considered that. "Nooo," she said thoughtfully, "not really. I can't think of any men who are mean and spiteful. Just women."
"So you can be nice to men?"
"Oh sure. I like some of them better than others but, well, you know ..."
"Do you kiss the men you like?"
"Well," she said, lowering her eyes and smiling secretly, "some of them are so funny and sweet, I wouldn't mind kissing them."
"Lucy, does it embarrass you when I ask you questions like that—about kissing?"
She was startled. "Of course not. Why should it?"
"No reason. I'm glad it doesn't. But hasn't your mother spoken to you about kissing boys?"
"I don't kiss boys," she said primly. "Except my brothers, of course. But those don't count. Those are just family kisses."
"But you kiss men?"
"Sometimes."
"Did your parents tell you that you might be annoying the men you kiss?"
"They told me, but I don't see how."
"Do you touch men, Lucy? Stroke them?"
"You mean like petting? Yes, it's so funny; they get all red and giggly. Like tickling—you know?"
"Do you think the men enjoy the, ah, tickling?"
"Oh yes."
"Do you enjoy it? Doing it?"
"I like to love people."
"Men, Lucy. Mostly you like to love men."
"Yes, Doctor Ted," she said seriously, "that's true."
He tried hard to remain expressionless, but didn't quite succeed. Her innocent frankness had a perfume, a scent of sweet youth, flowers, and an unspoiled world. For the first time, he wondered if corruption might be part of his job.
"You know, Lucy," he said, "some people—some men don't like to be touched." "I don't see why not."
"Well, some men are like that; they just don't want to be touched. Do you have your own bedroom, Lucy?"
"Of course."
"How would you like it if someone, say your brother, came into your bedroom and rummaged through all your private things? You wouldn't like that, would you?"
"I wouldn't care."
"Most people would. We want a certain part of our lives to be private. We want to hold back a little bit of ourselves, for ourselves. Don't you ever want to be alone?"
"All alone? By myself?"
"Yes."
"No, Doctor Ted, I don't believe I do. I don't like being by myself."
"Does it frighten you?"
"I just don't like it."
"Are you frightened when you sleep by yourself?"
"Well, my goodness, that's sleeping. So how can you be frightened?"
He envied her. His own sleep was a wrestle with terror. A1 Wollman, his occasional analyst, had suggested that his dread of sleep was a fear of losing control over his reasoned, structured life. Levin thought that a simplistic explanation.
One of his worries sprang from his acknowledgment of psychiatrists' high suicide rate. Most laymen, he supposed, believed psychiatrists fell apart under the weight of other people's problems.
Dr. Theodore Levin had another theory.
He feared that a psychiatrist's life force gradually leaked out. It was expended on sympathy, understanding, the obsessive need to heal and help create whole lives. Other people's lives. But always from the outside. Always the observer. Then one day he would wake up and discover that he himself was empty, drained.
That was one reason Levin did not welcome sleep. The horror persisted that he might awake to find himself a hollow man.
"Have you ever had bad dreams, Lucy?" he asked.
"I used to, when I was a little kid, but I don't anymore."
"Are you getting tired of this? Are we talking too much?"
"Oh no. I like this. I like you." "Thank you. I like you, too. I really want to help you, Lucy."
"I'm sure you do, but I don't know how. I mean, I really don't need any help. Do I?"
"Let's get back to what we were talking about before . . . Suppose a man came to visit at your house. A friend of your parents. Would you be nice to him?"
"If he wasn't mean and spiteful, I would."
"You'd pet him? And kiss him?"
"Yes, and love him."
"Would you sit on his lap?"
"I might."
"Why would you do that?"
"Because it's nice and cuddly. I like that."
"Would you touch him between his legs?"
"I might."
"Why would you do that?"
"That's when men get red
"So you can be nice to men?"
"Oh sure. I like some of them better than others but, well, you know ..."
"Do you kiss the men you like?"
"Well," she said, lowering her eyes and smiling secretly, "some of them are so funny and sweet, I wouldn't mind kissing them."
"Lucy, does it embarrass you when I ask you questions like that—about kissing?"
She was startled. "Of course not. Why should it?"
"No reason. I'm glad it doesn't. But hasn't your mother spoken to you about kissing boys?"
"I don't kiss boys," she said primly. "Except my brothers, of course. But those don't count. Those are just family kisses."
"But you kiss men?"
"Sometimes."
"Did your parents tell you that you might be annoying the men you kiss?"
"They told me, but I don't see how."
"Do you touch men, Lucy? Stroke them?"
"You mean like petting? Yes, it's so funny; they get all red and giggly. Like tickling—you know?"
"Do you think the men enjoy the, ah, tickling?"
"Oh yes."
"Do you enjoy it? Doing it?"
"I like to love people."
"Men, Lucy. Mostly you like to love men."
"Yes, Doctor Ted," she said seriously, "that's true."
He tried hard to remain expressionless, but didn't quite succeed. Her innocent frankness had a perfume, a scent of sweet youth, flowers, and an unspoiled world. For the first time, he wondered if corruption might be part of his job.
"You know, Lucy," he said, "some people—some men don't like to be touched." "I don't see why not."
"Well, some men are like that; they just don't want to be touched. Do you have your own bedroom, Lucy?"
"Of course."
"How would you like it if someone, say your brother, came into your bedroom and rummaged through all your private things? You wouldn't like that, would you?"
"I wouldn't care."
"Most people would. We want a certain part of our lives to be private. We want to hold back a little bit of ourselves, for ourselves. Don't you ever want to be alone?"
"All alone? By myself?"
"Yes."
"No, Doctor Ted, I don't believe I do. I don't like being by myself."
"Does it frighten you?"
"I just don't like it."
"Are you frightened when you sleep by yourself?"
"Well, my goodness, that's sleeping. So how can you be frightened?"
He envied her. His own sleep was a wrestle with terror. A1 Wollman, his occasional analyst, had suggested that his dread of sleep was a fear of losing control over his reasoned, structured life. Levin thought that a simplistic explanation.
One of his worries sprang from his acknowledgment of psychiatrists' high suicide rate. Most laymen, he supposed, believed psychiatrists fell apart under the weight of other people's problems.
Dr. Theodore Levin had another theory.
He feared that a psychiatrist's life force gradually leaked out. It was expended on sympathy, understanding, the obsessive need to heal and help create whole lives. Other people's lives. But always from the outside. Always the observer. Then one day he would wake up and discover that he himself was empty, drained.
That was one reason Levin did not welcome sleep. The horror persisted that he might awake to find himself a hollow man.
"Have you ever had bad dreams, Lucy?" he asked.
"I used to, when I was a little kid, but I don't anymore."
"Are you getting tired of this? Are we talking too much?"
"Oh no. I like this. I like you." "Thank you. I like you, too. I really want to help you, Lucy."
"I'm sure you do, but I don't know how. I mean, I really don't need any help. Do I?"
"Let's get back to what we were talking about before . . . Suppose a man came to visit at your house. A friend of your parents. Would you be nice to him?"
"If he wasn't mean and spiteful, I would."
"You'd pet him? And kiss him?"
"Yes, and love him."
"Would you sit on his lap?"
"I might."
"Why would you do that?"
"Because it's nice and cuddly. I like that."
"Would you touch him between his legs?"
"I might."
"Why would you do that?"
"That's when men get red
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