you could say “Mona Lisa”—but I wasn’t Judson Roberts tonight. She smiled, and that was enough for me.
“So you remembered.”
“Like an elephant. A pink one.” I took another look at her. She was taller than I remembered her to be, and her voice was softer.
“What brings you here?” I asked.
“My convertible.”
“Nuts.”
“Why Doctor Roberts, what you said!”
“I mean it. Let’s not be smart tonight. I want to know all about you. I’ve been wondering. Who you are, where you live, why we hit it off so miserably after such a brave beginning.”
The drinks arrived. She stared at her glass as though she was looking into the Grand Canyon. When she spoke, her voice was almost a whisper.
“We were both upset, I guess. About the party, and Mike’s death—everything. We should have seen each other. I know that now.”
“What have you been doing?”
“Not drinking, mostly. For quite a while. I went down to the beach and took some more lessons.”
“What kind of lessons?”
“Voice. But I didn’t stick at it this time, either. I’m just not good enough. As with everything else, I’m a might-be. That’s not even as good as a has-been. Apparently my only talent is for liquor.”
“So you’re starting again?”
“Yes and no. I haven’t gone out for months. This was just an impulse.” I watched her pick up the drink. Apricot brandy, apricot lips. She swallowed, made a face.
“Brrr!”
“Then why do you do it?”
“What else is there?”
“You were going to tell me about yourself,” I said, patiently. “About the house you live in, the clothes you buy, the things you like to eat. How you wore your hair when you were a little girl. Do you like fireplaces? And sunsets? And does your nose get red when you have a cold?”
“Really, I’d like to, but I have to run along now.” She rose.
“Sit down.”
“Say you really mean it, don’t you?” She sat down again and waited.
“Why do you always run away when somebody asks you about yourself?”
“That’s my business.”
“You told me once that drinking was your business. Is it a part of the running away, too?”
“Good old
“All right, so it’s a line,” I said. “I can’t help you. Nobody can help you. You help yourself. Either that, or you keep on drinking. And in two hours you’ll be up at the bar, telling everything you wouldn’t tell to me. Spilling drinks and intimacies in front of the bartender. He’ll help you.”
She wrinkled her nose. “You know something? I like you when you get mad. You drop that phony front, then. I made a mistake when I walked out on you. We could have had a lot of fun together.”
“Sure,” I nodded. “A lot of nice clean drunken fun. We’re adults, aren’t we? We know what we want. A great big bottle and a chance to suck on it. A chance to drool our way back to infancy. Babies don’t know what they’re doing, they’re not responsible if they go to bed with each other and make messes. Yes, we could have had a lot of fun. And I’m damned glad we didn’t.”
“So am I.”
She leaned forward. I smelled apricots. The suntan had ripened her.
“Another drink?”
“No. Let’s talk. If you’ve been trying to scare me off drinking, you’ve succeeded.”
“Good. Try and pretend I’m God for a change.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Your God is the bartender. The bartender is always God, or haven’t you noticed?”
“I hadn’t, but go on. You will, anyway.”
“Drinkers are all alike. They go to the bartender for peace, for release. They tell him their troubles in confessional. Like God he dispenses wisdom, judgment, guidance. He rules supreme in his own world. He is quick to punish the transgressor. He can also reward with his favor—or with free drinks. He is omniscient and all-powerful. He knows everything about everybody within the microcosmic universe of the tavern. He is the source of solace and consolation. And he is worshiped in libations, with sacramental wine that produces divine intoxication. He is also, I might add, the father-image. Or more exactly, an idealization of the father. The infantile regressions of the dipsomaniac fit into this pattern of unconscious symbolism.”
“Funny you should say that. I never drank until Dad was killed.”
“And after he died, you kept away from men.”
“That’s right.” She looked at her glass. “He was one swell guy. Drank a lot himself, though. Geoffrey Post— industrial designer. You recall the name? He got into plane building in the thirties. That’s how he died, piloting one of his own planes. Cracked up.”
“So you cracked up. No mother, and the father-image. He drank, so you drank. You couldn’t have anything to do with men, either, because of the part he played in your psychic fantasy. You drank and were attracted to men, but that made you feel guilty, so you drank again. And—”
“Wait a minute. I’m not crazy.”
“They call it dipsomania, you know. And rightly so. Most psychotic states are rooted in some sexual aberration.”
“Why do you drink, then? Are you in love with your mother?”
“I’m an orphan.” I grinned. “But seriously, doesn’t it make some kind of sense to you?”
She nodded. The empty glass between her fingers nodded with her.
“I guess it does. I was beginning to figure some of those things out for myself. We were always together, Dad and I, traveling around and never stopping long enough in one place to make real friends. When I was eighteen he’d take me dancing, we went to parties together. Strangers took us for—” she bit her lip “—lovers.”
“They were right in a way, weren’t they?”
“Yes. Although neither of us was conscious of those feelings. It wasn’t until after Dad died that it hit me. Then I went to pieces, and now I’m trying to put those pieces back together.”
“You can’t do it alone very easily. You’ll need help.”
“Are you suggesting professional treatment?”
“Non-professional. Please, Ellen. I want to help you.”
“But you said you had to go your way alone. That there wasn’t room for anyone else in your life.”
“That’s all changed now. It has to be. You trust me, don’t you?”
“We’ll see. I want to think things over, first.” She rose, and this time there was no dissuading her.
“When will I see you again? I don’t even have your address.”
“I’ll call you. At your office.”
“Goodnight, Ellen.”
“Goodnight—Judd.”
And she left, taking the light with her, leaving the shadows and the empty glass.
I shook my head, raised it in response to a sudden sound.
“That girl, who is she?”
The Professor shot up out of a trapdoor or appeared in a burst of flame.
“Her name’s Ellen Post. We saw her at the Lorna Lewis party.”
“That’s right. She was attracted to you, I remember. Have you seen much of her since?”
“This is the first time since the inquest, and our meeting was accidental. But I hope to be seeing more of her.”
“Good. She may be useful.”
