Love without Sentiment

Cynthia nodded a few times, as though pumping up the energy needed to speak. Her gentle, sad mouth set itself for a kind of grim honesty, and she said, "I guess, yeah." She breathed the words softly.

Verna leaned forward, elbows on the desk. Her hair was pulled back from her face and caught in a thick black ponytail. Her large face, with its wide, dark eyes, seemed open, candid. "In what ways?" she asked.

Cynthia shrugged. Her hands wrestled in her lap. "Even just her figure, I guess. You should see what happens when she sits at lunch in the cafeteria. Boys go crazy."

"And you would like that?"

"I don't know," whispered Cynthia, "I guess..."

"Why do you say, 'boys'?" asked Verna.

Cynthia giggled and glanced up. Verna smiled.

"Just from high school, I guess."

"Don't the women here usually say 'guys'?"

Cynthia nodded. "I guess."

"So Darlene has a lot of men friends?"

"No," said Cynthia, "not really. She isn't like that. She's got...one, I think. She spends weekends at his apartment. He comes to the room, too."

Verna recalled the young man with whom Darlene had been playing tennis. "Are you attracted to him?"

"Carl?"

"Is that her friend?"

Cynthia nodded. "Carl. He's a graduate student. Well, he's tall... He's on the ice hockey team. Very well built. But's he's scary."

"How is that?"

"I don't know. He's quiet, he looks at you. And he's one of those people when you say something he doesn't answer, sometimes. He just looks at you. I always start giggling. I'm such a fool!"

"But is that scary?"

"He's cold, sort of. He's very sure about everything. He asks you questions..."

"You mean he seems very grown up? A man?"

Cynthia caught the drift and tried to be cooperative. "Yes, you may be right. I'm scared maybe because I see him as a man. And I call everyone 'boys'..."

"So let's get back. Darlene has one man friend. But he scares you, a little. So what is enviable about her social life—as you suggested earlier?"

"She could have almost any boy--I mean 'guy'--if she was like that. You should see the guys she ignores! Our telephone rings like I don't what. Sometimes I have to say she isn't in when she really is."

"You would like all that attention, then? Why do you think she ignores so many men?"

Cynthia looked down, frowning, but said nothing.

Finally, Verna said, "She's a sophomore, like you? Has she had many men friends?"

Cynthia shook her head. "No, she's friendly with...guys, and everyone likes her, but I think she had only one guy before Carl. Last year, when she was a freshman. Eliot, I think. Eliot Ames, and that was very bad. She cried once, when she told me about it."

Verna straightened up. "What happened?"

"It was creepy. Really creepy. She was a freshman. Not my dorm. I didn't meet her until second semester, spring...last year..."

"Okay," said Verna. The girl was unconsciously avoiding this, steering away as though on automatic pilot. "What happened?"

Cynthia drew in her breath as she spoke, her body swelling, "Well..." She gave a long sigh. "I think that Eliot was her lover. He was a sophomore. Maybe a junior. He had access to an apartment off campus—not his own--and I guess he brought her there and they made love one afternoon." Now, she was hurrying on. "Two of his friends, Eliot's friends, were watching from the kitchen or the closet or somewhere hidden and seeing them make love, I guess."

Verna sat silent for a moment and let herself feel very guilty and unprofessional. Did any of this really relate to Cynthia's problem? She shrugged. It might. She nodded her head. "I see."

"Yeah." Cynthia pursed her lips and puffed out her cheeks, her eyes unfocused and sad.

"How did Darlene find out?"

"Well, that's just it," said Cynthia. "They took some photographs, horrible photographs of Darlene with no clothes and then, eventually, it was like every guy on campus had seen prints." She vigorously shook her head. "It was horrible!" Tears came to her eyes and her wide, gentle face seemed strangely dignified. She whispered, "And in one, she looked so happy! I mean so open and not shy or scared. She was standing up and her arms were spread out wide—pushing herself forward, you know... Very proud. And she was smiling. Just...a strange smile. I could never look like that! Not naked or anyway! But the boys, the guys...laughed at that one the most. People are so mean, I guess..."

Verna did not have another appointment that day, but she sat at the desk for many minutes after Cynthia had left. The story settled in her mind like a heavy gravy—inert, cold, ugly. She stared down at her desk as though at a plate of food that sickens one. But she had made a kind of hobby of noting the myriad marvelous ways in which people fooled themselves, and it was by the strength of her feeling, now, that she knew what was her real intention. And she knew, suddenly, that her feeling of guilt and pity would not deter her—not in the end.

She pulled a few sheets of paper from her briefcase and wrote, at the top of one of them:

"Darlene S."

Then slowly, thoughtful, in the very small, clear handwriting in which she made notes about patients, she wrote:

"Eliot A. Boyfriend freshman year. Nude photographs circulated around campus. Cries when tells the story.

"Carl. Current boyfriend. Also older. Quiet, deliberate. Apartment off campus. She goes weekends. Rejects other men. But popular.

"Now seeks older men? Mature? 'Safe'? Also 'serious.' Desire for status from older men?

"But competition with men (e.g., performance at tennis?)

"Overt sexuality. Defies reputation and refuses to withdraw as a result of bad experience? Sees sex as crude, now (e.g., tattoo)? Also sexual exhibitionism when D. was watching her at tennis.

"Serious student according to Cynthia. Sociology. Political science. Quiet when alone. Can be sarcastic with men (resentment?). Excessive profanity. Gutter language (equal of men? Emphasize only physical? Render experience with photos unimportant? Show not hurt? Defiance?)

"Talks about profs, friendly with them. (Again, identifies with older men, serious men.) Superior to students (incl. boys who humiliated her?)

"Works some nights at Thayer St. Record Mart. Scholarship. Always short of $."

It seemed reasonably straightforward. But then, it always seemed clearer when information was scanty, before the masses of details, the contradictions, began to suggest complexities.

The girl had few friends, very few—that Cynthia made clear. But there was one ready source of information that required only a strong stomach to tap. For a long while, Verna sat staring at her notes as one stares at egg and catsup smeared on a plate after breakfast...

Eliot Ames was in his second semester in the Medical Sciences program, which the university permitted undergraduates to pass into after their junior year as undergraduates. Long before Verna had heard Cynthia's story, she had wondered whether Eliot Ames would make a great doctor—or a frightening one. He was a bright, sharp-witted student who cared only for the sciences, at which he excelled. As far as Verna could ascertain, he was insensitive to anyone's feelings about anything—unless they were feelings of pain or fear or humiliation. In which case, he seemed amused. She had heard from several sources that he was the stereotype of the guy who became the leader of a little dormitory gang that tormented and harassed the shyer, more awkward students until they broke, or moved, or went into a berserk rage. Ames apparently completed his own studies effortlessly, despite the racket involved in keeping his dormitory hall in a state of turmoil.

Ames had a rather small, tough body and the unself-conscious smile and persuasive, fluent way of talking that attracted followers. Around him always floated the feeling that something amusing, and probably outrageous, would happen.

Because Verna knew the type so well, from dozens of counseling sessions with agonized students who would said they could not live in their dormitories one more day, she had spotted Ames the first week he had attended lab sessions in biochemistry.

Despite everything, she might have liked Ames well enough. His precise, disciplined execution of experiments and his almost needlessly laconic laboratory reports were a blessed relief from the pitiful confusion of many first-year students in the lab. But Ames also had an easygoing, sarcastic way of asking questions and a habit of sitting in his seat, utterly sprawled and boneless, watching intently as she moved about the room. Three days ago, when she had heard of Darlene's humiliation at his hands, she had experienced it in an intensely personal, almost physical way. Had she not spent years of her career denying herself any indulgence of her emotions, she might have dropped her plan rather than do what she was about to do.

When the laboratory recessed for lunch, she left walking more or less beside Ames, her head slightly lifted, her eyes straight ahead. Even so, she could sense his glances at her. At the initial cluster of students strung out in the direction of the dining hall, local restaurants, and the coffee shop, he started a conversation with one of his polite remarks. He actually said, "I think that introducing some elements of microbiology into the biochemistry course this year has been an excellent improvement, don't you?"

Verna slowed a little to keep pace with him. She nodded, fighting her annoyance. "First rate," she said. "I'm impressed that you noticed."

"Oh, I certainly did," said Ames.

"I hope eventually that we can eliminate a semester by combining elements of microbiology with other courses," said Verna. "It would give the students a little breathing room. Don't you find it difficult to keep up? Most first-year students do."

Ames seemed almost startled at her interest. For once, he seemed to search for words, and, as he did, he studied her profile intently. "Well," he said, "I could use the time myself."

"And it's probably worse for students coming to the Medical School from other places. You've been here all along, haven't you? So you've met friends, I imagine, met women."

They had reached the Blue Room in the Student Union building and had gotten into line together. Now, Ames seemed eager to continue. He grabbed a wrapped sandwich quite randomly and scooped an orange and a package of potato chips onto his tray to keep up with Verna as she whizzed her tray along the aluminum counter and paused only at the end to take a cottage cheese and fruit plate covered with plastic wrap.

"Most of my friends will graduate this year," said Ames.

"Oh, but how about younger students you know?" asked Verna. Upperclassmen usually date the younger girls anyway, don't they? Don't you know girls who are still undergraduates, now?"

She almost could see Ames's mind scrambling to find the import of her question. She stood, deliberately eying a single seat left at the table where three professors of anatomy sat smiling up at her. But Ames had found a table toward the corner of the room and quickly called out, "This one is cleared, Dr. Noyes."

When she had sat down, he said, "Undergraduate girls are okay. but after three years of that, you say: Enough! You start seeing that women aren't just girls who had gotten older. They're something very different..."

Verna unwrapped her plate in silent disgust, without answering. What had she expected? She had known this would happen and intended to deal with it. It wasn't important, a peripheral irritation. He's never getting closer to her than he was right now. She nodded. "I'm glad that you've graduated to women. I've heard some horrendous reports about your exploits with the poor girls."

He froze. He quickly glanced up at her, but she was eating her lunch as though merely engaged in a little gossip. Ames asked slowly, "What did you hear, Dr. Noyes? I would be curious." The words did not come easily.

"It was awhile back, Mr. Ames." She put down her fork and looked right into his face. "Someone was showing me photographs he had gotten hold of. Your name came up. It bothered me a great deal at the time. Of course, I didn't know you, then. But I remembered the name because I told this individual to tell you, whomever you were, that you were trying very hard to get kicked out of the university. I never imagined you would decide to become a doctor."

"Do you remember who it was?"

"I know very well who he is."

Ames nodded heavily. He said slowly, "This is what you wanted to talk with me about today."

"You are an excellent preclinical student, so I have wondered what to do. Who was the girl?"

He hesitated. Verna said, "I have seen her around campus, you know. Very embarrassing, just the idea that she has been exposed as you exposed her..."

"Her name is Darlene Sullivan."

"She was a freshman."

"She had just entered the university. Everybody was interested in her. She was one of those girls that the guys notice and start speculating about as soon as the booklet of photographs of freshman girls circulates. When I got a date with her, and things began to happen, everyone wanted to know all the details."

Ames was literally squirming in his seat, as though he couldn't wait another moment to head for the men's room. Verna asked, "Details?"

"Oh, stuff," said Ames. "Stuff guys talk about. They would listen to anything."

Verna rested her chin on her clasped hands, elbows on the table, and her heavy-lidded eyes gazed at him, waiting. Ames shrugged and cocked his head in an exaggerated, 'What can I tell you?' gesture. When Verna did not respond, he said, "It would embarrass you if I told you."

"Physicians don't embarrass each other," she said. "Besides, I saw the photographs you circulated."

"Oh, you know," said Ames, looking down at the table. "What her breasts are like. What she says..." He trailed off and glanced up at Verna, then back down to his plate. "And they want to know if she likes it when you suck her nipples, whether or not she'll do it with her mouth..." He waved away the subject and sought asylum in his tuna fish sandwich.

"What was the report?" asked Verna. "You told them all about it? Before you let them come and watch and take the pictures?"

It was almost too much. "God," said Ames, smacking his sandwich down on his plate, speaking in almost a whine through a mouthful of food. "What is this about? Why do you want to know?"

"Why? It could have to do with whether or not this school ever allows you to become a physician. Needless to say, none of this came out in your entrance interview. They do ask about character, you know."

"So what can I do? What can I say? What does it all depend on, now?" asked Ames bitterly. "What are you..." He stopped.

"Do you know that every faculty member in the Medical Program is responsible for assessing each student's suitability to practice medicine?"

"I'm sorry," said Ames slowly. "I'm very sorry. I hate myself for what I did to Darlene. Probably that goes without saying."

"Not at all. As far as I know, I'm the only one in the program who knows of this incident in your recent past."

He nodded, but did not look at her.

"Did you ever worry enough to find out what happened to the girl?"

Ames nodded vigorously. "Yes, I do know. In fact, do you know something? Once in awhile we still date." He kept nodding, watching her expression. "It's true. We date. We don't do anything. She has a guy, and all. But we do see each other."

She was shocked almost beyond concealment. "She's friendly?"

"Yes. Very friendly. Very natural and cordial...and..."

She was watching him, her expression unchanged. He said, "Look, it was very bad. But it was a crazy undergraduate thing. It's all forgotten. Really."

Verna recalled, 'she cries when she talks about it...' Cynthia had said that. But Ames was too sharp to tell a lie so easy to check. "What was she like, Darlene? How did you meet her?"

"Well," said Ames, frowning, "it started fast, so I'm not sure about how she was before... I know she was serious about the books. That I know. And shy. We all looked up her background, whatever the blue booklet on freshman girls tells you. She attended a Catholic high school in St. Louis. And when we started, she was slow. You know, 'please don't,' 'I love you but we can't...' He stopped suddenly and looked at her, as though he might be saying the wrong thing.

Verna nodded.

"So, she was a virgin." He nodded as though to himself. "Very modest. Strictly lights off and under the covers for the first few times. Then... well, it didn't take very long. She really took to it."

Verna recalled Cynthia's description of the photograph: 'And in one she looked so happy. I mean so open, not shy or scared...standing with her arms spread...pushing herself out...proud...'"

"And now?" asked Verna.

"Oh, liberated, now," said Ames definitely. "Not hung up or anything. A little wild, really."

"That's your idea of 'not hung up'?"

"But open," he insisted. "She has a boyfriend. Carl Bauman."

"And they're close?"

"Yes," said Ames, "yes, definitely close."

Verna's eyes narrowed, heavy-lidded and intense in their scrutiny. "But not really close, like some couples? Not inseparable?"

He shrugged. "Darlene is very definite that she doesn't want to cling. Is that a good thing? I don't know."

"It can be."

"She hates any kind of possessiveness. Doesn't want it. She told me once she was going to leave Carl because he warned off another guy who showed interest in her. She didn't leave him, but she can't stand that sort of thing."

Verna let a silence gather before she said: "You acted like a moron. Worse, because there's nothing cruel in stupidity. It isn't something undergraduates do for kicks, you know? You knew what you were doing because you're smart. And you knew how cruel it was."

"So I'm in trouble with the Program?"

"Is that all that matters?"

Sitting in her office, Verna wrote:

"Catholic high school, St. Louis.

"Virgin when she met Eliot A. Still sees him after all that he did to her. (Obsession with pretending it wasn't important? Not acting as though it should be taken seriously?)

"Affair with Carl B. Won't permit herself to become exclusive. Dislikes possessiveness. Denies and reject real love? Fear of hurt? Thinks men aren't worth depending on? Rejects idea of being possessed by a partner, wants to be the equal of men? (Competitive.)

"Does she really like sex?

"Studious."

Then, she assembled and sifted through these and other sheets from her briefcase and wrote, more slowly:

"Darlene S. came to the university from a Catholic high school background. Fairly typical. Studious and serious about college, shy but friendly and trusting. Modest and determined (not very?) to avoid premarital sex. Meets Eliot A., upperclassman, good-looking, persuasive, with a following of male admirers. After a little resistance, she sleeps with him, modestly at first. Quickly opens herself, proud of her body, positive toward sex? Then a calamity. Shock and disappointment destroys her trust, innocent openness, and beginnings of fearless attitude toward sex.

"Since then, she has acted consistently to deny incident was as important as she feels it is. Convinces herself sex is physical, as with obscene tattoo and seductive gestures. Does overt sexuality reflect her attempt to believe she still enjoys sex? That the incident hasn't changed her?

"To complete this self-image, she requires the co-fiction that there is no spiritual or emotional side of sex. So jealousy and possessiveness to her are stupid, naïve. Sex is a physical desire without dangerous emotional commitments. (Why isn't she promiscuous?)

"Competitiveness with men. Frantic display at the tennis court. Contempt for men? Is this her assertion that of course she can beat men in all things because they are contemptible? Of course, her profanity and obscenity, per Cynthia, indicates a desire to assert her equality with men in viewing sex as crudely physical, without emotional baggage.