Lawrence Sanders - Private Pleasures

I kept one, the other was held by our security department.

After these arrangements were completed, I settled down in front of my PC and consulted the database I I have found to be of most value in chemical research. I had done a great deal of reading on testosterone prior to developing the new synthetic formulation. Now I concentrated on the behavioral aspects of the sex hormone.

The information I gleaned was for the most part conjectural and, in some cases, contradictory. But I learned that it was generally believed that high testosterone levels were indeed linked to aggression. Apparently this was true of all the primates, not just humans.

Several studies concluded that high testosterone levels did not exist solely in muggers and football players but were also present in dominant and successful individuals in business, the professions, and the arts. There were some oddities noted, actors, for instance, were found to have a plenitude of the sex hormone, while ministers and academics usually had low levels. I wondered idly what my own testosterone level might be.

I found nothing in my research that indicated or even suggested that the ingestion of additional testosterone would heighten the aggressive behavior of human males. But neither did I find anything that flatly refuted such a possibility. So, in a sense, I would be venturing into terra incognita.

I wish I could tell you that I was completely engrossed by the ZAP Project and thought of nothing else. But I must confess my personal problems had assumed such size and complexity that they interfered with my concentration on the task assigned me.

I admit it.

My confusion and indecision were compounded when Marleen Todd told me she was contemplating divorce as her only means of escaping an unhappy marriage. My immediate reaction-which I didn't voice to her-was that it might serve me just as well, ending a marriage I found and and mean.

There is something else I should disclose, I had long harbored suspicion that Chester was not my natural son. I married Mabel because she told me she was pregnant and refused to have an abortion. Marrying her seemed the proper thing to do.

It is true that I had sexual relations with her (once) prior to the time she discovered her pregnancy. But it is also true that at the time she was seeing other men, and I had little doubt that she had granted them the same favors she had granted me (once).

I suspected it was quite possible she didn't know precisely who the father of her child really was, and she had picked me because my income and career prospects were the best of all the men with whom she had been intimate. I had been selected as a victim, the one man who would pay for the indiscretions of several.

My reconstruction of what happened may or may not be accurate. But the uncertainty had soured my marriage from the start. Mabel and I-and eventually Chester-observed an armed truce, and what should have been a warm, loving relationship was spoiled by caution, inattention, and even rancor.

Despite all this-and here's the part I truly did not understand-I could not hate Mabel, even if my suspicion was correct. She had acted in her own best interest, and to blame a human being for doing that is akin to blaming them for breathing.

In truth, I believe I felt an odd affection for her, even though I rarely revealed it in word or deed.. She was not an illnatured woman.

Prior to our marriage I had found her jolly, outgoing, and generous.

Her present surliness, I knew, was due more to my chilly unresponsiveness than to her essential nature.

She had put on weight in the past several years-she was now quite chubby-but I still found her physically attractive, and I knew other men did as well. She was an immaculate woman, and I could not justly complain of her skills as a homemaker.

Recognizing all that, I suppose it was inevitable that my feelings toward her should be edged with guilt. She may have tricked me into marriage, but I bore some, if not most, of the fault for our failure to achieve a reasonably happy family life.

My feeling of guilt was even sharper in my relationship with Chester.

To be honest, I loved the boy and yet could not express or display my love. I thought him handsome, alert, and possessing a delightful curiosity and innate intelligence. Why I could not communicate to him how I felt, I just don't know.

Finally I took up my pen again and resumed planning the ZAP project.

It was a relief. Everything involved would be finite and determinable.

But human relations are infinite, are they not? There is nothing concrete to measure, nothing to weigh. And too often what you conclude from your observations is tainted by your own ignorance and prejudice.

I could study my caged mice, experiment with them, and record the results on videotape. But you can't do that with humans.

Can you?

On the ride home that evening I expressed to Marleen Todd some of my feelings about Chester.

"I know I'm not a good father," I confessed. "And yet I love the boy.

I wish I knew how to get closer to him."

She asked if the two of us had ever done things together.

For instance, had I ever taught him to ride a bike.

No.

"Taken him to a football game? Any kind of a sporting event?

A rock concert?"

"No," I said. "I really don't enjoy those things."

"He might," Marleen said gently. "You could ask."

"Yes, of course. But I have so much work… Oh, Lord, I'm using that as an excuse again."

"Yes," she said, "you are."

"I'm good with things," I said angrily. "I know I am. But with people I'm an absolute klutz."

"Recognizing that is the first step," Marleen said.

"Resolving to change is the next."

"Change," I repeated. "I'm not sure I can."

We were silent a long time. Then, "Will you help me?" I asked her.

"Yes," she said, "I will."

DR. CHERRYNOBLE. After I was divorced, I moved back into my parents' home-at their invitation-and resumed my maiden name. I had refused to accept alimony MY from Tom, a rather quixotic gesture, so the offer of a large bedroom, study, and bath in a comfortable two-story town house was welcome. The drive to my office took less than ten minutes.

My mother and father were in their late seventies and in excellent health, for which I was thankful. They were careful to respect my privacy, but always ready to provide companionship and counsel when asked. It really was a delightful household, and I considered myself fortunate.

"Would you like to visit my home?" I once asked Chas Todd.

"I think you'll like it. A nice view of the ocean. I can borrow my father's old station wagon, your wheelchair will fit into that."

"No," he said. "Thanks, but no."

I told him that after listening to eight or more hours of human pain, it was a relief to drive home to the peace and security of my parents' home. I could only wish all my patients had similar sanctuaries.

"I do," he said, but I didn't believe him.

My work was going well, my income was increasing, I was able to keep up with recent research in my field-so why wasn't I content?

Please notice that I use the word "content" rather than "happy." I have always felt that contentment is a more feasible aim than happiness. To be contented is to be satisfied with one's life.

Happiness is something else.

"Physician, heal thyself." But in my case it was, Psychiatrist, analyze yourself. I did, frequently, and the reason for my discontent was not difficult to recognize. I lacked a man in my life.

I know there are those, including women, who will scoff at such a lament. Indeed, there are many women who lead productive and contented lives without men. But I am not one of them. I felt the absence of a man as a hunger.

Some of it was physical, of course. That was part of the craving I felt, the need for a naked male body pressed to mine.