplish all that he’d like to do. There was the book, for example. Every headshrinker wrote at least one, and, although he was in an area where he didn’t get too many glamor cases, he’d had his share of interesting ones.

He was still thinking about the book as he drove his big car slowly toward his riverside apartment. If he had time, he would write it for popular consumption, because frankly, he didn’t have the unique cases in his file to interest the profession, but he could wow the public with some of the sexual fantasies some of his patients had come up with over the years. Not exactly the height of professional ethics, but he wouldn’t be the first psychiatrist to capitalize on the miseries of his patients to make a dollar. The woman who had literally split herself jamming an ivory elephant’s tusk up her, rich, a member of an old family. The young girl sent to him after taking on all of the local high school football team and then bringing herself to the attention of the authorities by yelling rape. Twenty-­three boys, testifying that she’d told them it was their reward for winning the big game. Twenty-­three. In sheer volume, she was the sexiest thing he’d ever run across. Then all the hang-­up cases. Like Gwen. Nothing spectacular there. But, although it had never come out in his talks with her or in his chats with George, that was the reason behind it all, the woman’s attitude toward sex. Natural to be hung-­up a bit, with her mother putting on exhibitions the way she did. Not natural for her to drop out of analysis and live a completely happy life after only three or four visits. But George had said things were going great and he’d looked fat and sassy. No sexual frustration there, not in that boy. He literally glowed with contentment.

Speaking of books, if he were younger he could get a good one out of that plant business. Very interesting. The boy had invited him to visit and bring the machine and try it on the Venus-­flytraps. He said the readings obtained there were spectacular. Might not be a bad idea, at that. A day away from the office and the apartment would do him good. Where was it they lived? Somewhere over in Ocean County. Oh, yes, on the island. Pine Tree Island. Nice name. He’d run into it before. A patient?

Damn his failing memory. He’d have Ruthie look it up next morning. No, this was Friday. He’d ask her about it Monday. She’d had plenty of time to go through the files. And there was that tantalizing something about Gwen Ferrier. She reminded him of something, and there was a nagging feeling of curiosity there, as if it were something interesting. Well, Monday, then. He’d ask her for sure, on Monday. He’d even write it down. Couldn’t do it driving, although he kept a notebook in his coat pocket. Next stoplight. He’d write it down.

At the next stoplight he reached for the notebook just as a car made an illegal left turn and demolished two expensive fenders. By the time the excitement was over, he’d forgotten his notebook.