Love without Sentiment

In the entrance way of the Biomedical Sciences Building, just beyond the reach of an intruding tongue of sunlight, a graduate student leaned against the wall and gazed out at Dr. Verna Noyes. She sat on a concrete bench at the far side of the building's little plaza. On this first, perfect spring evening, the student noticed, Dr. Noyes looked as though she were smelling sulfur dioxide. For one minute, then another, the student procrastinated as though time might bring a better moment to approach his professor.

Verna Noyes was a handsome woman in her mid-thirties, with a large, strong face and heavy black hair that was thickly parted on the right and fell below her shoulders. Her skin was white, without a trace of tan, although over her big, heavy-lidded eyes, the skin looked almost blue. Her nose was a too thick and too long, and, combined with the length of her face, gave an appearance of assertiveness and strength. To this her downcast eyes lent sadness. It was not a beautiful face, but the long nose, the high cheekbones, and the heavy lidded eyes gave it depth and dignity. A full, square-set mouth gave it unmistakable sensuality. Or so it seemed to the graduate student, studying the face for some indication of a more propitious moment to approach.

Noyes sat a stiffly, one arm straight at her side, braced on the hard bench, the other resting on a dark brown briefcase. She was gazing straight ahead and, because Dr. Noyes never lingered around the Biomedical Sciences Building after 5:00 o'clock, unless shut up in her laboratory, the graduate student thought she might be waiting for someone. That he might interrupt a special moment.

But several more minutes passed during which Dr. Noyes did not move, no one approached, and it became slightly darker, so the student shrugged and walked out of the entrance way. She noticed him only when his long shadow slid beneath her feet. She raised her chin a little and asked, "Yes?" before her had spoken.

He stated his business quickly, without greeting or comment on the delightful spring weather. Could he use the older electron microscope in the pathology laboratory, instead of the new ones on the fifth floor? The new ones, as she probably knew, had been improperly installed and were subject to vibrations that resulted in poor resolution. Until Serva-levl platforms were rigged, the new scopes were useless. Unless he could have an hour on the older microscope, he would have to postpone his work for tomorrow.

Even before his question was complete, Dr. Noyes was shaking her head. No. They would stick to the existing sign-up schedule, which was tight already without alterations. Furthermore, he should take several more days to prepare before microscope work. Did he think all research could be completed in two weeks? He was always running to the electron microscope before his specimens were adequately prepared. See her Monday if there were problems.

The student was one of her best and his respect for her, his admiration, surprised even him. It was like some corny story of admiration for your old professor, except this was not an old professor and the spring evening, with its first, warm breezes, was...stimulating as well as gorgeous. Ragged strips of white cloud, their undersides glowing pink with the sinking sun, drifting like crocodiles in the pale blue sky.

So, as Dr. Noyes spoke, rapidly, without catching his eye, the student's glance slipped down to where the jacket of her light baize business suit hung open. Beneath the thin, white sweater, her breasts were held high and tight in the bra. But if they were released, he thought, they would subside into a heavy roundness, pulling gently outward from her armpits, the nipples forced to fullness by the weight of the flesh.

And then what would the severe, brilliant, decidedly cold Dr. Verna Noyes be like? In a moment, he caught himself and hastily looked up into her face, staring hard, giving her his full attention. She looked back with an expression more unsettling than usual and he wondered, with a jolt of embarrassment, if she had sensed what he had been imagining. When she finished speaking, he thanked her with excessive formality and hurried away. Her eyes again gazed at nothing, her chin slightly raised, face expressionless.

She had sensed the young man's uneasiness and his guilty, shifting stare, but did not dwell upon it; instead, her mind skipped directly to the thought, once again, that she disliked teaching—even graduate teaching, which was least-bad if you had to teach. She had methodically packed her teaching chores into the smallest possible niche of her life, where they would interfere least with her research, which dealt with the effects of enzyme reactions on schizophrenia.

The other burden of her professional life, she reflected, was counseling students. Her training in the clinical side of psychology, before and while she earned her M.D. degree, made her a natural candidate for service as a psychotherapist in the University's health service. And that involved counseling undergraduate women who came with difficulties beyond the academic. This was worse, even, than teaching, but scarce funds for biomedical research, and the difficulty of retaining research posts at medical schools, made it impossible for a junior researcher to refuse to 'participate in the wider university community and its needs,' as the chairman of her department had put it.

She did her counseling well, as she did everything well, but with uneasiness, even occasional revulsion, at what seemed the frenzy and obsessiveness of the...frankly, 'girls,' not women...who came to see her, week after week, with the same histrionic stories of romantic comedies and tragedies. They seemed to Verna Noyes to pursue sex in a hormonal rage that degenerated, year after year, into plain promiscuity. And the candidness and intensity with which these girls, only 18, 19, 20, spilled forth their sexual cravings and described their wretchedly tangled sex lives, made her hate the seven hours a week (including weekend duty) that she spent in the small, comfortable office of the Health Services building. But such reactions could not be confessed by a psychiatrist, much less offered as a reason to be relieved of the chore.

She had continued to stare across the plaza, down Angell Street toward the Student Union. Now, she thought that the tall, slender man walking up Angell Street was her husband, but he was still too far away for her to be sure. The man walked slowly, his shoulders bent, eyes lowered; in his stride was no briskness, no lightness, only a dignity that denied any hint of the physicalistic.

Yes, it was her husband's briefcase and, over his arm, the tan raincoat made pointless by the warm evening. Verna stood up, intending to meet him half way, when she saw a student catch up with him. The two talked for a moment, then her husband put down the briefcase and settled his weight on one foot, as though resigned to a long conversation. Verna sank back onto the bench and watched them without interest.

She had married Daniel Spellman Noyes 10 years ago. At 37, he had been a brilliant historian with a rapidly rising reputation. She had been a psychiatric resident trying, even then, to steal time from ward rounds and other chores for her research. She had pursued Daniel Noyes with the determination and decisiveness she brought to every aspect of life. Had she not pursued him, he would not be married today, she was sure. He had suppressed all concerns but the scholarship that had, by then, produced three volumes on the literary and cultural history of Europe and North America. She had admired his intensity, his contempt for the gossipy and clubish university life, and, above all, his dedication and sense of mission in his career and research.

She hoped his meeting today had gone well. Again she rose and started toward him. For three years, he had been trying to convince the history department that it should offer an undergraduate major in cultural history—indeed, make the field a specialty of the department. It made sense, at least as he described it: no department could excel in all areas. Cultural history could be a badge of distinction, a niche in which to achieve excellence. Today, the department had held a plenary session, attended by the provost and chairmen of American and European literature as well as the whole history faculty, to decide the question. Daniel would be the head of the program, if authorized, and so, if the decision had been 'yes," they would have a good summer.

Daniel would prepare the courses for the fall semester; he would be busy, content. If the decision were 'no'...

When she saw he had spotted her coming toward him, she smiled and raised a thumb, her eyebrows hiked up, questioning. His expression gave no indication of an answer; his pace did not quicken; he did not smile or wave. She broke into a little run, and, when they met, she opened her arms and asked, brightly, "Success?"

He nodded. "One-hundred percent success," his voice toneless.

She threw her arms around him and hugged him. He returned her pressure, ever so slightly, and immediately lifted her arms away. They were in public, after all. He started to walk and she fell in beside him, her hand seeking his, her head leaning slightly to rest on his shoulder as they walked. "No hitches?"

"No, I'm head of it all. They think it's the right choice. And it will begin with four special courses, not three."

"Oh, Daniel!" she said. She had stopped and turned to smile into his eyes.

He nodded and continued walking. She would not be subdued. She swung her briefcase high and skipped a little. This was the best of all, the very best. This they could share: his work, his research, the recognition that he won...

Now, she must think of a celebration he could accept. Again, she noticed the extravagant tender warmth of the early April evening. "Should we have Michael and Cindy over for dinner?" she asked.

"Could."

"Or just us, with champagne?"

"Just us would be okay," he said. He squeezed her arm and smiled.

She laughed aloud. "No vacation for us, this summer! Work! Can you have everything ready for September? Are all the books here?"

"Oh, I believe so, yes. Two courses for September, then two for spring. The European Influences course, or whatever we call it, will be mostly the one I already give, so I'll have time. And John Sforza will collaborate on the 'Twentieth Century Developments' seminar. We'll make it all right."

Thank God they had an excuse to skip a vacation this year. Each summer, Daniel had selected some intriguing destination—islands in the Aegean, the Balkans, Portugal. And each year they had returned home subdued and weary from the effort to assure each other the trip had been marvelous. What did other couples do on vacation? To return home refreshed, excited, full of new energy? Some couples went in groups, of course, and afterward there were winks and smiles about...hanky-panky, Verna thought. Maybe something like that. Daniel always seemed to listen with special interest. Not that he encouraged conversation in that direction, or laughed; probably only Verna could tell that he was curious. She was not a psychiatrist for nothing...

And yet, that would be so unlike Daniel, the man she had married. And could she do anything like that? Impossible. And with whom, anyway? How did people even suggest that sort of thing? How did they get through the year afterward, when they returned to the university?

Daniel had not had a woman before they married; she was sure of that. Even so, it was better, then, at the beginning. Clumsy, but better. And the clumsiness hadn't mattered at all. As long as you had the passion, the interest.

They must stop to pick up the champagne. Daniel would want it dry, very dry...

It was all right, not having a vacation, this year. It was a relief. Daniel would be busy for the next couple years. Still, though, if couldn't enjoy this day, this moment of recognition by the whole university, what could he enjoy? You had to want something. Verna wished very, very much that he could enjoy it. If you didn't enjoy your triumphs, then, eventually, you just ran out of gas.

Daniel had stopped. The tennis courts were not open, yet. A heavy chain still wound through the mesh of the gate and was padlocked. But, perhaps driven by the warmth of the day, two students, a young man and woman, had climbed the high fence and were playing a fast, almost violent game, burning the ball at each other, laughing, shouting and scolding at one another in mock ferocity. Daniel pressed his face to the fence, hooking his fingers through the diamond links.

"Already playing tennis," he said. "It really is spring..."

Verna pressed against him, holding his arm tighter, and followed his gaze. The young woman was short, very fair, with straight, rich red hair down her shoulders. Her legs were too strong to be slender, but they were not heavy, and down one thigh, from beneath her brief white shorts, ran one of those childish, light-blue tattoos in the shape of a Freudian arrow. It was brazen and immature, but, somehow, down the very pale thigh, it spoke of the spread-eagled, wanton woman at branding time.

Beneath her white tennis jersey were good-sized breasts that moved only with stubborn jolts, even as she dived wildly for an impossible return, holding her tennis racket like a cleaver, bending and jumping, swatting hard. Against the sweat-soaked t-shirt, her nipples were prominent, their points against the cloth as big as dimes.

In a relaxed moment, when the ball sped by her opponent and sent him racing after it, the girl glanced over at them. She smiled, and, after a moment, idly arched her back, stretching her arms. Her thrusting breasts under the damp jersey might as well have been naked.

Why, you little whore, thought Verna idly. It did not surprise or anger her. She expected it. She glanced at Daniel's face. It was tense; his gaze fixed. She tugged his arm a little, but he moved away only reluctantly, glancing back once.

"Wish I had the energy to run around the court like that fellow," he said. "He hits a mean ball."

Verna nodded. She had dropped his arm. She walked by herself, now, gazing down at the sidewalk. She didn't mind, of course; middle-aged men naturally looked at girls. Professors admired their attractive students—and girls admired their professors. She had heard of that so often in counseling. Incredibly, girls would come right out and tell her their fantasies about a particular professor—and sometimes more than fantasies.

She realized she was trembling. As though on command, she stopped it. One couldn't be angry. That was naïve. And certainly there was nothing wrong with men, even married men, getting a little excited about an obviously sexy girl. But it did seem unexpected for Daniel. If one—her inner voice automatically shifted into the third-person--were lively and vital, after all, embracing life, athletic, concerned with youthfulness, then admiring brazen co-eds was part of that. But one couldn't help but think it a little hypocritical in Daniel's case, where everything was supposed to be about work, research, scholarship. It didn't matter, but it made one wonder...

"What a girl!" she said, as they walked.

Daniel was silent.

"Well, wasn't she?"

"Back at the tennis court?"

Verna closed her eyes, for a moment, and walked faster. Where else, for Christ's sake?

"Well, she had a tough match."

"I can't understand those absurd tattoos the kids are wearing, now. It's like the body-painting craze awhile back. Why do they want to decorate their bodies like barbarians?"

"All peoples decorate their bodies," said Daniel judiciously. "Make-up, jewelry, hair styling. It's simply a matter of the particular culture. What is our mania for tanning the body but a form of body decoration?"

Some men in Daniel's position would take a mistress, Verna thought. They would be honest with themselves about what they wanted. But Daniel never would. He scarcely chatted with his students in the Blue Room. So dignified. So above the wink, the off-color joke.

Suddenly she thought, with a clarity that startled her: I wish that he would find a mistress. It isn't right, wanting something the way he does, for years on end, and being too dignified—too ridiculously dignified—to admit it. Once admitted into her consciousness, the idea nudged a dozen unconnected thoughts into place: Daniel's dying fire, year after year. He seemed to have no passionate desires anymore, not even for scholarship. What was there for Daniel—or her—to lose? Should a man clutch some pretense to honor while his heart burned out? Without joy. With not even a struggle. Without even, for God's sake, any real pain?

Daniel's voice from somewhere to her left sounded startled and a little worried. "Verna," he said gently, and then, more loudly, "Verna! What are you doing? " She turned to him, slightly confused, until she realized that her fists were clenched and that she had walked so fast that she was a yard ahead of him.

She smiled and shrugged, looking bewildered and a little embarrassed. "Oh," she said with a wave that dismissed it before it was even said, "I'm way off with electron microscopes and enzymes."

He nodded, but, as they walked on, she glanced over and saw that he was frowning, watching her.

It began only with the desire to know something about the girl on the tennis court. As she had walked home beside Daniel, carrying the champagne that neither really wanted, Verna had wheedled from him the information that the girl had been his student the year before. But Verna had been more surprised to hear the girl's name and had realized suddenly that she did know the girl—in a way.

One weird aspect of counseling was that she heard, from girls who came to her, a great deal about other students: their names, their problems, their aspirations, their pettinesses and—inevitably—their sex lives. But until some casual introduction in the Blue Room or at a 'reception,' she would have no idea that one of the life histories she carried around with her attached to some student she had seen on campus perhaps a dozen times. This was the case when Daniel said the name of the girl on the tennis court was Darlene Sullivan. Verna knew immediately how she could find out more about the girl.

She sat behind her desk in the slightly darkened, book-lined consulting office that the university Health Service had set aside for its psychiatrists. The books were irrelevant to psychiatry, and unread, but the tradition of such offices called for an aura of just barely imaginable erudition. Perhaps to reassure the patient that she was in the hands of one who knew more than did she herself.

The girl in the blue easy chair had the hefty limbs of the eternal peasant, fleshy and solid, and made childishly delicate, shy gestures. Her voice was a maddening whisper: the soul of a sparrow lost in the body of a chicken. It seemed to Verna, at times, that there simply was not enough animus for the substance. But she liked the girl's modesty and reticence.

Now, the girl leaned forward and rested three pudgy fingers on the edge of the desk, as though to close a circuit with Verna before trying to communicate. Verna acknowledged the contact with a nod and the girl lowered her eyes slightly. The soft voice spoke, as always, about 'boys.'

Verna looked down at notes she had made of the previous sessions. She was never less than totally attentive, but it was not helpful to lock onto a patient's gaze, as some psychiatrists did; it only increased the tension. Now, as the girl hesitated, Verna looked up and said, "Cynthia, you've mentioned your roommate a few times..." She unnecessarily glanced down at her notes. "Darlene Sullivan. Might I be right in saying that you see her as the kind of woman you would like to be—at least when it comes to the romantic and sexual side of things?"