"Continually," hesaid, laughing. "If you can believe him.
Then it's on to another conquest. What do you call a male nymphomaniac?"
"I call him a fool. But the term you want is probably satyr, a male who suffers from excessive sexual craving.
" Herm doesn't seem to suffer." He gave me an ironic smile.
Just the opposite from me-right?"
"Mmm," I said.
"Hey," he said, "you promised to cut the Mmm' shit. I know that in your work you've got to be noncommittal. But not with me.
Okay?"
"Mmm," I said, and we both giggled. "All right, Chas, I won't be noncommittal with you. How is your work coming along?"
"It doesn't get any easier. I thought it would, but it doesn't."
"Do you ever wonder why you write books for children? " "Because I'm a kid at heart, that's why."
"Be serious."
"Of course, I've wondered why I write these fairy tales.
You know what I decided? That they're an escape from reality."
"I thought you and I agreed there is no such thing as reality. There are only perceptions."
"Uh-huh. Well, let's just say I perceive reality as a world I don't particularly admire. So I created the world of Tommy Termite."
He poured more liquor into his jar. I've never met anyone who could drink as much as Chas and show no obvious effects. What his liver must look like I didn't care to imagine.
"How are you feeling?" I asked quietly. "Any nightmares? " "Nope.
Most of my sleep is dreamless."
"Depressed?"
"Only when my writing isn't going well. Don't worry about me, doc, I've adjusted."
"No regrets?"
"About what?"
"And I thought you promised not to play games with me.
Regrets for your lack of sexual desire, of course."
"Oh… that."
He took a gulp of his drink. "I can live with it."
"I'm sure you can. But do you want to?"
"I don't have any choice," he said in a low voice.
"Of course you do, " I said angrily. "I saw you change from a helpless wreck to an alert, functioning individual able to make a new life for himself. Therapy didn't do that. I didn't do it.
You accomplished that because you wanted to change."
He shook his head. "I know I've got a hang-up," he said.
"And I know the reasons for it as well as you do."
"Chas, would you like to start regular sessions again?
Perhaps twice a week. I can come out here, you won't have to come to my office. Maybe we can work it out together."
"No," he said. "Thanks, but no."
I stared at him but he looked away. The upper part of his body had become heavily muscled. Grips and railings had been installed in his studio so he could lift himself into bed, onto the toilet, into the shower stall.
It was vitally important to him to be absolutely independent-another reason he shunned my offer of assistance.
"You know what you're sacrificing, don't you?" I asked.
"I don't want to talk about it," he said.
I nodded, finished my drink, and rose to leave. He let me kiss his cheek. I was at the door when he called, "Cherry," and I turned.
"If I change my mind," he said with a wolfish grin, you'll be the first to know."
I went outside and sat on the hot cushions of the Jaguar a few moments.
I lighted a cigarette. I smoke infrequently, but at the moment I needed it.
I still felt there was more than a doctor-patient relationship between Chas and me. I knew how I felt about Chas, and I thought I knew how he felt about me.
That could be wishful thinking, of course. Let me say merely that I hoped my sense of his desire was correct. Not only did it hold out the possibility of his eventual happiness, it kept alive the possibility of mine.
I was ashamed of myself. That last thing I said to Cherry-"If I change my mind, you'll be the first to know"-that was stupid, macho posturing.
As if my love was a great boon, to be bestowed if I felt like it.
Dr. Noble is a brainy lady, she knew very well the causes of my self -imposed celibacy. What she might not realize is what a stubborn man I am. Obstinacy has been my curse, I've always insisted on doing things my way-even when I know the suggestions of others make sense. There's no explaining it, I'm just pigheaded.
The studio seemed awfully empty after Cherry left. I wasn't able to pace, of course, but I could gun my chair back and forth, running down the battery and finding no tranquillity whatsoever.
So I finished my jar of whiskey and capped the bottle. Not much left, but there were full bottles under the sink and under the bed. My 80-proof muse.
I believed that if I tried to make it with Dr. Noble, she'd go along.
But I'd never know if she really wanted to, or if she intended it as part of my therapy.
And because I wasn't certain of what her motive might be, it seemed best to abstain and stew in my own juice.
Once, after I had been in therapy a year or so, Cherry asked me, "Why have you never married, Chas? I'm sure you have a dirty joke in answer to that, but I'd prefer the truth. Are you afraid of marriage? Don't want the responsibility? Don't want to lose your independence?"
"Oh, no, " I told her, "nothing like that. As a matter of fact, I was engaged once. The date hadn't yet been set, but I was looking forward to marriage. Lucy was a marvelous woman. She was beautiful and she had a great sense of humor. I was happy with the idea of spending the rest of my life with her. She knew all my moods, and I don't think we ever had a serious disagreement.
Then one day she was driving home from work and some drunken asshole in a pickup plowed into her car. That was the end of Lucy and the end of my dream of marriage."
"Oh, Chas," Cherry said softly, "I'm so sorry. What a shocking thing to happen."
What was really shocking was that the whole story was bullshit. There was never any Lucy. I was never engaged to be married. I just made up the whole thing on the spur of the moment. Don't ask me why. And Dr.
Noble believed me because she later referred to it a few times. I think that's what helped me finally decide to try my hand at writing children's books. I figured if I could con a professional like Cherry with an impromptu fantasy, I should be able to spin believable yarns for kids.
And that's the way it worked out. I wasn't getting rich turning out kiddie shit-the illustrators made more money than I did-but my stuff sold well and didn't take long to write. It gave me a profession and kept me from crawling into a bottle of sour mash. That's what happened to my father. He died a lush from cirrhosis. Herman and I were both heavy drinkers, but neither of us was an alky. Not yet at least.
Now here's the cream of the jest, After writing children's books for a couple of years, my stories began to Seem more real to me, truer, than my own life and the world around me. I started out scamming Dr. Noble with my Lucy fiction and succeeded in swindling myself. How's that for an ending?
I stopped racing around the studio in my wheelchair and pulled up in front of my word processor. I switched it on and retrieved the few pages of a new book I had started. It seemed flat and lifeless, and I erased everything. Then I sat back and tried to dream up a fresh approach. But I couldn't concentrate.
All I could think of was Cherry Noble in her short pink dress.
Once I asked her, "Why aren't you married?"
"I was," she said. "I'm divorced."
"Oh?" I said. "What happened?"
"It just didn't work out."
"Was he a shrink, too?"
"Yes," she said.
I didn't want to pry further. "Well, you don't act like a divorced woman," I told her.
She was amused. "How does a divorced woman act? " "You know," I said.
"Eager."