genuine ones, too.
The genuine variety was represented by a series of advertising proofs, also on the desk, and now spread out. They had been prepared by the Austin Advertising Agency and the purpose was to encourage Keycharge holders to use their credit and their cards increasingly. One announcement urged:
WHY WORRY ABOUT MONEY?
USE YOUR KEYCHARGE CARD
AND
LET US WORRY FOR YOUI
Another claimed:
BILLS ARE PAINLESS
WHEN YOU SAY
'PUT IT ON MY KEYCHARGE '
A third advised:
WHY WAIT?
YOU CAN AFFORD TOMORROW'S DREAM
TODAY!
USE YOUR KEYCHARGE
A half dozen others were on similar themes. Alex Vandervoort was uneasy about them all. His unease did not have t o be translated into action. The advertising, already approved by the bank's Keycharge division, had merely been sent to Alex for general information. Also, the over-all approach had been agreed on several weeks ago by the bank's board of directors as a means to increase the profitability of Keycharge which like all credit-card programs sustained losses in its Intel, launching years.
But Alex wondered: Had the board envisaged a promotional campaign quite so blatantly aggressive?
He shuffled the advertising proofs together and returned them to the folder they had arrived in. At home tonight he would reconsider them and he would hear a second opinion, h e realized probably a strong one from Margot. Margot.
The thought of her melded with the memory of Ben Rosselli's disclosure yesterday. What had been said then was a reminder to Alex of life's fragility, the brevity of time remaining, the inevitability of endings, a pointer to the unexpected always close at hand. He had been moved and saddened for Ben himself; but also, without intending to, the old man had revived once more an oft-recurring question: Should Alex make a fresh life for himself and Margot? Or should he wait? And wait for what? For Celia?
That question, too, he had asked himself a thousand times.
Alex looked out across the city toward where he knew Celia to be. He wondered what she was doing, how she was. There was a simple way to find out.
He returned to his desk and dialed a number which he knew by heart. A woman's voice answered, 'Remedial Center.'
He identified himself and said, 'I'd like to talk with Dr. McCartney.'
After a moment or two a male voice, quietly firm, inquired, 'Where are you, Alex?'
'In my office. I was sitting here wondering about my wife.'
'I asked because I intended to can you today and suggest you come in to visit Celia.'
'The last time we talked you said you didn't want me to.'
The psychiatrist corrected him gently. 'I said I thought any more visits inadvisable for a while. The previous few, you'll remember, seemed to unsettle your wife rather than help.'
'I remember.' Alex hesitated, then asked, 'There's been some change?'
'Yes, there is a change. I wish I could say it was for the better.'
There had been so many changes, he had become dulled to them. 'What kind of change?'
'Your wife is becoming even more withdrawn. Her escape from reality is almost total. It's why I think a visit from you might do some good.' The psychiatrist corrected himself, 'At least it should do no harm.' 'All right. I'll come this evening.'
'Any time, Alex; and drop in to see me when you do. As you know, we've no set visiting hours here and a minimum of rules.' 'Yes, I know.'
The absence of formality, he reflected, as he replaced the telephone, was a reason he had chosen the Remedial Center when faced with his despairing decision about Celia nearly four years ago. The atmosphere was deliberately non-institutional. The nurse s did not wear uniforms. As far as was practical, patients moved around freely and were encouraged to make decisions of their own. With occasional exceptions, friends and families were welcome at any time. Even the name Remedial Center had been chosen intentionally in preference to the more forbidding 'mental hospital.' Another reason was that Dr. Timothy McCartney, young, brilliant, and innovative, headed a specialist team which achieved cures of mental illnesses where more conventional treatments failed.
The Center was small. Patients never exceeded a hundred and fifty though, by comparison, the staff was large. In a way, it was like a school with small classes where students received personal attention they could not have gained elsewhere.
A modern building and spacious gardens were as pleas ing as money and imagination could make them.
The clinic was private. It was also horrendously expensive but Alex had been determined, and still was, that whatever else happened, Celia would have the best of care. It was, he reasoned, the very least that he could do.
Through the remainder of the afternoon he occupied himself with bank business. Soon after 6 P.M. he left FMA Headquarters, giving his driver the Remedial Center address, and read the evening paper while they crawled through traffic. A limousine and chauffeur, available at any time from the bank's pool of cars, were perquisites of the executive vice-president's job and Alex enjoyed them.
Typically, the Remedial Center had the facade of a large private home with nothing outside, other than a street number, to identify it.
An attractive blonde, weari ng a colorful print dress, let h im in. He recognized her as a nurse from a small insignia pin near her left shoulder. It was the only permitted dress disti nction between staff and patients .
'Doctor told us you'd be coming, Mr. Vandervoort. I'll take you to your wife.'
He walked with her along a pleasant corri dor. Yellows and greens predomin ated. Fresh flowers were in niches along the walls.
'I understand,' he said, 'that my wife has been no better.'
'Not really, I'm afraid.' The nurse shot him a sideways glance; he sensed pity in her eyes. But for whom? As always, when he came here, he felt his natural ebullience desert him.
They were in a wing, one of three running outward from the central reception area. The nurse stopped at a door.
'Your wife is in her room, Mr. Vandervoort. She had a bad day today. Try to remember that, if she shouldn't…' She left the sentence unfinished, touched his arm lightly, then preceded him in.
The Rem edial Center placed patients in shared or single rooms according to the effect which the company of others had on their condition. When Celia first came she was in a double room, but it hadn't worked; now she was in a private one. Though small, Celia's room was cozily comfortable and individual. It contained a studio couch, a deep armchair and ottoman, a games table and bookshelves. Impressionist prints adorned the walls.
'Mrs. Vandervoort,' the nurse said gently, 'your husband is here to visit you.'
There was no acknowledgment, neither movement nor spoken response, from the figure in the room.
It had been a month and a half since Alex had seen Celia and, though he had been expecting some deterioration, her present appearance chilled him.
She was seated if her posture could be called that on the studio couch. She had positioned herself sideways, facing away from the outer door. Her shoulders were hunched down, her head lowered, arms crossed in front, with each hand clasping the opposite shoulder. Her body, too, was curled upon itself and her legs drawn up with knees together. She was absolutely still.
He went to her and put a hand gently on one shoulder. 'Hullo, Celia. It's me Alex. I've been thinking about you, so I came to see you.'
She said, low voiced, without expression, 'Yes.' She did not move.
