Love without Sentiment

"Attraction to older men is less clear. Desire to be accepted on equal terms with faculty? Desire for a more significant group of peers than undergraduates who humiliated her, let her down? Does she seek in older men a more mature, caring, responsible lover?

"Affair with a handsome, distinguished middle-aged professor?"

Verna wore a black dress, her hair pulled back—plain and austere—and no make up. In all, she looked much older, more tired, than she was. Over her hair and close around her face she wore a black scarf that flattened and whipped in the chill night breeze as she walked along Thayer Street. Spring had postponed its permanent arrival for awhile.

There was no way to make a meeting occur by accident. Cynthia had skipped her counseling session to depart early on a weekend trip to visit her parents. If Darlene was in her room, she might well be alone. On this late Friday night, most of the girls would be at parties, on dates, or hanging out together at restaurants, the movies. Some, like Cynthia, had left for the weekend. It wasn't perfect, but there was no safer way.

No one passed her as she climbed the three flights of dormitory stairs and walked along the bare corridor. At room 307, she stopped and listened. There was no sound. She stooped. There was a light under the door. Verna was not a woman who went somewhere hoping that a definite decision would materialize before she arrived. She did not inflate her courage with a deep breath or square her shoulders—no ritual of reminding herself to be brave. She did not require that.

She turned the knob. The door was not locked, so she opened it a few inches, knocked quickly, and stepped in. At the same time, she said, "May I come in?"

"Hey!" said Darlene. She had risen abruptly from her chair at the desk.

"I must look a little spookish, all in black, thought Verna. Darlene was staring at her, one hand clutching together the open neck of an old, faded men's shirt. Now, Verna stepped into the room and asked, "May I lock your door?" and did so as she spoke.

Then she turned and stood quietly. She was taller than Darlene, but no heavier. The slenderness of her body, and her height, with the strong press of her breasts as the only feminine feature of the black dress, made her seem distinctly authoritarian and commanding. At the same time, Darlene's very tight, faded blue jeans, and mostly buttonless shirt worn without a bra, revealing the fair skin of her neck and chest, made her seem very girlish, by contrast.

"I'm Verna," she said. "I am Daniel's wife..." She deliberately used the first names. It never was too soon to start. When the girl frowned, Verna said, "Daniel teaches history. I believe you took his course last semester."

"Oh!" Darlene laughed in relief, smiling. "Oh, sure! Yes!"

It was a good start. After this, everything would seem a relief, friendly. "I came right in and locked the door because I want us to talk and it would be better if no one saw us together."

After a long moment, as tension mounted, she smiled gently, and asked, "Is that all right, Darlene?"

"Oh, yes," said Darlene, but she frowned. She could have no idea to what she was saying 'yes,' Verna realized. Verna moved quickly to the bed and sat down on its edge, delicately, her knees together and to the side. She faced Darlene, looking up, waiting.

Darlene came and sat down beside her. This was a young woman who could handle herself, Verna thought. In Darlene's eyes were a dozen swirling questions that another girl would have mumbled out, tripping half a dozen times. Darlene merely waited.

"First," asked Verna, "do you know me?"

Darlene nodded. "I knew Professor Noyes had a wife in the Biochemistry Department. And then, my roommate...she sees you on Fridays, I think. She thinks you're terrific."

Verna smiled. "I knew Cynthia was leaving for the weekend. That's why I came tonight." She paused. It was almost astonishing that this young woman asked nothing, demanded no explanation. Verna said, "Before I say anything, I want to tell you that you're not in any trouble of any kind. I am, if anyone is. After what I say, you could have me fired from my job, probably. So there's no question of your being in trouble, all right?"

Darlene put one bare foot on the edge of the bed and wriggled herself back on the bed to lean against the wall. One hand still held together the buttonless lapels of her shirt. Verna gazed at the small, bare foot for a moment. It was very white and a little stubby, but cute.

Darlene's red hair was held back with a band, revealing the outline of a quite beautiful faced, more square than oval, with the perfect white skin of the redhead. Her eyes were a faded grey-green, clear and steady. The high ridge of her cheekbones seemed defined almost back to her ear, giving her face a look of austerity and uplift and her eyes a peculiar slant. Her lips were turned out, sharply define, a little too full. She looked directly at Verna, now, but her body had relaxed a little. She said, "I'm really wondering what this is all about, Dr. Noyes."

She added, with a short laugh. "And I'm a little freaked out."

"Just over a week ago, you were playing tennis down at the Thayer Street courts. It was around dinner time. That first beautiful spring day we had. You remember?"

"Un-huh." Darlene nodded too many times. She looked uneasy, again. "You and Prof. Noyes watched for a few minutes."

"You were very good," said Verna. "You play a savage game. But where did you get that tattoo that comes out of your shorts and down your leg?"

"Oh, that? That's gone, now," said Darlene quickly. "It wasn't a real tattoo. It washes off."

"I'm thinking of what you did when you saw my husband," said Verna. "No," she said quickly, "wait. You will see it has nothing to do with my being upset. Nothing like that. Tell me why you did that and I will tell you why I want to know."

"But what?" asked Darlene. "I don't remember anything at all."

Verna gazed at her without speaking, her lips pursued. Then, she looked down at her hands in her lap, as though disappointed.

"What?" asked Darlene. "Tell me what." But it was a denial, not a question.

Verna shook her head. "No, Darlene. If there was nothing, then I'm wrong." She looked at Darlene, her face calm, a little sad. Then, she said, "I can go."

"No, wait," said Darlene. "There must have been something. I mean, you're here." She hesitated; it was a pause for effect, Verna thought. And then, Darlene said, "Did you think I was provocative in some way? Is that it?"

Verna turned her body, now, to face Darlene. She said, "Maybe it was my imagination. If so, then I'm rather sorry—and I should go." After a moment, she said, "I didn't come to blame you, Darlene. It was very much something else, something very important to me. But if there is nothing to it, I don't know what to say, next."

As Verna gathered herself, as though to leave, Darlene heaved herself up to kneel on the bed. "But what? That I was provocative? My breasts..."

"I just thought if what it seemed to be had something to it, you could help me with something very important to Daniel."

"Listen," said Darlene. She leaned toward Verna, reaching out with her hand. She stopped herself just before she touched Verna. "I was in a very wild mood that day. I don't go around with tattoos, you know. It was spring, so warm and delicious... I might have done something wrong or crazy..."

"Such as what?"

"You know," said Darlene softly, "I might have smiled. Or showed off my figure or something. I might have."

Verna took the hand that was extended toward her, the hand that halted in mid course. She took it and brought it to her lap. Darlene did not resist, but she stared at though the thing that Verna held was somehow alien.

"I'll tell you why," said Verna. She waited until the silence between them had matured, until Darlene gazed at her intently. "I'll tell you why. I think that Daniel is in love with you, and I am very glad he is..." She smiled gently and, at that moment, her expression had the understanding, the strength, that girls despair of finding in their mothers.

"Oh, no!" said Darlene. "There isn't anything at all! We barely spoke last year. I mean, except in class. There's just nothing..."

Verna squeezed the hand. "I'm sure you meant nothing, Darlene. Not to hurt anyone. But Daniel is a very quiet man, you see."

Darlene nodded, her eyes wide, "But..."

"A very, very quiet man. Do you know how old he was when he published his first book? Just 20. His senior year at Harvard. Do you know what that requires?"

Darlene shook her head very slowly, watching Verna.

"No, I mean, do you know? Not that I wanted to tell you."

"Oh," said Darlene, "I thought that you... Well, I guess that had to be pretty much all he did, right?"

"Yes. I don't think he ever dated. Not in graduate school, either. I'm sure I was his first woman. And he was 35 when he married me. That was 10 years ago."

"But how can you say that your husband...I mean, Daniel, is in love with me? Did he say anything or what?"

She shook her head. "He never would, Darlene. You don't think a wife can tell? That's my problem. Some men, if they loved a girl, would do something about it. But not Daniel. He's much too formal and dignified and rigid. He would let himself be unhappy for the rest of his life and never say a word."

Darlene had not tried to pull away her hand. She moved a little closer to Verna, but still kneeling, as though in a posture of flight. She asked, staring at Verna's face, "Aren't you honestly upset, Dr. Noyes?"

Verna said slowly, reluctantly, "I suppose that if I am going to talk with you about this, you have to know everything."

"No," said Darlene urgently, "no, don't tell me if you don't want to..."

"You don't know what I'll say."

"You want me to leave the university or something?"

Impulsively, Verna squeezed her hand. "Oh, no!" Darlene fidgeted a little, but still Verna held the hand. It was small and short, with very white nails, cut close. It seemed childish when enclosed in Verna's long, dark fingers, with their slightly prominent knuckles that revealed strength, work done.

"You see, I pursued Daniel. It was the only way. And when he does know you, trust you, he is so strong and gentle and protective. You can tell that, can't you?"

Darlene nodded.

"Did a man ever really hurt you?"

Suddenly, Darlene looked as though she might

cry. Verna said, "It's all right. Don't tell me. But what you know is that Daniel could never, ever do that. He would protect you..."

She added, "You can tell that, can't you?"

"Oh, yes, yes, I can!"

Verna nodded. "All I can say is that in bed I'm just not very exciting. I know that I'm not. I'm never comfortable...I'm tell you everything now, Darlene, so you'll understand. It doesn't really bother me. I was attracted to Daniel for other things... Do you know?"

Darlene's nod was almost imperceptible. Verna went on: "But how do you think I feel, now? It has been 10 years, and this is the thing missing from Daniel's life. On our vacations, when he wants to celebrate all he has done. In the spring, when it's so beautiful and exciting... And I know that it's just destroying him, because he's so faithful. So trustworthy." She looked at Darlene. "You're probably not old enough to know how important it is for a man to be absolutely honest, so you know you can trust him..."

She looked into Darlene's eyes. There were tears there that had started and swam, but did not fall. A direct hit...

She continued, "But now this man, who is so absolutely strong and honest... it's killing him, and he would rather die than hurt me, do you see?"

Darlene had lowered her face, hiding it. She let herself fall back against the wall and lifted her hand to her eyes. As she did so, the red shirt gently parted and Verna saw the startlingly deep cleft between her white breasts that thrust outward to the sides, dimpling the soft cloth of the shirt. For a moment, Verna felt the old, strange sense of disgust and anger at the open sexuality, the looseness, implied by this casual and flaunting way that Darlene—so many of the girls—displayed themselves.

"Darlene, I love Daniel, but when it comes to bed..." she shrugged. "It doesn't matter. It really never has. And I could go on, knowing that he's becoming unhappier, year after year, and that he's letting his desire and his love of life die to be faithful to me..."

Then she said, almost coldly: "Of course, it you think that there is one man for every woman and that woman has to be the one and only and has to hate all other women her husband desires..."

"No!" said Darlene, shaking her head. "No, not that. I'm not at all like that! I wish you knew how much not like that."

"I believe you, Darlene," said Verna.

"But...I mean, are you going to say that you wish that Professor Noyes was sleeping with me?"

Verna bowed her head; her voice was deep and husky, as though with unshed tears: "I only hoped that what you did at the tennis court meant something..."

"I do find him attractive, of course," said Darlene. "I do. He seems like a wonderful man. But I couldn't possibly..."

"You're still trying not to hurt me," said Verna slowly. "You haven't really believed what I said."

"But what would you do?" asked Darlene. The question burst from her.

'Got you!' thought Verna. Now, we work out the practical details. But she said, "Exactly what I'm doing now, except that Daniel would be happy and I would not look at him every day, and think to myself: I'm a woman who would rather see her husband's life drain out of him than think of him with another woman."

Darlene nodded slowly. She took her strong lower lip in her teeth and her eyes became a little distant. At last, she said, "I just couldn't conceive of doing it, Dr. Noyes. It seems crazy."

Verna stood up. She said, "It's crazy because you think of an affair starting the was a miracle occurs. You meet a freshman in the coffee shop, something clicks, he woos you until you feel like getting in bed with him. Well, you'll never meet a man like Daniel in the local ice cream parlor."

She walk walking toward the door. Now, Darlene had risen from the bed and was following her, tentatively, step by step. Verna turned and said, "I can't even ask you not to say anything about this.

"And I am sorry," she added quickly. "I see that you are much, much more of a woman than I could have imagined. You belong with a man—if not Daniel, then someone. Not with boys who hurt people all the time with their insensitivity and cruelty. You're too mature for that."

Darlene came forward, shaking her head, trying to protest. But Verna said, "Goodbye. Please don't try to say anything, now. I have simply failed to make you understand."

Verna slammed the door to her office and fell back against it. She stood with her body pressed to it, palms flat, as though holding it against an invader. "That incredible little monster!" she said, as though awestruck. "What a bastard!"

Yesterday and today, Eliot Ames had managed to share her table at lunch, efforts she did not actively resist, since she still sought clues to Darlene Sullivan's personality. Today, as they had finished their coffee, he had said, "About our discussion of Darlene Sullivan—the pictures?"

Verna nodded.

"I thought you might want to see one. I wouldn't do this, as an ordinary thing, but I remembered what you said about doctors not embarrassing one another. He slipped a picture from an inner pocket of his jacket and, glancing around, slipped it in front of her.

Verna turned it toward her, moving it with one finger, not picking it up. It showed a sunlit room with a Persian carpet and bold posters on the wall along with clippings of newspaper photographs, and, in one corner, a yellow 'yield' traffic sign—the paraphernalia of the student off-campus apartment. In the foreground, remarkably close to where the photographer must have hidden, was Darlene Sullivan walking forward. What must have been bright morning sunlight made one side of her light-skinned body almost paper white; heavy shadows ran down her neck, between her breasts, and along the insides of her legs. The hair on her head was rumpled, unruly; above her thighs the triangle was a soft orange in the sunlight. She held herself straight and on her face was an expression of gaiety that matched the morning. It was the face of a young bride, up early, tiptoeing to the kitchen to make breakfast, with the secret smile of planning a surprise for a loved one.

Behind her, his face unidentifiable in heavy shadow, a well-built man sat on the edge of the bed. The lower half of his body was in sunlight. Apparently he was watching the girl and his state of intense excitement was unmistakable. Verna noted in a coldly medical way that he was well-endowed to do something about his excitement.

Now, she looked up at Ames, her expression giving him nothing. Her mouth moved as though trying to swallow a sour taste. She knew exactly why this...object...had shown her the photograph. With revulsion, she thought: He really thinks—it is incredible, but he really does think—that this will get me interested in him. She loathed him then with a loathing that contained the desire to squash, to exterminate, to kick him and go on kicking until he stopped moving. Her stomach quavered a little and her face burned. She stood up and carefully, deliberately tore the photograph in half, and then again, and plopped the pieces onto the remains of his lunch.

"Hey!" he said, reaching for the scraps.

"Shut up," said Verna. "You're not out of trouble over this. I can see your attitude right here, in this incident."

She sat down at her desk, now, and her mind turned slowly, ponderously, to what she had to do. But she did not reach for her papers. She smoked a cigarette, then another, and another, rocking slowly in the chair, and still she could not start. At least she had finished with Ames, she thought. But he had insulted her. He had presumed to believe that she ever could be aroused or titillated by the ugly sight of his sex. He would not leave this medical school without regretting that.

When she had decided that, she felt better and was able to turn to her work. At that moment, the telephone rang.

"Dr. Noyes?"

Verna recognized the voice and became intent. She reached over and stubbed out her cigarette. "It's Darlene, isn't it?" she asked. "It's all right, I'm not busy. I thought I knew you well enough to know you would call..." Not too much, she told herself; people didn't like to be told that they were predictable.

"Well, yes," said Darlene. "I have gone over what we discussed. I feel as though I reacted to something very important just on the basis of very conventional feelings. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yes," said Verna simply, "I do."

"Then could we meet, do you think? Instead of talking on the telephone—or would you rather?"

"No, let's meet. I'm just leaving my office. Can you be at Prospect Park in 10 minutes? It's a nasty day. No one will be around. At the statue, all right?"

Prospect Park was a smidgeon of land overlooking the city. At its edge, a statue of Roger Williams, ensconced in a high arch of marble, towered over the city atop a 25-foot granite retaining wall that dropped to the first streets below. Today, when the almost winter chill had rushed back to postpone spring, the Park was deserted.

Verna and Darlene leaned side by side on the wrought-iron railing that held children back from the edge of the retaining wall. Darlene turned to look at Verna and Verna saw that her face was pale, but fixed and adult in its determination. She was going to be a very beautiful woman and their conversation promised to be easy and businesslike if Verna was any judge of psychology. She had laid the groundwork well by understanding and analyzing the girl before approaching her; this was the payoff for that preparation.