Эд Макбейн - Privileged Conversation

“I’ve already told all this to Jacqueline,” she says, “Dr. Hicks, but I feel it’s something you should know, too, don’t you think, Doctor?”

Shyly lowering her eyes. Staring at her hands flat on her white thighs above the black stockings. Sitting quite erect. Like a frightened little schoolgirl.

“Oh yes, I certainly do,” he says, and smiles, and joins the game. Sitting in the chair behind his desk, he tents his hands and pretends he’s this troubled little schoolgirl’s psychiatrist, a not altogether difficult role to play in that he really is a psychiatrist, although she’s no schoolgirl, Senator, black panties or not — is she wearing black panties? Is she, in fact, wearing any panties at all, her knees pressed so tightly together that way, Sits there like Sharon Stone, legs wide open, no panties. What looks good to you?

What looks good to David is Kathryn Duggan, sitting on his office couch, here to make love to him. He has already forgotten the way she batted her eyes at the Callow Ute in the tank top yesterday afternoon. This is today, and she is here, and she is pretending to be a schoolgirl and he is pretending to be a psychiatrist. He doesn’t have to pretend too strenuously, of course, since listening is what he does all day long. But pretending nonetheless, he listens as she raises her eyes to look straight at him where he sits, those startling green eyes peering unblinkingly at him, her hands never moving from her thighs, her knees tight together, a little virgin girl sitting erect on his couch, beginning her make-believe little tale of woe.

It is Westport, Connecticut, and little Katie Duggan — “That’s what my parents used to call me, Katie” — is thirteen years old and working for the summer as an apprentice at the Westport Country Playhouse, a job she got through her father’s best friend, who that summer was the theater’s accountant or something, “I forget what his exact title was,” she says, “but he was there in some sort of financial capacity, he wasn’t the artistic director or anything,” sounding very genuine in her little schoolgirl role, relating that she was just beginning to develop at the advanced age of thirteen the teeniest budding little breasts, “Well, look at me now, nothing’s changed much,” she says and lowers her eyes in mock shyness again. He does, in fact, look at her now, looks at the front of the pristine cotton blouse, and discovers that as usual she’s not wearing a bra, and discovers, too, that her nipples as usual are erect against the cotton fabric, puckering the fabric, and wonders again if she’s wearing panties, “although I already had pubic hair,” she says, “it started coming in red when I was twelve.”

“How interesting,” he says. “Are you wearing panties now, miss?”

“Yes, I am, Doctor,” she says, and smiles briefly, and then resumes the pose of serious little girl relating something she’s already told Jacqueline Hicks, but which she feels is something he should know, too, don’t you think, Doctor? As she begins talking again, she seems to immerse herself more deeply in the role so that he now finds himself truly listening intently, just as any real psychiatrist might, just as Dr. Hicks might have if such a story had actually been related to her, just as — he realizes with a start — Dr. Hicks must have when Kate first told her about that summer when she was thirteen. This is real, he is too skilled a listener to believe any longer that it is playacting. Not three minutes into the story he knows that this is what really happened and that she has chosen this method of revealing to him what she has already told Dr. Hicks, whom she was seeing when she was “really crazy.”

Looking directly into his eyes, Kate tells him that what she decided to do that summer was lose her virginity to her father’s best friend, a married man with three children, whose exact title she forgets but who came in every day to tally the box office receipts and balance the books and pay the salaries and all that in a little office he had down under the theater. “Do you know where the rest rooms are, have you ever been to Westport, to the theater there? Downstairs where the rest rooms are was where Charlie had his office, his name was Charlie. He had this little office with a desk and a chair in it, and some filing cabinets. I used to go down to the office when I’d finished doing whatever they told me to do, they give the apprentices all kinds of shit to do, and I’d sit on his desk and spread my legs for him. That was later.”

In the beginning, she used to find excuses to go down there to his office to complain about how badly they were treating her. He listened patiently, he was after all her father’s best friend, seemed happy in fact for any respite from the tedium of poring over figures and balancing books. She’d stop down there in cutoff blue jeans and T-shirt, nothing under the shirt, of course, she didn’t have anything much to put in a bra except those tiny breasts that were almost entirely nipples. She was beginning to develop pretty good nipples that summer, at least recognizable as such and discernible enough for him to comment one day in a very fatherly manner, “Katie, you ought to start wearing a bra,” which meant he’d noticed, which meant she was making some progress here. And, of course, her legs looked terrific in the cutoffs.

“I’ve always had great legs,” she tells David now, “even when I was just a little girl. But I’d been taking dance for quite a while by the time I was thirteen, and my legs were really quite long and shapely...”

“They still are,” he says, forgetting for the moment that he is neither her real psychiatrist nor her fake one, remembering all at once that they are here to make love, presumably, and the time she is a-flying, and he hasn’t had lunch, and his next patient will be here in forty minutes, and besides he’s not even sure he wants to hear this story of teenage...

“Thank you, Doctor,” she says. “Anyway, I guess he thought my legs were pretty spectacular...”

“They are,” he says, a psychiatrist’s ploy, a cheap trick, an unabashed prompt , hoping she will respond Yes , come put your hands on my creamy white thighs, Yes , come slide your hands under my schoolgirl skirt and onto my...

“Thank you, Doctor,” she says again, “because one day he said in a very fatherly manner, ‘Katie, some of the boys have been noticing your legs,’ which meant he’d been noticing them, which was further progress. By the way, seducing him wasn’t the main reason I was at the Playhouse, if that’s what you’re thinking. Actually, that was just something I decided to do because I got so bored . And maybe angry , too, because I didn’t get to dance in On the Town , which I knew they’d be doing that summer, and which was the main reason I was there to begin with — but that’s another story.”

Charlie was a man in his early fifties, she guesses now... well, her father was forty-three that summer and Charlie was older than he was, so yes, he was either in his very late forties or his early fifties. He had a bald head and he was sort of short and stout, and he wasn’t very attractive although he did have nice sensitive blue eyes, but she can’t imagine now why she was so intent on having him notice her to begin with, which he certainly did with more and more frequency, and then touch her, which he finally did one rainy day in August while on stage the actors, including two of them from Broadway, were rehearsing Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and in the workshop the other apprentices were busy painting scenery.