"And you got yourself a haircut. too. I must say. Claude, you can be a handsome man when you make a little effort."
She smiled and I thought how strange and ironic. my wife is attracted to one because l'm making myself more attractive to another -woman, the -woman I love. Suddenly Alberta was in her own Southern style more flirtatious. Consequently, my guilt made me want to please her more than ever, and I even forced myself to attend two charity events in a row with her,
Whenever I am at any of these occasions, the people who know what I do for a living ask me the most inane questions about my work and my patients. I find I also make people nervous, especially at dinner parties. Alberta has told me that I intimidate some of her friends. They are afraid to speak because they think I will analyze them and find something wrong.
"What do you want me to do?" I asked her.
"Stop being so serious. Tell jokes and never, never look at anyone too intensely." she prescribed. I was never good at telling jokes. but I actually practiced some just to please her.
Willow. I think anyone else would have realized her husband was acting strangely and would have become suspicious. Alberta never did, not even afterward when I had to convince her to take you into our lives.
But I am leaping ahead again. I'm writing this so fast at times, my wrist aches. Ifs as if I'm afraid I will die before it's completed and you will get only half the story and never know the things I want you to know.
For a while after the night I confessed my love to Grace, we tiptoed around each other. Very conscious of the possibility that Alberta would see something telling in my actions after I declared my love for Grace. I was even more sensitive to the possibility my associates, Ralston especially, would see something very unusual in my relationship with her, Consequently. I know I leaned too far in the opposite direction, which in itself is revealing behavior to a good analyst
Whenever I spoke to Grace in front of others, my voice was sharp, hard, and almost impatient. I tried to be as formal as I could. I avoided her in the cafeteria and barely acknowledged her in the corridors or in the recreational room. I wrote lengthy reports about our sessions and had Ralston review them, and, for a short period, I did not take her for any walks.
To her credit. Grace understood and never complained. It was enough for us to occasionally exchange a warm, knowing look with each other outside my office. She also appreciated the fact that when she was in my office and we were having a therapeutic session, we should do everything in our power to keep it professional. For a while we were able to do that, and perhaps because Grace trusted me even more now, she was more and more forthcoming.
At a session nearly two weeks later, she confessed her nagging guilt for what had happened between her and Kirby Scott, her mother's third husband, a man I hope you never encounter. I must admit that when she spoke about him in these sessions. I felt terrible pangs of jealousy, Willow.
"Kirby was and I'm sure still is a very handsome, charming man." she told int. "I couldn't help but fantasize about him. He spent a great deal of time with -me, always claiming he was doing his best to get me to become more social. more assured of myself when I was with men. My mother even thought it was nice of him to take such an interest in me. Can you imagine?"
"I guess he was a great con man."
"More than just a con man. The devil himself." she said. She shook her head softly. "He would make it all seem instructional." she told me, a faint smile on her lips.
Was it a smile of irony or a smile of real appreciation and excitement? I wondered.
"Why do you smile after saying that?" I asked her, my heart beating with anticipation. There were so many questions I wanted to ask.
And yet how delicate I had to be with her. Willow. How careful about my intonation, my choice of words, my expressions, for how could I do her any good as a therapist if I came at her like some jealous new lover?
"I smile because I can't help thinking how charming and beguiling he was. Claude. He had a way of sneaking up on me, taking me completely by su
rprise."
"Explain that." I asked. pulling myself together and turning the page of my notebook,
"Before he did something, said something, he would tell me this was how he won the love of a woman, and he would ask me for my reactions as if he were testing himself to see if he was still good at what he did. He made me feel as if I was part of some love practicing so that I wouldn't think of him touching me as me. especially. Do you know what I mean?" "I think so," I said.
"Then he would take on this very serious expression like a Don Juan instructor or something, 'You can be shy. Grace,' he would say. 'Men like a woman to have same shyness, but you don't want to appear incapable or so innocent they will feel they are taking advantage of you.' which, of course, was exactly what he was doing, 'Flirt, if you like, but at the end of every promise. Grace,' he would say. 'there has to be some delivery. You don't want men to think of you as a tease. Reward the man you love with the warmest part of yourself.'
"He would kiss me and then he would pull back and look as if he was deciding if I had done it right. I would hold my breath for his judgment. and then he would smile and nod and say something like. 'You are getting the idea.'
"He made me feel like I was becoming a woman, a woman in every sense of his definition. a woman like the sort of woman he would marry."
"You were becoming like your mother, then, mature, beautiful, capable?"
"Yes," she said. "Exactly. I so wanted to be like her. She was independent, strong, and despite all the terrible things that had befallen us, she was able to compete and go on and continue to be strong for the both of us."
"I see." I said.
"Do you. Claude?" Her eyes were filling with tears. "Because I can't stop thinking about it."
"You can't blame yourself for what happened because of that. Grace. He had no business coming into your bedroom and doing what he did."
We stared at each other, pages and pages of thoughts falling around us.