“Maybe that’s it. Why you’re a celebrity that no one’s ever heard of. I made you up, you’re a product of my delusional mind, and now I’m becoming sane again.”
“A solipsistic view of the universe—”
“Don’t do that. You know I haven’t any idea what words like that mean. What kind of person do you think I am? I’m not famous and powerful like you; I’m just a person doing a terrible, awful job that puts people in prison, because I love Jack more than all the rest of humanity. Listen.” Her tone became firm and crisp. “The only thing that got me back to sanity was that I loved Jack more than Mickey Quinn. See, I thought this boy named David was really Mickey Quinn, and it was a big secret that Mickey Quinn had lost his mind and he had gone to this mental hospital to get himself back in shape, and no one was supposed to know about it because it would ruin his image. So he pretended his name was David. But I knew. Or rather, I thought I knew. And Dr. Scott said I had to chose between Jack and David, or Jack and Mickey Quinn, which I thought it was. And I chose Jack. So I came out of it. Maybe”—she wavered, her chin trembling—“maybe now you can see why I have to believe Jack is more important than anything or anybody, or a lot of anybodys, else. See?”
He saw. He nodded.
“Even men like you,” Kathy said, “who’re more magnetic than him, even you can’t take me away from Jack.”
“I don’t want to.” It seemed a good idea to make that point.
“Yes—you do. On some level you do. It’s a competition.”
Jason said, “To me you’re just one small girl in one small room in one small building. For me the whole world is mine, and everybody in it.”
“Not if you’re in a forced-labor camp.”
He had to nod in agreement to that, too. Kathy had an annoying habit of spiking the guns of rhetoric.
“You understand a little now,” she said, “don’t you? About me and Jack, and why I can go to bed with you without wronging Jack? I went to bed with David when we were at Morningside, but Jack understood; he knew I had to do it. Would you have understood?”
“If you were psychotic—”
“No, not because of that. Because it was my destiny to go to bed with Mickey Quinn. It had to be done; I was fulfilling my cosmic role. Do you see?”
“Okay,” he said, gently.
“I think I’m drunk.” Kathy examined her screwdriver. “You’re right; it’s too early to drink one of these.” She set the half-empty glass down. “Jack saw. Or anyhow he said he saw. Would he lie? So as not to lose me? Because if I had had to chose between him and Mickey Quinn”—she paused—“but I chose Jack. I always would. But still I had to go to bed with David. With Mickey Quinn, I mean.”
I have gotten myself mixed up with a complicated, peculiar, malfunctioning creature, Jason Taverner said to himself. As bad as—worse than—Heather Hart. As bad as I’ve yet encountered in forty-two years. But how do I get away from her without Mr. McNulty hearing all about it? Christ, he thought dismally. Maybe I don’t. Maybe she plays with me until she’s bored, and then she calls in the pols. And that’s it for me.
“Wouldn’t you think,” he said aloud, “that in four decades plus, I could have learned the answer to this?”
“To me?” she said. Acutely.
He nodded.
“You think after you go to bed with me I’ll turn you in.”
At this point he had not boiled it down to precisely that. But the general idea was there. So, carefully, he said, “I think you’ve learned in your artless, innocent, nineteen-year-old way, to use people. Which I think is very bad. And once you begin you can’t stop. You don’t even know you’re doing it.”
“I would never turn you in. I love you.”
“You’ve known me perhaps five hours. Not even that.”
“But I can always tell.” Her tone, her expression, both were firm. And deeply solemn.
“You’re not even sure who I am!”
Kathy said,
“A solipsistic view of the universe—”
“Don’t do that. You know I haven’t any idea what words like that mean. What kind of person do you think I am? I’m not famous and powerful like you; I’m just a person doing a terrible, awful job that puts people in prison, because I love Jack more than all the rest of humanity. Listen.” Her tone became firm and crisp. “The only thing that got me back to sanity was that I loved Jack more than Mickey Quinn. See, I thought this boy named David was really Mickey Quinn, and it was a big secret that Mickey Quinn had lost his mind and he had gone to this mental hospital to get himself back in shape, and no one was supposed to know about it because it would ruin his image. So he pretended his name was David. But I knew. Or rather, I thought I knew. And Dr. Scott said I had to chose between Jack and David, or Jack and Mickey Quinn, which I thought it was. And I chose Jack. So I came out of it. Maybe”—she wavered, her chin trembling—“maybe now you can see why I have to believe Jack is more important than anything or anybody, or a lot of anybodys, else. See?”
He saw. He nodded.
“Even men like you,” Kathy said, “who’re more magnetic than him, even you can’t take me away from Jack.”
“I don’t want to.” It seemed a good idea to make that point.
“Yes—you do. On some level you do. It’s a competition.”
Jason said, “To me you’re just one small girl in one small room in one small building. For me the whole world is mine, and everybody in it.”
“Not if you’re in a forced-labor camp.”
He had to nod in agreement to that, too. Kathy had an annoying habit of spiking the guns of rhetoric.
“You understand a little now,” she said, “don’t you? About me and Jack, and why I can go to bed with you without wronging Jack? I went to bed with David when we were at Morningside, but Jack understood; he knew I had to do it. Would you have understood?”
“If you were psychotic—”
“No, not because of that. Because it was my destiny to go to bed with Mickey Quinn. It had to be done; I was fulfilling my cosmic role. Do you see?”
“Okay,” he said, gently.
“I think I’m drunk.” Kathy examined her screwdriver. “You’re right; it’s too early to drink one of these.” She set the half-empty glass down. “Jack saw. Or anyhow he said he saw. Would he lie? So as not to lose me? Because if I had had to chose between him and Mickey Quinn”—she paused—“but I chose Jack. I always would. But still I had to go to bed with David. With Mickey Quinn, I mean.”
I have gotten myself mixed up with a complicated, peculiar, malfunctioning creature, Jason Taverner said to himself. As bad as—worse than—Heather Hart. As bad as I’ve yet encountered in forty-two years. But how do I get away from her without Mr. McNulty hearing all about it? Christ, he thought dismally. Maybe I don’t. Maybe she plays with me until she’s bored, and then she calls in the pols. And that’s it for me.
“Wouldn’t you think,” he said aloud, “that in four decades plus, I could have learned the answer to this?”
“To me?” she said. Acutely.
He nodded.
“You think after you go to bed with me I’ll turn you in.”
At this point he had not boiled it down to precisely that. But the general idea was there. So, carefully, he said, “I think you’ve learned in your artless, innocent, nineteen-year-old way, to use people. Which I think is very bad. And once you begin you can’t stop. You don’t even know you’re doing it.”
“I would never turn you in. I love you.”
“You’ve known me perhaps five hours. Not even that.”
“But I can always tell.” Her tone, her expression, both were firm. And deeply solemn.
“You’re not even sure who I am!”
Kathy said,
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