“Chicked soub! I dod’t believe id!” Llona clapped her hands.
“Fresh from the pot.”
“You’re a Jewish mother! Thad’s whad you are!” Llona giggled.
“In times of plague, epidemic and sneezing, those of us who are humanists are all Jewish mothers.”
“Tell the truth. Wherever did you ged the chicked soub?”
“You won’t believe it.”
“Dry me.”
“I have a friend who happens to be Jewish. His mother brewed it for me.”
“You’re kiddig!”
“Nope. It’s the solemn truth. But that comes later in the course of treatment. The first step is a large dose of this.” Pierre hefted the bottle of Scotch.
“Oh, cub od dow. That wod’t really help my cohd. Will id?”
“Not one whit,” Pierre admitted cheerfully. “Not one germ will it eliminate. But it is guaranteed to add immensely to the enjoyment of your suffering” He went into the kitchen, found some glasses, returned with them, poured a healthy slug of Scotch into one and handed it to Llona. “The first step in the treatment,” he told her. “Down the hatch.”
“Thad’s ad awful lot,” she protested.
“Don’t argue with the doctor. How do you expect me to cure you if you don’t follow my instructions?”
“I dod’t,” Llona told him truthfully. But she drank down the Scotch nevertheless.
Pierre poured himself a drink as well. He drank it down and smacked his lips. “Ahh,” he enthused.
“You dod’t hab a cohd,” Llona reminded him.
“A preventive measure.” He poured them each another drink. “You believe in preventive medicine, don’t you?”
“I subbose so.”
“Now, the next thing is to make the patient comfortable. One feels as good--or as bad—as one looks. That is a truism of the psychosomatic dynamics of the common cold. Too often the victim wraps the body in rags, thereby increasing the feeling of misery. In your case, I would advise a wash, a combing of the hair, the application of makeup, and the donning of your most attractive nightie and robe in place of the garments reflecting your low self-image which you’re wearing.”
Llona flushed. “I wasd’t eggspegtig compady,” she said defensively.
“I know. I know. I’m not criticizing. It’s just that aesthetics play their part. Believe me.”
“All ride.” Llona’s ego asserted itself. “Eggscuse be a midute.” She vanished into the bathroom. When she returned, Strongfellow was nowhere in sight. “Bierre?” she called.
“In here.” His voice floated out to her from the bedroom.
“Whad are you—-?” She stopped in the doorway to the bedroom, taken aback at what she saw.
Pierre had stripped the sheets and pillowcases from the bed and replaced them with crisp, fresh linens. He’d cleaned off the debris on the night table, remade the bed and turned back the covers. It looked cool and inviting.
While Llona was taking this in, Pierre was appraising the changes in her appearance. She was wearing the nightgown he’d sent her with a clean silk dressing gown over it. Her hair was combed and tied back with a ribbon. Her face looked scrubbed and she’d put on mascara and lipstick. She looked warm and inviting.
“Now, you just hop into bed,” he suggested.
“Do!” Llona’s refusal was loud and definite.
“No?” Pierre looked surprised.
“Ed-o. Do!” Llona spelled it out for him.
“But why not?”
“Because be blus bed blus you adds ub do trouble!”
“Surely you don’t think I’d-”
“You bed your sweed vaborizer I do!”
“Medical ethics forbid—” Pierre started to say.
“But I dod’t hab tibe to check with the A-Eb-A,” Llona said firmly. She turned her back on him, strode back into the living room and sat down on the sofa.
Pierre followed her. “You know what’s wrong with you?”
“I hab a cohd.”
“I mean besides that.”
“Do. Whad?”
“You’re suflering from Clinophobia!”
“Frob whad?”
“Clinophobia,” Pierre repeated.
“Whad’s thad?”
“Clinophobia is a marked dislike for beds, an aversion based on unreasonable and usually deep-seated fear.”
“You’re kiddig!”
“I am not. The symptoms are unmistakeable. I’d even go so far as to say that your Clinophobia, doubtless aggravated by your cold, is currently in an advanced state, at a critical point so to speak, and that the next few hours may be crucial in the progression or retardation of the disease.”
“Whad do I do aboud id?”
“You must face your fear head-on. There’s no other way.”
“You mead-—-?”
“Exactly! Llona, you have to jump into that bed and face up to your Clinophobia!”
“Oh, do!”
“Don’t be afraid. I’ll be right there to lend support.”
“Thad’s whad I’b afraid of!”
“Llona, think back.” Pierre tried another tack. “When you were a very little child. Did anything happen to you in your crib that might account for your fear?”
“I god by head caught betweed the slats once.”
“Aha! Just as I thought. That must be the traumatic incident from which your terror stems.”
“Bust be.” Llona shrugged noncommittally. “So whad?”
“Llona, I want you to close your eyes.”
“All ride.” Llona complied.
“Now just try to picture that crib.” Pierre paused. “Got it?” he asked finally.
“God id.”
“Good. Now, picture yourself in the crib.”
“Okay. I’b id the crib.”
“Now just let the feelings come.” Pierre waited through a long silence before finally speaking again. “What do you feel, Llona?” he asked softly.
“By head hurts.”
“Aha! Now think carefully, Llona. Why does your head hurt?”
“Begause id’s stuck betweed the goddab slats of the crib! Thad’s why!”
“Now, Llona, I want you to keep your eyes closed through what happens next. I want you to keep them closed and hold onto that image of yourself in the crib even after this next experience is over. Do you understand?”
“I udderstadd.”
“All right then.” Pierre bent over her, grasped her head in both his hands, moved it gently a few inches, and then kissed her. It was a long and thorough kiss. When it was over he released her head and waited awhile before speaking again. “Do you still see yourself in the crib, Llona?” he asked at last.
“Yes.”
“And what’s the feeling now?”
“I’b bad.”
“No you’re not. You’re a good girl. Llona’s a good girl.”
“Dot bad! Bad! Aggry!”
“Oh. I see. But what are you angry about, Llona?”
“You dook advadtage of be! You god be do glose by eyes so you could kiss be!”
“What about the headache, Llona? Do you still have the headache?”
“Well, do. I dod’t hab id any more.” There was a note of wonder in Llona’s voice.
“Good. Good!” Pierre was triumphant. “Now, keep your eyes closed.” He took her hand and drew her to her feet. “Just come along with me.”
“Where are you takigg be?”
“Don’t be afraid. Just trust me.”
“Trust you! Hah!”
“Come on now.” Gently but firmly, Pierre led her into the bedroom. “Sit down.” He guided her to the edge of the bed. “Lie back. That’s it. Now are you still holding onto that image of yourself in the crib?”
“Yes. Bud I’b onto you too! Dod’t try anythigg fuddy!”
Pierre ignored her suspicions. “Open your eyes now,” he told her. “Now, where are you?”