Private Pleasures

I am thirty-nine years old and have been married for almost ten years.

My wife, Mabel, and I have one child, a nine-year-old named Chester.

It is not a happy marriage, and Chester is not a happy boy.

For the past seven years I have been employed as a senior chemist at McWhortle Laboratory, Inc. McWhortle's was essentially a research lab, developing new products for a long list of pharmaceutical, industrial, and consumer-oriented companies. We obtained patents on our inventions and then licensed them to our clients for manufacture.

Our specialty was biochemical formulas, including sedatives, stimulants, and synthetic hormones. One research section was devoted solely to the blending of new scents and fragrances for the perfume industry. And we had developed several chemical products for the U.S. armed forces. Those cannot be described here.

After working for almost two years, I had succeeded in developing a new method of synthesizing testosterone, the male sex hormone. My process, for which a patent had been filed, was relatively inexpensive and could easily be adapted to mass production.

This research was financed by a company that made and marketed personal toiletries and nonprescription drugs. The client hoped we would be able to isolate the element in testosterone that was responsible for one of the secondary male sexual characteristics, the growth of body hair. it was believed that if the project was successful, eventually an oral medication or injection might be a cure for alopecia (baldness) in both men and women. The commercial possibilities were dazzling.

On the morning of April 27 I was summoned to the office of Mr. Marvin McWhortle, our founder and chief executive officer.

He was seated in a high-backed swivel chair behind his massive desk.

Alongside the desk, lounging in a leather armchair, was a tall, narrow gentleman whose age I guessed to be about fifty. He was neatly dressed in civilian clothes but was introduced to me as Colonel Henry Knacker. His branch of the service was not mentioned, nor was his official position.

"Greg," Mr. McWhortle said, "the colonel would like to know more about our synthetic testosterone. You may answer all his questions."

Without preliminaries, the officer began to query me as to the exact chemical formulation of our new product and the method of manufacture.

It was obvious Colonel Knacker knew a great deal about testosterone.

Suddenly his interrogation ended, and he stared at me a moment in silence. "You've worked for us before, Barrow," Colonel Knacker said flatly, a statement, not a question. "You signed an oath of secrecy.

You're aware, aren't you, that there's no time limit on that oath. It is still in force. Understood?"

"Yes, sir, " I said.

"There is no doubt whatsoever about Greg's loyalty, " Mr. McWhortle put in.

"Loyalty is one thing," the officer said. "Secrecy is another. This conversation never took place. Clear?"

I nodded.

"Good. Now let's get down to bedrock. Testosterone is what makes men aggressive. Agreed?"

"It is generally thought so," I said cautiously. "But behavioral research is continuing to determine if testosterone is the sole cause of aggression or if other factors may be involved.

These might include heredity, education, social status, and so forth."

"I know all that cowflop," the colonel said impatiently.

"But I also know that studies have linked high testosterone levels to men who are aggressive, intensely competitive, and seek to dominate.

Correct? " "Yes, sir," I said. "But women can also be aggressive, competitive, and seek to dominate, even though their testosterone levels are much lower than those in men."

"All to the good," Knacker said with a tight smile. "Since women now play an important role in the military and may soon find themselves in battle action. Capisce?

Apparently Mr. McWhortle felt matters were not progressing rapidly enough, for he interrupted the dialogue between the officer and myself.

"What the colonel has in mind, Greg," he said briskly, "is developing a testosterone diet additive pill, powder, or liquid-that would increase the combat efficiency of the average soldier."

"Even if the effect is only temporary," Knacker said earnestly. "We'd like to give our boys-and girls, too, of coursean extra edge in a firefight. We call it the Strength-Action Power pill."

I confess I did not immediately question the morality or ethicality of what he proposed. My first reaction was astonishment at the name of the product.

"Strength-Action-Power?" I repeated hesitantly. "Colonel, the acronym of what you suggest is SAP. If news ever does leak out about the program, I'm afraid it would arouse a great deal of amusement in the media. That might even result in the cancellation of the project."

"Good lord, colonel," Mr. McWhortle said. "I never thought of that.

SAP just won't fly."

"Suppose you name the diet additive Zest-Action Power," I suggested.

"ZAP is easy to say, easy to remember, and it implies moving swiftly to attack."

The officer looked at me admiringly. "I like the way you think, Barrow," he said. "ZAP it is! Now tell me, Do you think a testosterone pill to improve battle performance can be developed?"

"Possibly," I said warily. "But it would require a great deal of research, including animal testing followed by trials on human volunteers. The dosage would have to be very carefully calculated, and even then the long-term side effects might prove dangerous. We're dealing with an extremely powerful hormone here, and the ways in which it affects human behavior are still not fully understood."

"But do you think ZAP is possible?" he repeated. "One little pill or maybe a tasteless powder mixed in field rations? It could mean the difference between victory and defeat. It could be of vital importance to your country, Barrow. Concur?"

"Yes, sir," I said. "I think such a diet additive could be developed.

Not overnight, of course. It would require an enormous amount of work."

"And I might add," Mr. McWhortle said quickly, iian enormous budget."

"Let me worry about the expense," Colonel Knacker said.

"You guys worry about inventing a pill that'll make every American line doggie eager to charge into the cannon's mouth. How soon can you get started?"

I looked at Mr. McWhortle.

"As soon as funds are made available," he said smoothly.

"They're available right now," the officer assured him.

"Get cracking-and remember, this involves national security."

"Of course," Mr. McWhortle said. "No problem. The entire project will be conducted in total secrecy. Am I correct, Greg?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

And that's how it all began.

Greg was driving that week, and the moment I climbed into his old Volvo I knew he was in a down mood. He usually greets me with a cheery "Good morning!" But on that day, April 27, he barely mumbled a hello.

"Well, don't you smell nice," I said, hoping to give him a lift. "It's the new after-shave I asked you to try, isn't it?"

He nodded.

"Like it?"

"Yes," he said. "Woodsy."

"That it is," I said, "and the client loves it. They're going to call it Roughneck. Isn't that a hoot?"

He didn't reply, and I didn't say anything until we had left Rustling Palms Estates and were on Federal Highway, heading for the lab.

"How was your evening, Greg?" I asked him, thinking perhaps he and Mabel had had another run-in.

"Mercifully quiet, " he said. "Chester went upstairs to do his homework, Mabel watched one of her travelogues on TV, and I worked in the den."

"Greg, do you have to bring work home every night?

"It's preferable," he said, and I knew what he meant.

He didn't speak again until we were through town and out in the country. "And how was your night?" he asked. "Did Herman come home?"

"Eventually," I said as lightly as I could. "Smelling of Johnnie Walker. Black Label, I believe. He said he was at a sales meeting.

He went directly to sleep, and Tania and I played a game of Chinese checkers. Then, after she went upstairs to bed, I finished my needlepoint pillow. And that was my exciting evening."

"is this all there is?" Greg said wonderingly, and I looked at him.

And that was the extent of our conversation until he pulled into the underground garage and parked in his numbered space. I started to get out of the car, but suddenly he said, "Chester called me a wimp this morning."

"Oh, Greg," I said, "that's awful. Why on earth did he say that?"

"It was a silly thing," he said, "but significant, I suppose.

We finished breakfast, and I got up to leave for work. Mabel told me to take my umbrella. She said the radio had predicted possible showers. I explained as patiently as I could-not for the first time, I assure you-that I would enter the car in our garage, drive directly to the lab, park in an underground garage, eat lunch in the employees' cafeteria, and then drive home in the evening. I would not brave the elements a single moment during the day, so an umbrella seemed unnecessary. But she just said, Take it. You don't know what's best for you." So to avoid an argument, I carried my stupid umbrella. I was leaving the house when my son called me a wimp."

He was silent then, obviously troubled, and I didn't know what to say.

"Marleen," he said, almost desperately, "you don't think I'm a wimp, do you?"

I put a hand on his arm. "Of course, I don't, Greg," I said.

"I think you are a very sensitive, caring man with many, many fine qualities, and I hope you stay just the way you are."

I left him then because he looked so woebegone that I was afraid he might start weeping, and I didn't quite know how I'd handle it. I took the elevator up to my office, thinking of Greg's problems and thinking of mine. I wondered about the two of us, wondered if it was a case of misery loving company or if there was more to it than that.

I sat at my desk and reread my final report on the development of Roughneck. The client would be responsible for design of the bottle and label, so I was finished and could get to work on my next assignment.

It was a proposal from Darcy amp; Sons, one of our oldest clients, for a new perfume, cologne, and eau de toilette. As usual, the description of what they wanted was somewhat vague, but I was used to that. The saying in our trade is, "I'll know it when I smell it," and my job was to create a scent that would convince the client they had received exactly the product they had envisioned.

Darcy amp; Sons, believing that women's tastes and manner of living were returning to traditional ways, wanted a fragrance that gave the feeling of romance, intimacy, and warm understanding. They did not want anything too strong, spicy, or sexually aggressive. They were seeking a "quiet" fragrance that would recall a woman's first kiss, her wedding day, the birth of her first child. They wanted a soft, sentimental, and nostalgic" scent that might bring back memories of happy days and enchanted nights. The key to the new product, Darcy's proposal stated, should be "love" and not "passion." And it had to be as attractive to men as it was to women.

They even had a name for this new perfume. It was to be called Cuddle.

I read this prospectus, then sat back and pondered how it might be converted into reality. In the art of blending perfumes, a good "nose" must be able to identify as many as two thousand different scents, to distinguish frangipani from ylang-ylang with one sniff. Even more important, a "nose" must remember the evocative characteristics of scents and how they meld or clash with others. An expert perfumer is not unlike a composer of music, disparate notes are combined to produce a melody.

I left my office and went into our aromatic lab where two other "noses" were already at work on their own projects. They were seated at individual tables, dipping small strips of blotter into vials of essences and then passing the sample beneath their nostrils for a quick initial sniff. The scented strip was then clamped to a rack to dry, for a dry scent is often quite different from a wet. Neither of the noses" looked up as I entered the lab.

I went directly to our "library", rack after rack of corked bottles, jars, and flacons holding oils, resins, and liquids containing the condensed scents of plants, flowers, tree bark, herbs, nuts, fruits, and a few rare animal products. No one had actually counted but it was believed we had more than ten thousand different smells in the library.

I walked slowly along the rack holding flower fragrances, glancing at labels. After reading the Darcy proposal, it seemed to me that a meld of lavender, lilac, and violet might be desirable. Or would that be too old-fashioned for a modern woman who yearned for a return to traditional values? I returned to my office intending to scribble possible formulas that might fit the required specifications.

A small stack of trade magazines had been left on my desk.

All McWhortle employees were expected to keep up with the most recent advances in chemical research, but few of us had time to do more than flip the pages of these technical journals, reading only those articles that might affect one's own specialty.

My eye was caught by an article in a periodical devoted to behavioral neuroscience. The title was "The Cuddle Hormone," and I remember smiling because Cuddle was the name Darcy amp; Sons had selected for their new perfume. I began reading.

On the drive home that evening, I asked Greg, "Do hormones smell?"

He treated my question seriously. Greg very rarely laughed.

"I doubt if there is one hormonal scent, but I know my synthetic testosterone has an odor. It smells faintly of walnuts.

Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering," I said. "Are you still working on the baldness remedy?"

"No," he said. "I was taken off today. It's been turned over to Steve Cohen."

"Oh? And what are you doing now?"

"Something else," he said shortly, and I knew better than to ask for details. Greg sometimes works on classified projects for the government. Hush-hush stuff. But it's not poison gas or anything deadly. Greg would never do that, I know.

"Would you and Mabel like to come over tonight for bridge?"

I asked.

"Thanks, Marleen," he said, "but I'm afraid we'll have to pass. I'm bringing a lot of work home. Some other time."

"Of course," I said, knowing there would never be another time.

We came off Federal Highway, and he slowed before turning into Hibiscus Drive, the curving access road that led to our adjoining homes.

"You know what I'd like to do," he said in a low voice. "Just keep driving. Anywhere."

"With me?" I said, half-teasing.

"Yes," he said, and I could hardly hear him. "With you.

On April 27, Thursday morning, I had a session with Dr. Cherry Noble.

It was only my third, and I still wasn't sure she was going to do me any good. But she was a female therapist, and I didn't want to Confess All to a man. Greg made no objection when I told him I was going to a shrink. He just looked at me.

I had the wrong idea. I thought I could ask questions, and Dr. Noble would give me the answers. Not bloody likely. She'd ask questions, I'd answer, and she'd say, "Mmm." For instance, I told her I liked to watch travelogues on TV.

Other women watched sitcoms and soap operas, I enjoyed looking at Patagonia and Swaziland. Why was that?

"Why do you think it is?" Dr. Noble asked.

"I don't know,', I said. "I guess I want to see foreign places. Learn how other people live. Do you think it's like, you know, I'm trying to escape?"

"Mmm," she said.

Silence.

"Sometimes I do strange things," I confessed. "I know they're weird, but I can't help doing them. Like this morning.

I told Gregory to take his umbrella. The radio did say possible showers, but he never goes outside during the day. I knew that, but I insisted he carry an umbrella."

"Why do you think you did that?"

"Because he makes me feel so goddamned stupid, that's why.

I had to assert myself. My husband is a very educated man, but he never talks to me about his work. I know he thinks I'm brainless.

Believe me, I've got a brain. Maybe I'm not a research chemist, but I've got a brain. He ignores me. So I told him to take his umbrella."

"And did he?"

"Oh, sure. He'll do anything to avoid an argument. Because if we argued, that would make us equal, you see. I think he hates me."

"Why do you say that?"

"He brings work home almost every night so he won't have to talk to me."

"What do you want to talk about, Mabel?"

"Dopey little things. Like what the butcher said to me or how Chester is doing in spelling or silly stories in the news.

Anything. But there's no communication. I'll bet he talks to Marleen."

"Who is Marleen?"

"Marleen Todd. She lives next door. She's married to Herman. He sells insurance. They have a little girl, Tania.

She's one year younger than Chester. They take the bus to school together."

"Chester and Tania?"

"Yes. Marleen is a chemist at the lab. Like Greg. She makes perfumes.

Greg drives one week, and then Marleen drives the next. They alternate. So they spend a lot of time together."

Silence.

"I don't believe there's anything going on there, doctor, if that's what you're thinking. Marleen is okay, very pleasant, but she's plain.

No tits, no ass. I'm sure there's nothing going on there. They probably just talk shop.

Besides, Greg isn't really interested in sex."

"Not at all?"

"Only occasionally. Like it's a duty. And if I turn him down, I think he's relieved. Once I gave him a funny birthday card that said, Use it or lose it,' but he didn't think it was funny. He hardly ever laughs.

Herman is always laughing."

"Herman? Marleen's husband?"

"Yes. I think maybe he's got eyes for me."

"Why do you think that?"

"Sometimes, after Greg and Marleen have left for the lab and the kids have gone to school, Herman will stop by for a cup of coffee before he goes to his office."

"Are you attracted to him?"

"He's okay. No matinee idol, you understand, but he knows how to talk to a woman. He seems really interested in what I think and the things I say. You suppose he wants to start something?"

"Mmm.

Silence.

"When Greg and I were dating, I knew he was a serious man.

The other guys I was seeing were mostly studs. One-night stands and so forth.

But Greg was serious. Maybe a little dull, I knew that, but he had a good job and a good future. I figured that after I married him, I could lighten him up. Wrong!

Maybe I shouldn't complain. He makes a nice living, I drive a Buick Roadmaster, and he doesn't say anything about my charge accounts.

A lot of women I know are worse off. But still… Do you think I'm bored? Do you think that's why I'm so depressed all the time? Oh, and I forgot to tell you-he's a heavy drinker."

"Your husband?"

"Oh, God, no. Herman Todd. When he comes over in the morning, it's usually for black coffee and an aspirin for his hangover. He's not happy either. It's Marleen, his wife. She doesn't drink at all. Or smoke. She says it's because of her job with perfumes. Herman is a sport, always kidding around. The Todds came over for dinner last month, and Marleen and Greg kept talking shop. That's all they talked about, and finally Herman said, You know the difference between a vitamin and a hormone? You can't hear a vitamin." They didn't laugh, but I thought it was hilarious. Don't you?

"Mmm.

"Maybe he really does want to start something with me. I know for a fact he plays around. Do you think I should?"

"How do you feel about it?"

"I don't know how I feel. But I've got to do something. My life is empty, empty, empty. I mean there comes a time in every woman's life when she has to ask herself, is this all there is? That's where I'm at right now. I've even thought of getting a divorce. But getting a divorce just because you're bored is stupid, isn't it? And there's Chester to consider, of course."

"What about your husband? What would his reaction be?"

"if I asked for a divorce? He probably wouldn't care one way or the other. Greg doesn't love me."

"Surely he loved you enough to marry you."

"That was then, this is now. Maybe he loved me when he proposed. He said he did. But every Sunday night Greg makes out a list of things to do during the week, Get haircut. Take in dry cleaning. Rotate tires on Volvo. Maybe I was just a note on his list, Marry Mabel. Oh God, I feel so miserable. I think I'm going to cry. May I have a Kleenex?

"Help yourself."

Silence.

"What do you think I should do, doctor? About my life? " "We've just begun. This is our third session correct? I suggest you not make any major changes in your life until we have the opportunity to explore in greater detail exactly what it is that's troubling you. I think our time is up, Mabel."

"So soon? All right, I'll see you next Tuesday. I feel a lot better.

Maybe all I need is someone to talk to."

"Mmm.

I left Dr. Noble's office and walked over to Hashbeam's Boteek, in the same mall. I went in to look around, and Laura, who always waits on me, showed me a new teddy they just got in, black lace cut high on the hips. Very racy.

"It's beautiful," I said, "but when would I ever wear it?

"Put it in your hope chest," Laura said, laughing.

So I bought it. woke up late Thursday morning with a Godzilla of a hangover.

Marleen had left for work, and Tania had gone to school, so I had the house to myself. That was just as well, I didn't want them to see the shape I was in. Although I doubt if they'd have been shocked, they've seen me before when I've had the meemies.

I drank about a quart of water, showered, and used my electric shaver with a trembling hand. Then I dressed and went next door to bum aspirin and black coffee from Mabel Barrow. (I've never figured out how to work that Italian coffee-maker my wife bought.) But Mabel wasn't home, so I had no choice but to drive to my office in the Town Center Circle.

Goldie was at her desk in the reception room, took one look at me, and shook her head sorrowfully.

"Save me," I pleaded.

She went down to the Dally-Deli and brought back a big container of black coffee and a prune Danish. Goldie is a sweet kid-great boobs-and I'd make a play there, but she's married to a police sergeant, and who needs trouble like that?

I gave Goldie the Danish, took the coffee into my private office, shut the door, and locked it. All my salesmen were out on calls, but I didn't want any of them returning unexpectedly, busting in on the boss, and catching him adding a double of California brandy to his morning coffee, which is what I did.

After I got half of it down, I decided I might as well live, lighted a cigar, and started reviewing a million-dollar whole life insurance policy I had recently sold to Marvin McWhortle, who owns the place where Marleen works.

Around eleven o'clock I went out to the reception room and drew a cup of water from the cooler.

"Feeling better?" Goldie asked.

"Ready for a fight or a frolic," I assured her.

Back in my sanctum I added another shot of brandy to the water. That did the trick. I held out my hands, and they were steady enough to do brain surgery. By the time I was ready to leave, about noon, I was in fine fettle-whatever a fettle is. I told Goldie I'd be back in a couple of hours. She nodded, she knew I always had lunch with my brother on Thursday.

I stopped at the Dally-Deli and picked up two humongous corned beef sandwiches on rye, side orders of cole slaw, and an extra order of kosher dills, which Chas dearly loves. I went next to Ye Olde Reserve Fine Spirits amp; Liquors Shoppe (it opened last year) and bought a liter of Jack Daniels. Then I boarded my new Lincoln Towncar and started out.

I took my usual route, south to the Palmetto Park Road, then far west to the Fleecy Road turnoff, then north on Fleecy to a nameless dirt lane, and then west on that. Way back in the boondocks on five acres of what used to be hardscrabble farmland is where my brother lives and works. He calls it a studio, I call it a barn.

My brother-seven years older than I am-left two legs in Vietnam. The government wanted to fit him with prostheses and elbow canes, but Chas opted for a motorized wheelchair. He had a rough couple of years after he was shipped back-his mind was messed up-but he had psychotherapy and got it all together again.

Now he writes children's books. He's not getting rich, but with his disability pension he does okay and won't take a cent from me.

He's twice the man I'll ever be.

"Hello, shithead," he greeted me.

"Hi, asshole," I said. "You look beat. Been running the four-forty again?"

"I could take you any day," he said. "You're in great shape, your ass is dragging and your eyes are bleeding. You been dipping your wick around town again?"

"And I'm going to keep doing it," I said, "until I get it right." I displayed my purchases. "How does sour mash go with corned beef?"

"Let's find out," he said. "Pull up a chair."

It was more of a counter than a desk, a sheet of heavy plywood across two sawhorses, high enough so he could wheel his chair partly underneath and get close to his word processor.

That's where I spread out our lunch and poured lack Daniels into the jelly jars he used for glasses.

"How's Tania?" Chas asked.

"Okay."

"And Marleen?

" She's fine."

"You're a lucky man," my brother said. "And a foursquare bastard for cheating on her."

"I can't help it," I said. "It's a terrible habit-like picking your nose."

He laughed. "I hope she nails you, sues for divorce, and takes you to the cleaners."

"She won't, " I told him." Marleen knows I tomcat around.

She doesn't care who I boff-as long as it isn't her."

Chas looked at me. "Sonny boy," he said, "when it comes to women you're a total illiterate. Who you shagging these days?

Anyone special?"

"Not really. I've got my eye on the butterball who lives next door.

Great ass. But her husband works in the same lab as Marleen, and we visit back and forth occasionally. It would be hard to manage."

"You'll find a way," he said.

His questions about my love life were not just idle curiosity. When I said that Chas had straightened out his brain, it wasn't the complete truth. Since coming home legless from Nam, I don't think he had even tried making it with a woman. He said he just wasn't interested, but he sure as hell was interested in my extramarital feats.

I asked Dr. Cherry Noble about Chas. She was the shrink who pulled him out of his funk.

"He's a lot better," I told her, "but I don't think he's functioning in the sex department. He lost his legs, but he's still got all the necessary machinery. What gives?"

"He feels he's an incomplete man," Dr. Noble explained.

"He's lost a part of himself. He's convinced women could be turned off by what he thinks is an ugly deformity. He's afraid that if he tries, he'll be rejected, or he won't be able to perform. So he doesn't try."

"How long will that last? For the rest of his life?"

"It could. But I'll try to bring him out of it. Chas is a fine man, and if anyone deserves a little joy, he does.

"Don't tell him," I said, "but send me your bills."

"There won't be any bills," she said.

I had one jelly jar of sour mash, but Chas was starting on his third when I left to go back to the office. He gave me an autographed copy of his new book to give to Tania. It was called The Adventures of Tommy Termite.

I was outside, unlocking the Lincoln, when Dr. Cherry Noble pulled up in her white jag. She got out and came over to me.

"Herman!" she said. "What a pleasant surprise. I haven't seen you in ages-but I was thinking about you this morning. How are you?"

"If I felt any better, I'd be unconscious," I said. "And you?"

"Fine, thank you. You visited Chas?"

"For lunch. Every Thursday."

"Oh, that's right, I forgot. How is he feeling?"

"Fine, I think," I said. "Is he making any progress, doc?"

"Mmm," she said.

"Well, keep trying," I urged her. "I really appreciate it."

She nodded, and I watched her walk toward the barn. She was wearing a short pink linen sheath.

Great legs.

DR. CHERRYNOBLE has Todd was the only Vietnam veteran I ever C treated. I read all the literature on the subject I could find, but nothing I read prepared me for the severity of his problems.

Fortunately, they proved as short-lived as they were intense. Still, it was almost two years before daily sessions could be gradually reduced.

I make no claim that it was my skills as a therapist that led to the disappearance of his horrendous nightmares, deep depression, and sudden onslaughts of uncontrollable weeping. I believe that with no assistance whatsoever he would eventually have recovered by himself.

Chas Todd is a strong man.

During the course of his therapy I found myself attracted to him. At first he was profane with a penchant for scatological humor. But after he found I was unshockable, his speech became more conventional, he revealed a tender and vulnerable persona that I was convinced was the real Chas and not just a role he was playing.

I was aware of his atrophied libido, and our failure to resolve that problem made his recovery less than complete. I hoped that in time his rejection of sex would fade. Doctors treat, nature heals. But it had now been several years since his therapy ended and, during my visits, I found no improvement.

He had locked the door after his brother left, but when I knocked, I heard the hum of his motorized wheelchair. A moment later he unlocked the door, looked up at me, and smiled.

"My lucky day," he said. "And aren't you elegant! Pink is definitely your color. Come on in."

His studio was in disarray. The remains of his lunch with Herman were still scattered on his desk. I began cleaning up.

"Forget it, Cherry," he said. "I'll get to it eventually.

Would you like a dill pickle? There's one left."

"No, thanks," I said, laughing.

"How about a Jack Daniels?"

"A very small one with lots of water and lots of ice. I'll mix it."

"Help yourself."

It was a ramshackle home, but he did have a small kitchenette kept reasonably clean. I made my drink and sat on a spindly ladder-back chair facing him.

"I met Herman outside," I said. "Did you have a nice visit?"

"As usual. I'm always glad to see Herm-once a week. I love my brother, but a little of him goes a long way."

"Why do you say that, Chas?"

"He's such a lecher. That's all he thinks about chasing women. What makes a man act like that, doc?

"It could be a number of things. You say he continually chases women.

Does he catch them?"

"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."

She considered that quite seriously. "I don't believe I'm eager, Chas," she said finally. "If you mean eager to marry again. It really doesn't seem all that important to me. Perhaps one day it will, but not now."

"So there's nothing doing in the romance department?

She smiled. "I didn't say that."

Recalling that conversation gave me an idea for my new book.

My New York editor had loved The Adventures of Tommy Termite.

She had written, "You've made Tommy so real! How about a sequel?"

Now it occurred to me that I could do something with The Romance of Tommy Termite. I could create a girl termite called, say, Lucy. Tommy could be injured-maybe a shingle he's been gnawing falls on him or something like that. And Lucy comes along and nurses him back to health.

I liked it, a real "boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl" story. I'd have to work out the details, but I thought the basic idea was a winner. There would be misunderstandings, of course, perhaps even arguments, but eventually Tommy and Lucy would get together and live happily ever after.

But that finish, I realized, didn't have to be the end of Tommy Termite. He and Lucy could marry, have children, and future books could be about the termite family, their tribulations and victories. I began to see it as a Termite Saga that went on for generations.

"No children?" I had once asked Cherry Noble.

"No," she said stiffly. "Not yet."

"You have time," I assured her.

She looked at me strangely. "Do I?" she said.

It was a wasted weekend, Gertrude insisted on visiting her dull family in West Palm Beach. Those people are antiques, and all they talk about are friends who fell and broke their hips and how slow Medicare payments are. It was enough to drive a man to drink which it did.

But the new week brought a lovely spring morning. After I made a few phone calls and dictated a few letters, I went outside to the private practice putting green I had installed behind the laboratory. I spent an hour there and didn't do too badly. I sunk one 18-footer that was a lulu.

I went back inside, and Mrs. Collins told me Gregory Barrow had asked if he could see me for a few minutes.

I glanced at my watch. "Tell Barrow to come up now," I said.

"If he stays more than ten minutes, you barge in and remind me of some appointment I'm supposed to have."

"Yes, Mr. McWhortle," she said.

I settled down behind my desk and lighted my first cigar.

The company doctor wants to limit me to two a day, and I rarely smoke more than four.

Barrow came in, and I knew immediately he had a problem.

The man is a world-class chemist but a real worrywart. He gets these two vertical lines between his eyebrows, and that means something is bothering him.

"Mr. McWhortle," he started, "it's about this ZAP project for the government."

"I'm glad you reminded me, Greg," I said. "I had a phone call from Colonel Knacker. He said from now on ZAP should not be called a diet additive but always referred to as a diet enrichment."

"Yes, sir," Greg said, "but what I wanted to speak to you about were the moral and ethical implications of the project.

I've been doing a lot of thinking about it, and it seems to me we're treading on dangerous ground here."

"How so.

"First of all, Colonel Knacker never explicitly stated that the combat soldiers will be told they're receiving a drug to make them more aggressive. I think informed consent is absolutely necessary if the government wants to avoid a scandal if ZAP becomes a matter of public knowledge."

"I see what you mean, I said, "and you're probably right. I think the best solution would be to announce the existence of ZAP, if it proves successful. Then put on a big public relations campaign to sell it to the enlisted men and women and to the American people as a harmless diet enrichment that will give our soldiers an edge in combat."

I could see he was not totally convinced.

"No one is going to be fed a drug without his or her knowledge, Greg,"

I said softly. "I'd never allow that to happen.

But, believe me, when soldiers are told about the aggressive spirit ZAP will give them, they'll be happy to gulp it down because it will increase their chances of survival."

"I guess you're right, Mr. McWhortle," he said finally.

"Was that all you wanted to talk about?" I asked him, knowing it wasn't.

"One other thing," he said. "If soldiers are fed testosterone before going into battle, isn't there a danger that in addition to attacking the enemy they may also turn to slaughter, mutilation, rape, and other excessive forms of violent behavior?"

"Why, Greg," I said gently, "that depends on the strength of the dosage, does it not? And that's your job. The product you develop must be strong enough to achieve the result we want but not so powerful that it results in those horrendous acts of savage brutality you mentioned. If I didn't think you could do it, I wouldn't have handed you the assignment. You're the best chemist in the house, Greg. I know that, and I'm depending on you."

"Yes, sir," he said, standing. "Thank you, Mr. McWhortle."

Those worry lines were gone from his face. He was such an innocent.

"And remember, I cautioned him, "absolute secrecy is a must. Not a word of this to anyone."

The moment he was out of the office, I looked at my watch again and picked up my private phone.

The line doesn't go through our switchboard. I called Jessica Fiddler.

She picked up on the second ring.

"Hello, Jess honey," I said. "It's Mac. Got time for me?"

"Oh, daddy," she said huskily, "I was hoping you'd call.

I'm out at the pool in my new bikini. Bright red! You'll love it.

Can you come over now?"

"On my way," I said, and hung up.

"Got a golf date, Mrs. Collins," I told my secretary. "If anything important comes up, you can leave a message at the club."

"Yes, Mr. McWhortle," she said.

Life can be beautiful.

I had bought the house for Jessica. It was in her name, the best investment I ever made. it wasn't a mansion, but it was a comfortable two-bedroom ranch with a patio and pool that faced south. Jess kept the fridge filled with my favorite snacks and the wet bar supplied with potions I preferred. Jess was twenty-one, looked sixteen, and was on the McWhortle Laboratory payroll as a consultant. I consulted her frequently.

I sat on the patio in the shade, sipping a Michelob Dark, while Jessica lolled in a chaise in the sunlight, her top off.

Her body was the stuff of dreams. She had an apricot suntan, and she just gleamed. I loved everything about her. And if I was three times as old as she, so what?

"Have you been working hard?" she asked lazily.

"Too hard," I said. "But I've got to make a lot of money.

Baby needs new shoes."

"You better believe it," she said, laughing. "What are you working on now?"

I enjoyed discussing business with Jessica. My wife couldn't care less. Gertrude wants to talk about her garden and when are we going to buy a summer place in North Carolina. But Jess was really interested in the work being done at the lab. I had warned her never to repeat what I told her, and I figured she was smart enough to know that her income depended on her discretion.

"We landed a big government research contract," I told her, and explained how we hoped to develop a testosterone pill that would increase a soldier's aggressiveness.

She listened, fascinated. "You think it will really work?

"It may or it may not. But we get paid either way so how can we lose?"

She rose and came over to stand close to me. I put an arm about her and leaned close to kiss her flat stomach. She ran a palm over my bald head.

"Well, if that ZAP pill works," she said, "I don't want you trying it.

You're powerful enough for me just the way you are."

"Let's go inside," I said.

I was a deca-millionaire, I lived in a nineteen-room beachfront home, I drove a white Mercedes-Benz 560SEL, but nothing I owned gave me as much pleasure as Jessica Fiddler.

Holding that young, springy body in my arms made me young again, I could forget my hairless scalp, dentures, a ticker that keeps acting up. Making love to Jess was turning back the clock, to a time when I thought I'd live forever.

I liked to think I gave her something, too. I don't mean just the house, the salary, the gifts. I mean understanding companionship, a real interest in her health, her feelings, her hurts and her dreams. I also liked to think she enjoyed my lovemaking. She continually said she did and if actions speak louder than words, she was telling the truth, she would do anything I asked her to do.

If you want to believe it was more obsession than love on my part, you may be right. But love is an obsession, is it not? All I knew was that if I could no longer hold that tight, fervid body in my arms, feel it, kiss it, I would suddenly become an old man. uddle seemed to me a cornball name for a new C perfume, but the client pays the piper and calls the tune. So when I saw that article, "The Cuddle Hormone, " naturally I was interested and read it again on Monday morning to make certain I fully understood what the author was writing about.

Briefly, his subject was oxytocin, a hormone secreted by the pituitary gland, which stimulates uterine contractions during childbirth. It has been synthesized and for years women in labor have been given the synthetic form to ease pains and speed up birth.

But recent research indicated a more important role for oxytocin. It was found that it aided sexual arousal and, after intercourse, contributed to a feeling of satisfied relaxation.

More curiously, in animal tests it seemed to result in increased affection, including stroking, grooming, and nuzzling.

Although for a long time oxytocin was studied for its physiological effects on women, it had now been discovered that heightened levels of the hormone were present in a man's blood during copulation and ejaculation. In fact, experiments were underway to see if added doses of oxytocin might help impotent men.

But it was the hormone's ability to foster feelings of pleasure and satisfaction that interested me, especially after I read that an aerosolized form of synthetic oxytocin had been developed. It seemed possible that such a spray might be used in a dilute amount in the new perfume.

If it succeeded, the hormone-enhanced fragrance would give women who wore it a desire for close affection and warm intimacy, and would arouse the same feelings in men who sniffed the scent.

The effects of oxytocin on human behavior mentioned in the article seemed to indicate "love" rather than ilpassion"-exactly what the proposal from Darcy amp; Sons had stated was to be the leitmotiv of Cuddle.

Mulling all this, I wandered to my office window, looked down and saw morning sunlight glinting off the bald pate of Mr. McWhortle. He was practicing on his putting green, and even as I watched, he missed a shot that couldn't have been more than six inches. I laughed and went back to my desk. I wrote out a requisition to the supply department asking them to obtain what I estimated would be an ample supply of the aerosolized form of synthetic oxytocin.

It was quite possible, of course, that the addition of a hormone would have no effect whatsoever on the new perfume. So I spent the remainder of the morning jotting down several combinations of conventional scents I thought might serve for Cuddle if oxytocin proved a failure.

I like to lunch early in the employees' cafeteria, and so does Greg.

We usually sit together at a table in a far corner, where we are away from the crush and have a small measure of privacy.

Greg was already seated when I filled my tray. We had both selected the same items, chef's salad, iced tea, key lime pie.

He helped me unload my tray and gave me one of his buttered rolls because I had neglected to pick up my own at the serving counter.

"I don't know how I could have forgotten," I said.

"Probably too much on your mind," he said. "How is the new perfume coming along?"

"Slowly," I said. "And your project?"

"Even more slowly," he said, and we both smiled. Greg is notorious for his meticulous research. Then, not looking at me, he asked in a low voice, "And how are things at home?"

I hesitated a long moment before I replied. "Greg, I'm going to tell you something, and I know you won't repeat it to anyone.

I'm thinking seriously of divorce.

Then he looked at me but said nothing.

"I want to avoid it," I said. "Because of Tania. But now I wonder which is worse for her, being a child of divorced parents or living in a home where all she sees and feels is coldness between Herman and me.

It's such an unhappy situation for her."

"Marriage counselor?" he suggested quietly.

I shook my head. "I mentioned it, and Herman became absolutely livid.

He refuses to discuss it. I think he's deliberately trying to make my life so miserable that I'll walk out on him. Then he'll be the aggrieved party, and if there's a divorce, he'll hold all the cards."

"Oh, Marleen," Greg said sorrowfully. He glanced around.

The cafeteria was filling up. "Let's talk more about it on the drive home. This isn't the place."

I nodded, and we finished our lunch without saying anything more.

I went back to my office wondering if I had done the right thing to confide in Greg. But then I realized I had no other option. My parents are deceased, I'm an only child, and I have no close women friends. I had to talk to someone, and Greg is a thoughtful, serious man. And I knew he'd be understanding, his married life is as wretched as mine.

The ride home that I was driving that week, and on t g Greg and I resumed our luncheon discussion. evenin I recited the whole sad litany about Herman's heavy drinking, his constant philandering.

"I thought he was a diamond in the rough when I married him," I said ruefully. "He turned out to be a zircon in the rough, and he's getting progressively worse.

"You've spoken to him about how you feel?"

"Many, many times. All he does is laugh and then give his awful imitation of John Wayne, A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do." But what am I going to do, Greg? " "It's such a perHe was silent a long time. Then, sonal decision, Marleen, and so difficult that I hesitate to offer advice."

"You're not offering," I said, "I'm asking. I value your opinion.

What do you think?"

"It seems to me," he said carefully, "that if you find your situation completely unendurable, then you must take steps to change it."

"That means divorce, " I said determinedly. "There's no other way.

"Would you consider a trial separation?"

"For what purpose?" I demanded. "He's not going to change."

"Perhaps he might. After he's been away from you awhile and misses you and Tania."

"Never!" I said. "Herman is a self-centered oaf who thinks only of his own pleasures, which, in his case, mean whiskey and women. I blame myself. Marrying him was the worst mistake I've ever made in my life.

I just didn't recognize him for the lout he is. Greg moved uncomfortably in the passenger seat, and I realized my confession was embarrassing him.

"I'm sorry to dump all this on you, Greg," I said, "but you're really the only one I can talk to."

"I wish I could suggest some solution," he said despairingly.

"But I'm no good at personal relations. Human behavior just mystifies me. I suppose that's why I turned to science."

"I think you're too hard on yourself," I said. "You're a sympathetic man, always willing to listen to other people's problems' "Perhaps I'm willing to listen," he said forlornly, "but I don't seem capable of doing anything about them. And that includes my own problems."

I turned my Honda into our driveway and stopped. Greg started to get out of the car, then stopped and turned to me.

"Please don't do anything at the moment, Marleen, he said earnestly.

"It may prove to be rash. Let me think about it awhile. All right?"

I nodded and watched him trudge across the lawn to his own home, to a marital misery that matched mine.

I had told him that I did not think him a wimp, and that was the truth.

But I did wish he would be more assertive. He simply would not argue or even disagree. Not because he was weak and ineffectual, but because he was a sensitive man who abhorred crude, loud, and violent behavior.

I believe it almost made him physically ill.

It wasn't timidity on his part. He just wanted everyone to be civil-a vain hope, as well I knew.

I'm a liar. I've lied all my life, I admit it. Not because I enjoyed it, but I had to lie if I wanted to survive.

Let me give you a for-instance. I told Marvin McWhortle I was twenty-one when actually I am twenty-six. Thank God I've got the body to get away with it. Besides, men are such shlubs about women's ages, ask them to guess, and they probably won't hit within five years.

Why did I lie to McWhortle? To make myself more attractive to him. I knew porking a twenty-one-year-old would give the geezer's ego a real charge, and that's how it worked out. Also, I call him daddy. He likes that.

If I had had a good education and learned to do something like run a computer or be a nurse, maybe I wouldn't have had to lie. But putting out for him a couple of times a week sure as hell beats selling pantyhose at K Mart. The house is in my name, he can't take that away from me. And the salary I get is I'm not complaining.

Marvin picked me up in a Miami hotel bar. He never asked me what I was doing there. Looking for a fish like him, that's what.

But let me say this, After he set me up in his town, I never cheated on him once-and that's no lie.

I had been living in my house about six months when a guy came to the door and wanted to talk to me. He was well-dressed and all, and his silver Infiniti Q45 was parked at the curb, but I made him for a grifter right away, and believe me I've met a lot of them. It's their cool way, hard eyes, and the way they never blink that tip me off.

"What's it about?" I asked him. "You selling something? " He handed me a card. He was William K. Brevoort, or claimed to be. No company name, no address, just the name and a phone number, engraved yet.

"Okay," I said, "now I know who you say you are and your phone number.

But you haven't answered my question, What do you want to talk to me about?

"About the Snakepit," he said.

I sighed. The Snakepit is a nude dance joint in Miami, and I worked there for almost a year. I quit after the place got busted for the fourth time. That's when I hit the convention circuit, which was how I happened to meet McWhortle.

"All right, Mr. William K. Brevoort, " I said. "What's the game-a shakedown?"

"Far from it," he said. "You don't pay me, I pay you.

The guy looked like a weasel-a long, pointy nose, you know-but he didn't look like a mad rapist or even a strongarm, so I let him in the house. We sat in the living room, and he looked around.

"Nice," he said.

"Is that what you wanted to talk about?" I asked. "My interior decoration?"

He took a notebook from his jacket pocket and began flipping pages and reading out loud, "Jessica Mae Fiddler. Born in Macon, Georgia.

Father deserted family when you were six. One brother in the navy, killed in a fire at sea. Mother died of cancer.

Raised by your Aunt Matilda. You were kicked out of high school as incorrigible. Pot and moonshine. Lied about your age and married Bobbie Lee Sturgeon, a gas jockey. Marriage annulled.

Moved to Atlanta. Busted for loitering for the purpose of prostitution. A fine but no jail time. Moved to Miami. Busted with the other girls at the Snakepit. No convictions. Now you're here in this nice house. Paid for by Marvin McWhortle, owner of McWhortle Laboratory. Have I got it all correct?"

"Close," I said, "but no cigar. You missed the time I got a ticket in Fort Lauderdale for double-parking. How much did it cost you to find out all that stuff?"

"Not much," he said. "It's easy when you know how."

"Why did you go to the trouble?"

"How about offering me a drink?"

"Talk first," I said. "What's on your mind? I know you're not law, your suit is too elegant."

"Nice, he said, stroking his lapel. "Italian gabardine.

You like?"

"Cut the bullshit," I told him, "and make your pitch. If it's blackmail, McWhortle is the one you should be talking to."

He shook his head. "Not blackmail," he said. "Not my style.

I buy and sell information. Buy from people who know and sell to people who want to know."

"So? What's that got to do with me?"

"Does McWhortle ever talk to you about his business?

"Sure he does."

"About new products his lab is working on?"

"Yeah, sometimes he talks about those."

Brevoort stared at me. "Well?" he said.

"What would you like to drink?" I asked him.

And that's how it started. Whenever McWhortle told me about a new project at the lab, or brought me a sample of a new perfume or maybe a new headache pill, laxative, or whatever, I'd give Willie the Weasel a call, and he'd come over to get it. He always paid in cash and he wasn't a tightwad, I'll say that for him.

I never did learn where his office was, if he had one, and I never asked who his customers were. I figured the less I knew, the better-in case he ever got busted for stealing business secrets, you know. I don't think he was spying for Russia or anything like that. His clients were probably competitors of the companies that paid McWhortle Laboratory to develop new products, and I imagined they paid Willie mucho dinero for the information and samples I passed along to him. I got a thousand dollars a pop.

So now I had the house, I was a salaried employee with a Social Security number and paying withholding taxes and all, and in addition I had a safe deposit box that was filling up with the cash Brevoort paid me.

After McWhortle left me on that Monday after noon, I waited a half-hour to make sure he wasn't coming back because he forgot something or wanted an instant replay of our roll in the hay. Then I called Willie.

Most of the times I phoned I'd get his answering machine, but this time he was in. I said I had something for him, and he said he'd be right over. He was there in fifteen minutes-which meant his office or home was nearby, right?

As usual, he looked spiffy. I'll say this for him, He never made a move on me. Of course, he could have been gay, but I don't think so.

I figured he didn't want to start anything because that would give me an edge on him, and he wanted to keep it strictly a business deal. As long as those hundred-dollar bills he handed out were good, I was satisfied.

I had a vodka martini and he had a club soda, while I told him about the big research contract the government had given McWhortle Laboratory to develop a pill that was supposed to make soldiers more aggressive.

"Nice," Brevoort said-his favorite word. "Did he happen to mention any of the ingredients?"

"Testo something."

"Testosterone?

"Yeah, that's it. They call it the ZAP pill."

"Uh-huh," he said. "Keep asking him about it, Jess. Here's a grand.

If they actually produce ZAP and you can get a sample, there'll be another two big ones for you.

"Oh-ho," I said. "That important, is it?"

"You have no idea," he said.

After he left, I had another drink and wondered if I had been wrong, maybe he really was selling my information to Russia or some other foreign place. But what the hell did I care. it's all about survival. And survival means money. I knew that at the age of four. And believe me, only people with money can afford morals-even if a lot of richniks haven't got any to speak of. But when you're poor, dirt-poor like I've been, morals are a joke. You scratch, claw, and do a lot of things you'd rather not do just to survive.

I had nothing against Marvin McWhortle personally. He was getting what he wanted, and I was getting what I wanted. It was strictly business.

Just like my deal with Willie the Weasel.

Sometimes I could kill them. Like tonight at supper, Mom is picking on Dad about buttered carrots. He don't like them, and she knows he don't like them. But she dumps a big spoonful on his plate and says,

"Eat them."

He don't say a word but he eats the carrots. Some of them.

Sort of pushing them around. What a wimp he is. Then they didn't talk at all anymore. So I got up and left the table.

"Where do you think you're going?" my mom yelled, but I just slammed out.

I went over to Ernie's, but his house was dark. Then I remembered they were going to the movies that night. My parents never take me to the movies. I don't care.

There were a lot of stars out, and I wondered what to do. I had a book report to write ("Tom Sawyer") but I didn't want to go back to my house. Dad would be working in the den with the door closed, and Mom would be watching one of her dopey travel shows on TV. They wouldn't even know I was home. They don't care.

I went through backyards, and Tania Todd was sitting on her back steps.

She's a year younger than me but she's a good kid.

We take the school bus together almost every morning, but I'm a grade ahead of her, so we don't have the same classes. But we both belong to the Nature Club.

"Hi, Tania," I said, and sat down next to her.

"Hi, Chet," she said.

My name is really Chester but I like to be called Chet. It sounds better.

"Why are you sitting out here?" I asked her.

"Just because," she said. Then she added, "Family matters."

"Yeah, well, I got the same thing," I said. "Sometimes grown-ups can act dopey."

She didn't say anything, and when I looked sideways at her, I saw she was crying. She wasn't making any sounds, but her face was all wet.

"Hey," I said, "you shouldn't be doing that."

"I can't help it," she said. "Why do they have to be that way-like they hate each other."

"I know," I said. "Mine, too. It makes you wonder why the hell they got married."

"You shouldn't swear," Tania said.

" Hell' isn't swearing," I told her. "It's just a plain word. I know some real swear words."

"Well, I don't want to hear them. My father says them sometimes, and I cover my ears."

"At least he talks," I said. "My dad don't even do that."

"Doesn't," she said.

The back door opened. Mrs. Todd came out and saw us. "What are you guys doing out here?" she asked, "Just sitting," Tania said, not looking at her.

"That's nice," her mother said. "I have chocolate chip cookies. Would you like some, Chet?"

"Okay," I said, and she brought us a plate of them. They were still warm, so I guess she had just made them. "Thank you, Mrs. Todd," I said.

She went back inside and Tania and I had a cookie. They had a lot of chocolate bits in them, which I like. My mom gets the store-boughten kind that come in a plastic bag and they don't have enough chocolate in them.

"Sometimes I wish I had never been born," Tania said.

"Yeah, well," I said, "I feel like that sometimes, too. But we were.

Born, I mean. So there's nothing we can do about it."

"Then I wish I had different parents. Like Sylvia Gottbaum.

She and her brother and her mother and her father are always doing things together. Like this summer they're all going to Paris, France.

I never get to go anywhere with my parents."

"And look at Ernie Hamilton," I pointed out. "He went to the movies tonight with his mom and dad. You know how many times my folks have taken me to the movies? Maybe three times, that's all.

There's one cookie left. You want it?"

"You can have it, Chet."

"Thanks. Your mom is a good cook."

"I wish my father thought so. Maybe he'd come home for dinner more often."

"He doesn't come home? Where does he eat?"

"Oh, he always has business meetings and things like that.

Anyway, that's what he says." She leaned close and whispered in my ear. "But I don't think so. I think he eats with other women."

"What other women?" I said in a low voice.

I don't know," she whispered. "But I heard Mother tell him he smelled of Passion. That's a perfume. My mother knows all about perfumes.

She makes them."

"But why would your dad want to have dinner with other women when your mother is such a good cook? " "I don't know," she said. "But it makes Mother unhappy."

"Because he won't eat her cooking?" "I guess. They're always being nasty about it. It scares me. I'm afraid they'll get in a real fight, and something awful will happen."

We were quiet a long time. it really was a super night with the stars and all. There was a half-moon and it lighted up the whole sky. It made everything seem big.

"You know," I said to Tania, "I've been thinking.

Maybe I'll leave."

"Leave where?"

"Home. Maybe I'll leave home."

She turned to look at me. "But where would you go?"

"I don't know. But I'd like to go somewhere. Away from here."

"But how would you do it?" she asked. "I mean how would you travel?"

"I've got some money, " I said. "Not very much, but maybe it's enough for a bus ticket somewhere. Or I could hitch a ride. Like on a truck going up north or anywhere.

I don't care."

She was silent awhile. Then, "When are you going to go?"

"I don't know. I haven't decided yet. But I don't want to live at home anymore. I want to be someplace else. Maybe I'll meet some people who'll take me in. Nice people."

"Chet," Tania said, "can I go with you? When you decide to go, can I go along with you?"

"I don't know," I said. "It might be dangerous. I've never been away from home before. Ernie Hamilton, he went to camp."

"I don't care. If you go away, I want to go with you.

Okay?

"I'll have to think about it," I told her. "It's very important."

"I know it is. If you leave home, promise me I can go with you.

Promise me, Chet. Cross your heart and hope to die."

"I'll think about it," I said, and that's all I said. After a while I got up and went home. just like I knew, my father was in the den with the door closed, and Mom was watching TV.

I went upstairs to my bedroom, locked the door, and counted my money.

I had four dollars and sixty-seven cents. I didn't know how much bus tickets cost, but I thought it would be more than that. But if Tania came with me, maybe she could get some money.

I thought it would be great if we were just walking along and found a wallet someone had lost, and it had a lots of money in it.

That would really be neat.

I'll tell you one thing, When I grow up and get married, I won't be like my dad.

I'll talk right and have a kid, I will talk to my wife, as much as she wants, and I'll do things with my kid.

Like I'll take him to the movies, and er been fishing. Also, I will we'll go fishing. I've nev play catch with him and things like that.

I felt like crying, but of course I didn't. It was okay for Tania to cry, she's a girl, but I couldn't cry. That's for girls and babies.

Although once I saw my mom cry. I went into her bedroom without knocking, and she was sitting on the bed hunched over, and she was crying. I don't know what for. I just went away.

I never saw my father cry, but I never really heard him laugh either.

Sometimes he smiles, but not very often.

After I run away, I'm going to laugh all the time. That shows you're happy, don't it? Well, I'm going to be happy. And Tania will laugh, too. We'll be happy together.

"don't want to lean on you, Greg," Mr. McWhortle.Lsaid to me, "but you know what the military is like, They want everything tomorrow. So requisition whatever you need and don't worry about the expense. We have a cost-plus contract, Uncle Sam is picking up the tab.

Actually, there wasn't a great deal I needed in the way of new hardware and supplies. My private research lab at McWhortle's is fully equipped and our own supply department could provide from stock most of the additional items I required.

I had two small video cameras on tripods moved in along with an eighteen-inch TV monitor and VCR. Stacks of small wire cages were arranged along one wall. They held thirty mice-ten males, twenty females of a normal strain. And I had a new lock affixed to the lab door. It could be opened only with a magnetic card.

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.

The other part was an emotional need, I wanted desperately to love and be loved in return. Not affection, not devotion, but love, mutual and complete. A romantic psychiatrist, you smile? Well, why not?

And so on a Saturday afternoon, I drove out to visit Chas Todd.

He unlocked the door for me, then wheeled over to switch off his word processor. His housekeeper had obviously been there that morning, the barny studio was as clean and ordered as it could ever be.

"Were you working, Chas?" I asked. "Sorry to interrupt." " "That's okay," he said gruffly. "I wasn't really working, just reading over what I wrote last night."

"How is it coming?"

"I like it," he said, and laughed. "And I think you will, too. It's a love story, Cherry."

"I like it already," I told him.

"Between a boy termite and a girl termite. My God, you look great today. A luscious bouquet!"

I was wearing a flowered sundress. The back was wholly straps. I twirled in front of him. "You approve, Chas? " "What's not to approve? How about a gin and tonic? " "Only if you'll let me make them," I said and went into his tiny kitchenette. "I know what I'll get you for your birthday, a set of decent highball glasses. I'm tired of drinking out of jelly jars. When is your birthday? " "You've got it in your records, doctor," he said.

There was an edge to his voice, but I let it pass. I handed him his drink and sat in one of his spindly kitchen chairs. We raised glasses to each other but made no toast. He took a deep gulp, then grinned at me. What a handsome hulk he was! A damaged hulk.

"Feeling all right?" I asked him. "No nightmares? No depression? "

"Nothing I can't handle," he assured me. "I'm fine. What have you been up to?"

"Work mostly. Plus an hour on the beach this morning and maybe another hour or two this afternoon."

"Yeah, you're getting a tan. But no serious mischief?

"No," I said. "No mischief. How about you?" I saw his expression and added hastily, "I'm asking as your friend, not your shrink."

He shrugged. "Friend or shrink, no mischief to report. "

"Drinking?"

"Of course I'm drinking," he said testily. "And smoking up a storm.

And thinking lewd, lascivious thoughts. Okay?

"The last part is," I said.

"You never give up, do you?" he said, shaking his head.

"No," I said, "I never do. Tell me more about the boy termite and the girl termite."

"He meets her, loses her, finally gets her. And they live HEA. That's trade talk for happily ever after."

"How does he lose her?"

Chas gave me a crooked smile. "Because the poor schlumpf can't get it up. Even termites have problems."

"But you said that eventually he gets the girl. How did he solve his problem?"

"Did you put any gin in this?" he demanded, holding out his empty glass. "I couldn't taste it."

I mixed a fresh drink and brought it to him. "Chas, you didn't answer my question, How did the boy termite solve his problem?"

"I was kidding, for chrissake," he said. "Let's just drop it."

"All right," I said.

He looked at me. "You never argue, do you?"

"Would it do any good?"

"No," he said, "it wouldn't. Tell me something, doc, Why do you waste your time with me?"

"I don't consider it a waste. I enjoy being with you." "You do? " he said, sounding surprised. "I can't think why.

I don't particularly enjoy being with myself."

I regarded him thoughtfully. For some time I had been wondering if shock therapy might cure his impotence, which, I was certain, was psychic in origin. I decided, at that moment, to try it. But it would have to be framed as a request rather than a question he could kill with an explosive "No!"

"Chas," I said quietly, "I'd like to make love to you." it was the first time I had ever seen him blush. His naturally ruddy face took on a deeper hue, and I saw how shaken he was.

"What the hell is this?" he blustered. "is this a new kind of treatment? Something you provide all your hung-up patients?"

"You know better than that. This is something for me."

"I don't believe it."

"Believe it," I said, confused by my own motives.

"It's impossible," he said hoarsely.

"Let's find out," I suggested.

"No!" he cried. "I don't want your pity."

"I want yours," I told him. "Please."

He sat there, face twisted, and I could see how this struggle was roiling him.

"No," he repeated in a softer voice. "I can't. I'm afraid.

"Of what?"

"Failure. Leave me alone, doc."

I finished my drink and rose. "You'll think about it after I go," I said. "I know you will."

"You think you know everything," he said furiously. "Get the hell out of here and don't come back." I left, wondering if that line from Hamlet could be correct. "I must be cruel, only to be kind."