you must know, there’s another reason. The stuff I’m producing now is good, if I can believe what I read in the papers. It has occurred to me that whatever creativeness I have is largely compounded of the very immaturity you are trying to get rid of. Why should I cut off the supply of irrationality that produces a work of art like my musical comedy? Why should I continue a course of treatment that will ultimately lead me to producing nothing creative? I’m putting my art before my course, that’s all.”
“A good pun, Robin,” said Peg stonily, “but a bad time for it. I think we’ll let you stew in your own juice for a while. Watch your diet and your hours, and when you need professional help, get in touch with me and I’ll see what I can do about getting Mel to take you on again.”
“Nice of you. Why bother?”
“Partly sheer stubbornness; you make it so obvious you want nothing of the kind. Partly professional ethics, a thing which I wouldn’t expect a child, however precocious, to understand fully.”
He went slowly past her and opened the door. “Goodbye, Dr. Wenzell.”
“Goodbye, Robin. And
good
luck.”
Later, in her office at the hospital, Peg’s phone rang.
“Yes?”
“Peg! I’ve just received a note, by messenger, from Robin English.”
“Mel! What did he say?”
“He enclosed a check for just twice what I billed him for, and he says that he won’t be back.”
“Mel, is it safe?”
“Of course it’s not safe! The pituitary reactions are absolutely unpredictable—you know that. I can’t prognosticate anything at all without the seventy-two-hour check-ups. He might be all right; I really wouldn’t know. He’s strong and healthy and tremendously resilient. But to stop treatment now is taking unfair advantage of his metabolism. Can’t you do anything about it?”
“Can’t
I
do anything?”
“He’ll listen to you, Peg. Try, won’t you? I … well, in some ways I’m glad to have him off my neck, frankly. It’s been … but anyway, I’ll lose sleep over it, I know I will. Will you see if you can do anything with him?”
A long pause.
“Hello, Peg—are you still there?”
“Yes, Mel … let him go. It’s what he wants.”
“Peg! You … you mean you won’t see him?”
“N-no, I—can’t, Mel, I won’t. Don’t ask me to.”
“I hardly know what to say. Peg, what’s the matter?”
“
Nothing
’s the matter. I won’t see him, that’s all, and if I did it wouldn’t do any good. I don’t care what hap—Oh, Mel, do watch him! Don’t let anything … I mean, he’s
got
to be all right. Read his stuff, Mel. Go see his plays. You’ll be able to f-find out that way.”
“And if I don’t like the looks of what I find out, what am I supposed to do about it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. Call me up whenever you find out anything, Mel.”
“I will, Peg. I’m—sorry. I didn’t realize that you … I mean, I knew it, but I didn’t know you felt so—”
“Goodbye, Mel.”
She hung up and sat and cried without hiding her face.
Robin’s first novel was published five months later, while his musical,
Too Humorous to Mention
, was eight weeks old and just at the brilliant beginning of its incredible run, while
The Cellophane Chalice
, his little, forgotten book of verse, went into its sixth printing, and while three new songs from
Too Humorous
were changing placeslike the shells in the old army game on the Hit Parade in the one-two-three spots. The title of one of them, “Born Tomorrow,” had been bought at an astonishing figure by Hollywood, and royalties were beginning to roll in for Robin’s self-tapping back-out drill bits.
The novel was a strange and compelling volume called
Festoon
. The ravings of the three critics who were fortunate enough to read it in manuscript made the title hit the top of the bestseller lists and stay there like a masthead. Robin English was made an honorary doctor of law by a college in Iowa, a
“A good pun, Robin,” said Peg stonily, “but a bad time for it. I think we’ll let you stew in your own juice for a while. Watch your diet and your hours, and when you need professional help, get in touch with me and I’ll see what I can do about getting Mel to take you on again.”
“Nice of you. Why bother?”
“Partly sheer stubbornness; you make it so obvious you want nothing of the kind. Partly professional ethics, a thing which I wouldn’t expect a child, however precocious, to understand fully.”
He went slowly past her and opened the door. “Goodbye, Dr. Wenzell.”
“Goodbye, Robin. And
good
luck.”
Later, in her office at the hospital, Peg’s phone rang.
“Yes?”
“Peg! I’ve just received a note, by messenger, from Robin English.”
“Mel! What did he say?”
“He enclosed a check for just twice what I billed him for, and he says that he won’t be back.”
“Mel, is it safe?”
“Of course it’s not safe! The pituitary reactions are absolutely unpredictable—you know that. I can’t prognosticate anything at all without the seventy-two-hour check-ups. He might be all right; I really wouldn’t know. He’s strong and healthy and tremendously resilient. But to stop treatment now is taking unfair advantage of his metabolism. Can’t you do anything about it?”
“Can’t
I
do anything?”
“He’ll listen to you, Peg. Try, won’t you? I … well, in some ways I’m glad to have him off my neck, frankly. It’s been … but anyway, I’ll lose sleep over it, I know I will. Will you see if you can do anything with him?”
A long pause.
“Hello, Peg—are you still there?”
“Yes, Mel … let him go. It’s what he wants.”
“Peg! You … you mean you won’t see him?”
“N-no, I—can’t, Mel, I won’t. Don’t ask me to.”
“I hardly know what to say. Peg, what’s the matter?”
“
Nothing
’s the matter. I won’t see him, that’s all, and if I did it wouldn’t do any good. I don’t care what hap—Oh, Mel, do watch him! Don’t let anything … I mean, he’s
got
to be all right. Read his stuff, Mel. Go see his plays. You’ll be able to f-find out that way.”
“And if I don’t like the looks of what I find out, what am I supposed to do about it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. Call me up whenever you find out anything, Mel.”
“I will, Peg. I’m—sorry. I didn’t realize that you … I mean, I knew it, but I didn’t know you felt so—”
“Goodbye, Mel.”
She hung up and sat and cried without hiding her face.
Robin’s first novel was published five months later, while his musical,
Too Humorous to Mention
, was eight weeks old and just at the brilliant beginning of its incredible run, while
The Cellophane Chalice
, his little, forgotten book of verse, went into its sixth printing, and while three new songs from
Too Humorous
were changing placeslike the shells in the old army game on the Hit Parade in the one-two-three spots. The title of one of them, “Born Tomorrow,” had been bought at an astonishing figure by Hollywood, and royalties were beginning to roll in for Robin’s self-tapping back-out drill bits.
The novel was a strange and compelling volume called
Festoon
. The ravings of the three critics who were fortunate enough to read it in manuscript made the title hit the top of the bestseller lists and stay there like a masthead. Robin English was made an honorary doctor of law by a college in Iowa, a
Similar Books
