Love without Sentiment

"It's my turn to confess to you," said Darlene. She glanced down at her hands, which clutched the iron uprights of the fence. "Of course, I was making eyes at Prof. Noyes the other day. I was flaunting myself. You knew that, of course, because that's why you came to my room. So I'm embarrassed and I admit that, now. All right?"

Verna put her arm around the girl's shoulders and squeezed her. "It's very all right. I think you might even, at some not entirely conscious level, have sensed what was happening in Daniel's life."

"Maybe," said Darlene slowly. "I was attracted very much to Prof. Noyes last year. I mean, I still am, really. " She laughed. "I just dreamed and dreamed of him last year." She added quickly, "Oh, I don't mean to... that was very unlike me, but I was lonely and I really couldn't face any of the guys, here..."

"I told you I knew that when we talked," said Verna. She said it gently, but at the same time chastising. "I wouldn't have talked to you if you weren't that way. You can see the chance I took."

"So," said Darlene, and paused. She looked up at Verna, "if you want your husband and me to have an affair..."

"Come," said Verna softly. "Let's walk." She put her arm around Darlene. "It won't be difficult or scary, but it will depend on you...and on me, of course. Daniel does want you—that's certain, you have to know that. I understand my husband--and I'm a psychiatrist. I would not make a mistake about a thing like that."

Darlene nodded.

"But you have to make very obvious to Daniel that you want him and you understand how terribly serious that is. That you are both driven to it, that it is almost...well that it is fated. Nothing casual, do you understand? Because so much is at stake..."

"You mean a passion that must be consummated against all odds? That sort of thing?"

Verna stopped and turned to her. "Not 'sort of'—exactly! How do you...?"

"From studying Othello, this semester. And thinking, you know, of Romeo and Juliet. I love Shakespeare."

"Can you keep thinking exactly that way—minus the doom that hangs over both those love affairs?"

"But what about you, Dr. Noyes? I'm sure he loves you."

"Don't be concerned. You can see that I've made a choice. And I will let him know that I don't mind."

"But how can you possibly do that?" They were walking again, but Darlene was turned to her.

"I can. But it is you who must convince him that you would die before letting anything about your affair become known, before destroying his career."

"That's true," said Darlene simply. "You know it is."

"But Daniel must be sure. Nothing like the tattoo or showing off your breasts is going to seduce him."

Darlene waved it away, embarrassed. "Oh, I know that, Dr. Noyes. That isn't the way I really am. But how does all this get started?"

Verna had been waiting. "I'm going to hire you as a sort of part-time housekeeper. Just a couple mornings that you have no classes, and maybe Saturdays. I'll pay you enough so you don't have to work at the Record Mart."

"I'm not sure I can get by."

"You can. I want you to tell me how much money you need. I know you will be completely honest. And I know this has nothing to do with money for you. You have to believe that I trust you."

A week-and-a-half later, they sat on a bench far from the statue, where visitors tended to cluster. Darlene said, with a hint of accusation, "What more can I do? Okay, I'm not aggressive, I'm not provocative. Of course you were right—I shouldn't be. But still, what more can I do?"

"But you must see that Daniel is intensely interested?"

Darlene nodded, but did not look at Verna. "He seems like it, yes. He watches me when I'm working, and all, and he smiles." She half-turned to Verna. She wore a very short, light grey shirt and a tailored green blouse; her hair was clean and thick and shiny. She placed three fingertips on the back of the bench and frowned. Her very light, straight eyebrows came together in a frown. "So what do I do?" She added, abruptly, "And I feel guilty. I can't help it, Dr. Noyes."

Verna put her arm around the girl's shoulder. "If you didn't feel that, you wouldn't be right for this." She paused and stared out over the city, her gaze on the hazy hills at the horizon. She nodded to herself. "You just keep coming, as you have been. I'm going to facilitate things. I won't be there at all, next week. I'll be out of town.

"And I want to tell you something. Daniel almost always goes into his office Saturday mornings. But last week, when you were there, he didn't. He stayed home until you left, and then he walked out without even having his lunch."

"I didn't know that," said Darlene almost in a whisper. "It must be very, very hard for him. A conflict."

"He has to settle it in his own mind. He has been faithful to me for 10 years. And he never, ever approached women before we met. We met because of me. Do you see what kind of man he is? When he finally does something, you will know he cares about you very, very deeply, Darlene."

That evening, she told Daniel she wanted to take a week's vacation by herself. To think things over. It was the first time that they would be separated for more than a day or two. He had questioned her, but mildly, and with remarkable 'understanding.' When she said she intended to go to Chicago, he asked: "Isn't that where that fellow lives you dated when you were in graduate school? He writes to you."

Daniel had looked at her and she at him. There was in his eyes an imperious expectation that she make some explanation, offer some denial. She stared back at him and said nothing. Finally, she said, "Listen, the trip is arranged. I have the ticket. I'm going to pack."

He had nodded, then stood and walked into his study, closed the door. In the morning, when she called him for breakfast, and asked him please to hurry, since her taxi would arrive at 8:30, he called back, "Leave it. I'm going to sleep awhile. The girl will heat it up, for me, when she arrives."

After a moment, he called, "Have a wonderful trip, darling. Don't worry about anything. I'll be fine."

She had walked into the bedroom, gone to the side of the bed. She leaned over and kissed him. She murmured, "Don't worry and let's not be suspicious of each other, all right? We never have been, and I'm not going to start."

Back in the kitchen, she had covered the bacon and eggs with aluminum foil, pinching it firmly around the edge of the plate, and put the plate in the still-warm oven. The grapefruit she covered in a bowl and left in the refrigerator. Then, on the table, she wrote a note:

"Darlene, Daniel is sleeping a little late, this morning. His breakfast is keeping warm in the stove. There's also a grapefruit in the fridge. I'm going to be gone about a week, so ask him when he needs you, all right? Anything you arrange is fine. I'll settle up with you when I get back. Thanks so much for everything. Verna.

She sat alone in the park, now, waiting for Darlene. She heard the impatient, skipping sound of a woman trying to run in high heels and looked up. Darlene was coming down the little flight of granite steps by the statue. She wore a simple white dress against which her hair was deep red and fell luxuriantly around her young face. Her arms were bare and pink with sunburn and her legs were womanish in the high heels. She was breathless, laughing.

"Oh, my gosh," she gasped as she came up and plopped down beside Verna. "Sorry I'm late! I ran all the way from an appointment with Prof. Reeves."

Verna smiled, but said nothing, waiting. She had not seen Darlene for more than a week. She had returned from Chicago just yesterday.

Now, Darlene straightened herself and held her legs together, her hands on her bare thighs just above the knees. In the open neck of her dress, her breasts were forced upward, full and pale, and Verna watched the soft white cleft parting and closing ever so gently with the rise and fall of Darlene's breath. She felt depressed and vaguely sick; her head seemed heavy, less clear than usual. Most of all, she wished this girl would not wear such foolishly extravagant, revealing clothes. Her own body sweated in the mid-May heat, her arms sticky beneath the business suit. But she said, "Darlene, you look lovely. You are a very beautiful woman."

Darlene seemed to sense Verna's cheerlessness. On her face was a smile of happiness that she tried to subdue, but without success. To Verna, she seemed to glow. But when she spoke, her tone was serious, as though reporting to a superior and trying to recreate the businesslike atmosphere of previous meetings. "We haven't had a chance to meet since you got back, so I thought you would want to know. How everything is coming, I mean."

"Yes," said Verna. She gave the girl her attention, willing herself to focus on Darlene's face.

"Well," said Darlene, shrugging her shoulders, then breaking into a smile, "It happened, of course. Like you said. You were right."

Verna nodded. "He made love to you?" Her expression was sympathetic, but it was the expression of a psychiatrist, not a wife.

Darlene nodded. "The very morning I got there, after you left for the plane. I read the note."

She said suddenly, "I hope you aren't sorry about this, Dr. Noyes..." In her tone was a hint of exasperation.

Verna shook her head. "Darlene, my only desire was to step out of the way. This is your life, now, and no one has the right to pry. This isn't an assignment you are doing for me. This is what I knew could happen between you and Daniel. No woman, most of all a young woman in love, wants to talk about her love-making."

Darlene nodded and for a while longer they talked, but talked about things that people discuss during the first five minutes of a party. Before they parted, Verna gave Darlene an envelope and said, 'Let me know if this covers it, all right?' and Darlene did not protest.

When Verna stood up, she said, "We should meet here once a week, for awhile, because of the money. But this is the only thing we have to do with each other, all right? As soon as possible, we'll stop seeing each other outside the house. When it has been long enough, we'll let you go as our housekeeper, but I'll keep helping you with school expenses and help you get a good part-time job."

Darlene nodded, listening. Verna said, "Now you're Daniel's lover and it only can make you uncomfortable to meet with me."

And then she drew closer to Darlene, kissed her cheek, and said, "Goodbye, Darlene."

It was what Daniel had needed. The past month had proved that, Verna thought. After years of pretending to himself and to everyone else that he was above every day desires and temptations, and all the while ogling sophomore girls, he had done what he longed to do. She wondered what it was like, for them—in bed. Daniel was many things, but not a great lover. In fact, Verna had imagined she might have to encourage Darlene to stick with it, to see Daniel's passion for ideas and learning, to put up with the inadequacies in bed. But Darlene said nothing of that. To Verna, it seemed odd; perhaps the girl was a bit of a fish, for all her frantic exhibitionism. One certainly discovered, as one learned more about people, that most of this stuff about romantic passion and sexual ecstasy was a myth.

When Daniel announced, toward the end of June, that he wanted to take a vacation alone, Verna encouraged it. Of course, Darlene disappeared, as if on schedule, and they showed up two weeks later with sunburns that might have been applied with the same brush. It was very nice that Daniel finally had the kind of vacation he had expected during all those years of travel with Verna to the world's romantic spots. She responded by redoubling her commit to her research, taking advantage of the empty laboratory while most students were away. She told herself that this was what she had wanted. Daniel simply had not turned out to be the man she expected; he had his lusts and deceptions like anyone else. Perhaps now he would drop the suffocating pretense at being some kind of aristocrat of scholarship. She hoped so—for his sake.

Today, like every day of the summer vacation, she worked in her laboratory until 6:30, long after other faculty members and students had left and the maintenance men began their late shift. She removed her white smock and washed, enjoying the weariness that she expected to experience at the end of a day. Then, she opened the connecting door to her office.

Sitting in her chair, his feet on the desk, was a young man who seemed familiar to her in a distant way. He was tall, lanky, perhaps half-a-head taller than Verna, who herself was a tall woman. He was thin in a way she imagined Spanish dancers, with slender hips and long straight legs. His face was strong, with an aggressive, somewhat pointed nose and a grenadier's mustache over a square mouth. He had eyes that were deep-set, brown, and perfectly straight hair swept straight back from his forehead. The power of his face made her think of a hunter or soldier, as though he should be standing stock still, his face alert and dangerous, beneath some great, silent tree. His legs on her desk were stretched out, long and comfortable, as though he had been waiting patiently.

Verna stood in the doorway, shocked in momentary silence, staring in anger at the upturned soles of his boots. He merely stared back at her, and, before she could speak, he said: "On the tennis court? With Darlene? About six weeks ago?"

She slammed the door behind her. "Oh, yes, I remember! Get your feet off the desk and get out!"

He didn't move or speak. She was about to rush to the door, when she stopped suddenly. A deep blush swept over her face. She said slowly: "If you didn't have something to say to me, you wouldn't be here, like this." She added, "So say it."

He heaved his legs off the desk, gathered himself, and stood up. He said, "I'm Carl Bauman."

Verna nodded. "Darlene Sullivan's friend."

He stood staring at her as though she were a concubine brought to the tent of a conquering general. Verna boiled. He was openly examining her breasts, her hips, her legs. She had a sudden sickening sense of foreknowledge, her mind racing ahead to the implications as rapidly, as penetratingly, as she dealt with new laboratory evidence. He had reason to believe he could get away with this.

Slowly, she crossed her arms over her breasts, hugging herself. "What have you got to say? Say it, please, and leave. I have had a very long day. I can call security, you know; you have no business in this office."

"I can see you know what nice tits you have."

She walked to the door, opened it, and turned to look at him. She glared at him, waiting, but she knew, in sudden fear, that this was not what would happen. Bauman walked to the door and turned to her with a melodramatic air that froze Verna's body in anticipation of some blow. He touched a finger. "I know that Darlene is sleeping with your husband." He touched another finger. "I know you talked her into it and that you pay her." He touched another finger, "And I have photographs of you meeting with her in the park and handing her the envelope of money."

He walked from the room, then turned. "And I have photographs of them together."

"Come back," said Verna. Her voice had gone dead, all emotion crushed from it. She imagined, for a moment, attacking him, hitting the handsome face with something. And she imagined herself crying and told herself that she must not--ever.

But he turned and said, "It's over. I'm sending the photographs to your husband tomorrow. With a note. It's over."

She said only, "Please come back in here and close the door, so no one will hear you."

With maddening slowness, he gazed at her, examining her, and then walked back into the office. He closed the door behind him. Verna stepped over immediately and locked it. When she turned, he was standing so close behind her that she backed into him. She gasped and pulled away. Then she glanced up at him, her eyes filled with unshed tears of frustration and fear. Her head would not stop pounding and her faced burned right down to her neck.

He looked down at her high, tightly held breasts under the thin green sweater. She tried to back away, but she was against the door. "Get away," she said hoarsely. "Don't be crazy. Please! People talk about things. Talk about it to me--please." Her hands, palms outward, fingers half-curled as though with claws, were raised between them at the level of her breasts. Her face was stiff with fear, but her dark eyes flashed with anger.

"Why talk? Remember whose girlfriend you paid to fuck your husband."

Verna stared at him.

He said, "Get your hands down, Verna." He said it so loudly that she jumped. "Quiet!" she said. "There are people in the building." But she lowered her hands by her sides, standing very straight, looking at him.

"I'm going to play with your breasts while we talk," he said.

"No!" It was a whispered scream. She tried to shrink back into the door, but did not lift her hands. She said, "I'll kill you!" But immediately she felt herself ridiculous as she looked at his broad shoulders.

"Okay, then. Get out of the way. I'll leave."

"No," she whispered. It was barely audible. She was staring down, not at him. Then his hands were cupping her breasts through the sweater, rolling them and squeezing them together, pushing them back against her body. Verna's hands came up and closed on his wrists, but she did not try to pull him away. Her eyes were closed, her head against the door behind her. Tears ran down her face.

"Talk," said Carl, "I'll listen, now." His strong hands kneaded her heavy breasts, lifting them, so folds of the sweater touched her chin.

Verna shook her head, rolling it back and forth against the door. In a choked voice, she said, "What do you want?"

When he did not answer, her hands tore his wrists away from her. She lurched to the side and pushed past him into the room, gasping for breath. With a quick movement, Bauman turned the lock, swept open the door, stepped out, and closed it.

Verna flung herself against the closed door with a cry of anger that was actually only a whisper. She put her palms flat against the door, resting her forehead against it. For several moments, she did not reach down to straighten her sweater, to pull it down to cover her bare midriff. She just leaned against the door, panting as though at the end of a run. At last, she straightened up and her hands came down, pausing a moment on her breasts, which still heaved with her breathing.

In her eyes were tears of outrage. She would call Daniel—no , the police. But she could not do that, of course; she would have him out of the university tomorrow. But would that stop him? She wiped her hands down over her face, the wetness; then she pushed her hair back and her hands paused over her temples, as though to contain the waves of throbbing.

She sat at home listlessly for hours at time, after which she would rush around, but accomplish nothing. A dozen times, in her mind, she told Daniel everything, confessed, explained, sought his understanding. And then the police were called and the...the predator, was arrested. But each time, she saw in her mind's eye Daniel's face, unmoving, but with a slightly strained expression, as though he were hard of hearing, and his lips were raised slightly in an expression of disbelief and disgust. She heard his question: 'And you asked her to? To seduce me? You...you paid her? So all of this has been because of what? Because you told Darlene that your husband was too weak and ineffectual to do anything about his desires? You told her...You fixed me up with a girl, like a 14-year-old boy?'

The words varied a little, each time, but always Verna ended the imagined dialogue by closing her eyes, shaking her head, and sometimes silent tears ran down the sides of her nose, giving her long, bony face an expression of drawn torment.