Barbara Michaels - The Dark on the Other Side

“He’s no paragon,” Michael said slowly. “Not of virtue, anyhow. I don’t know what he is. But I’m ready to concede that there’s something seriously amiss with him. I’m all the more willing to admit it because it cost me such a struggle to admit it. Linda, do you remember a boy named Joe Schwartz? He was a student of Gordon’s when you were in that class.”

“Joe? Of course I remember him. He wrote some of the funniest, most scurrilous verses I’ve ever heard.”

“Scurrilous?”

“About the professors, and the other students, and human foibles in general. Some topical, some more basic. He had a gift for hitting people’s weaknesses, but he was never cruel; he could sting, delicately, without really hurting. None of the parties that year were a success unless Joe performed. He’d sit there on the floor whanging out chords on his guitar and bellowing out his infamous comments in a raucous voice, grinning from ear to ear… Why are you looking like that?”

“It doesn’t sound like the Joe Schwartz I know,” Michael said grimly.

“He did get a little peculiar toward the end of the year. People said he’d changed. I’m afraid I wasn’t much aware of others just then. Love’s young dream, you know.”

Michael looked uncomfortable, but he went on doggedly.

“What about Tommy Scarinski?”

“You’ve been busy, haven’t you? Yes, he was one of Gordon’s acolytes. Always unstable, of course…At the time, I thought he was preying on Gordon, instead of…”

“The reverse?”

“You don’t understand a process, sometimes, until it happens to you personally.”

“We’re getting there,” Michael said. He spoke slowly, without looking at her. “We try to talk around it, but we’ll have to discuss it sooner or later. Why, Linda? Why is he doing this?”

“I don’t think I could explain it to you-or to any other man.”

She hadn’t meant it to hurt, but it did; she could tell from the change in his face. She went on quickly,

“You see? I can’t even talk about it without sounding like one of the militant feminists you men despise-like an embittered woman whose marriage has gone sour and who rants about the whole male sex instead of facing facts. But it wasn’t like that. I’m not a romantic adolescent, I know that few relationships, marital or otherwise, are based on true equality and respect. As a rule, one partner dominates the other; and in human society there’s a long tradition of masculine superiority. So-all right. I could have accepted that, I’m conditioned to it. Maybe I even wanted it. But Gordon doesn’t want to dominate people; he wants to absorb them, body and soul and spirit. Living with him was-indescribable. I felt as if he were fastened to me, like a gigantic leech, pulling out every ounce of will, every thought… I can see myself making that speech in a divorce court, can’t you? It might come straight out of some ghastly day-time serial.”

“Why didn’t you leave him?”

“I did leave him. He brought me back.” She laughed bitterly. “That sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? In this day and age…But it was so easy, really. I had to get a job, I didn’t have much money. I never did. Credit cards, charge accounts, but no cash. I couldn’t very well go to one of the big hotels and charge my escapade to Gordon’s account. Even if I’d had the gall, I knew it would make it easier for him to find me. So I had to get a job-and quickly; I couldn’t pick and choose. I have a B.A. degree, no special training; you’d be surprised how few jobs there are for women with no special skills and no experience. Even my typing was rusty, after all those years. I turned down a couple of offers because there were special conditions of employment involved, and I was in no mood for another man who wanted to own even that small part of me. I don’t know…I’ve never known…how many jobs I lost because of Gordon’s quiet influence-he must have located me immediately-and how many because of the ordinary handicaps of my situation. There were a few things I didn’t try: washing dishes, ushering at movie theaters… It wasn’t false pride; I was afraid of places like that.”

The look in Michael’s eyes hurt her, and yet she found a perverse pleasure in seeing how deeply she could move him.

“I finally got a job as live-in maid and baby-sitter for a family in the suburbs,” she went on. “I held it for three days before the woman told me she didn’t need me. I’m pretty sure that was Gordon’s pressure; household help is darned hard to get these days. Maybe he told the woman I was mentally disturbed.

“I was pretty desperate by then. When Gordon popped into my slummy little hotel room, with his tame psychiatrist in tow, I was in no condition to put up a fight. It probably wouldn’t have mattered, even if I could have kept my cool; the doctor was under Gordon’s famous spell. But of course I didn’t stay calm, I started yelling and screaming, and got an injection for my pains. When I woke up, I was back-home. And all the servants walked around shaking their heads and sighing. I thought at first that I’d try again, plan more carefully-scrape together enough money to get away, a long way away. But it is not easy to fool Gordon. And-I just didn’t have the strength. It took all the energy I had to keep myself from giving in, from admitting that I was losing my mind.”

Michael stooped and picked up a tiger kitten, which had gone to sleep on his foot. The motion of bending brought a little color back to his face.

“I still don’t understand why,” he said.

“Why Gordon wants to have me declared insane? I wouldn’t be sent to a sanatorium, you know; he’d keep me at home, in a nice quiet padded cell, with nice quiet attendants watching me every second. Gordon doesn’t give things away, or let go of the things he owns. He discards them; they don’t leave him. Does that degree of vanity seem monstrous to you? It does to me, too; but that’s Gordon, he’s always been that way, he cannot endure rejection. Especially from me. I gave him love, devotion, admiration-but they weren’t enough. When he demanded more, I started to fight back. But that’s the insidious thing about a plan like his. How do you prove you’re sane? It’s a vicious circle; the more desperate and frightened you become, the more erratically you behave; before long you begin to wonder yourself, and then the progression downhill is rapid. I started drinking. But not until after I tried-”

“I know about that,” Michael said quickly.

“You do? Oh, of course, he’d tell you that. And you-you came here?”

Michael shook his head, dismissing irrelevancies.

“I don’t know what made you do it,” he said. “But the end result is clear.”

“Oh, yes, it was the final bar on the prison door. If I tried to escape again, he had the ultimate weapon. I was dangerous-homicidal-and he had witnesses to prove it.”

“Good Lord,” Michael muttered. His fingers continued their automatic caress of the kitten, which was curled in the crook of his arm, purring loudly. Linda watched the animal, using it, illogically perhaps, as a kind of live barometer. So long as the cats were quiet…

“But I did it,” Linda went on. “I don’t remember anything that preceded it, but I remember lying there on the floor, with the knife beside me, where it had fallen from my hand. There was blood on the knife… He’d knocked me down; you can’t blame him for that. He wasn’t even particularly rough about it. The lights were blazing and the room seemed to be filled with people, and Gordon stood there with blood running down the sleeve of his shirt…”

“Shirt? Wasn’t he in pajamas?”

“I don’t think so… No. Does it matter?”

“Not really. But it stimulates my nasty suspicious mind. You don’t remember actually striking the blow?”