Private Eyes

“Except for the bruises.”

“Nothing that won’t heal. Sometimes creativity is called for.”

“Creativity?” I said. “Interesting way to think of torture.”

He stepped directly in front of me, just out of arms’ reach. Fingers tapping the buttons lightly. Setting off high- frequency chirps and staccato movements of both women’s bodies.

“Are you being intentionally stupid?” he said.

I shrugged.

“Torture implies intent to cause harm. I’m delivering aversive stimuli in order to enhance the rate of learning. Aversives are potent little buggers- only a mushy-hearted moron would question their usefulness. This is no more torture than a vaccination is, or emergency surgery.”

From around Ursula’s gag came the sound a mouse makes when cornered.

I said, “Just speeding up the old learning curve, Prof?”

Gabney studied me, gave the gray remote a couple of quick jabs, and caused both of the women to convulse.

I forced myself to look casual.

He said, “Something amusing?”

“All your talk about treatment, yet you keep using the shocks to vent your anger. Doesn’t that break the stimulus-response chain? And why, if you’re retraining Ursula, are you shocking Gina? She’s just the stimulus, isn’t she?”

He said, “Oh, shut up.”

“Sexual reconditioning,” I said. “It was tried years ago- back in the early seventies- and discredited.”

“Primitive crap- methodologically crude. Though it might have developed into something worthwhile if the gay lib agitators hadn’t shoved their point of view down everyone’s throat- so much for free will.”

I shrugged again.

He said, “I don’t imagine your mind is capable of opening sufficiently to snare facts, but here are a few, anyway: I love my wife. She elicits love from me, and for that I’ll always be grateful. She’s a remarkable human being- first in her family to finish high school. I recognized how special she was the first time I met her. The flame within- she was damn near incandescent. So her… problem didn’t deter me. On the contrary, it was a challenge. And she agreed with both my assessment and my treatment plan. What we accomplished- together- was totally consensual.”

I said, “Fixing her.”

“Don’t make it sound like something veterinary, you idiot. We worked together to solve her problem. If that’s not therapy, I don’t know what is. And what emerged from our work together could benefit millions of women. The plan itself was simple- positive reinforcement delivered contingent upon heterosexually induced arousal and punishment administered as a consequence of exposure to homoerotic material. But the application posed a huge challenge- adapting the paradigm to female physiology. With a male subject, measurement of arousal is a snap. Using a penile plesmographic cuff, you record degree of tumescence. Females are structurally more… secretive. Our initial idea was to develop a sort of minicuff for the clitoris, but it proved impractical. I won’t go into details. It was she who came up with the intravaginal moisture probe that she now wears so handsomely. Given proper base-line analyses of secretions, we’ve been able to correlate bioelectrical changes with perceived sexual arousal. The potential ramifications are fantastic. Compared to what we’ve done, Masters and Johnson are painting on cave walls.”

“Fantastic,” I said. “Too bad it didn’t work.”

“Oh, it worked all right. For years.”

“Not for Eileen Wagner.”

He stroked Ursula again and turned back to me. “Now, that was a mistake- my wife’s mistake. Poor patient selection. Wagner was pathetic- a cow, a mushy-hearted, bovine do-gooder. Psychology and psychiatry are so full of them.”

“If you thought so little of her, why’d you accept her as your fellow at Harvard?”

He shook his head and laughed. “She wasn’t my anything. I would have sent her to nursing school. She rotated for a month on my wife’s service. Rounds and didactic sessions and clinical supervision. My wife learned of her sexual pathology and tried to help her. The way I’d helped my wife. I was against it from the beginning, felt the cow wasn’t suitable for our technique- not enough motivation, no willpower. Her obesity alone should have been enough to disqualify her on that account- she was squalid. But my wife was too kind. And I gave in.”

“Was she your first subject- after Ursula?”

“Our first patient. Unfortunately. And, as I’d predicted, she did very poorly. Which says absolutely nothing about the technique.”

He gave a sharp look over at his wife. I thought I saw a finger tense.

“I’d call suicide a very poor response,” I said.

“Suicide?” His smile was slow, almost lazy. He shook his head. “Bear this in mind: The cow was incapable of doing anything for herself.”

Strangled sounds from Ursula.

Gabney said, “I’m sorry, dear- I never told you, did I?”

“Harvard believed it was suicide,” I said. “Somehow, the med school found out what kind of research you were doing and asked you to leave.”

“Somehow,” he said, the smile gone. “The cow was a scribbler- tear-stained “love’ notes never sent, stuffed in a desk drawer. Disgusting stuff.”

Walking over to his wife again, he stroked her cheek. Kissed a shaved spot on her head. Her eyes were clenched tight; she made no effort to turn away.

“Love notes to you, darling,” he said. “Mushy, incoherent, hardly evidence. But I had enemies in the department and they pounced. I could have fought it. But Harvard had nothing more to offer me- it’s really not what it’s cracked up to be. It was clearly time for a move.”

“California,” I said. “San Labrador. Your wife’s suggestion, wasn’t it? Go west for clinical opportunities.”

Opportunities arising out of Ursula’s supervision of Eileen Wagner. Closed-door sessions that turned into therapy, as supervision often does.

Eileen talking about her past. Her needs. The sexual conflicts that had caused her to switch from pediatrics to psychiatry.

Recounting her experiences, years before, with a beguiling, wealthy agoraphobic. A ravaged princess ensconced in a peach-colored castle, crippled by fear that had eventually spread to her daughter- a little girl so remarkable she’d called for help, herself…

An eleven-year-old conversation came back to me.

Eileen in sensible shoes and a mannish blouse, shifting her Gladstone bag from hand to hand.

She’s really beautiful. Despite the scars… Sweet. In a vulnerable way.

Sounds like you learned a lot from a brief visit.

The color rising in Eileen’s cheeks. One tries.

Her embarrassment a puzzle. So clear, now.

More than a brief visit had taken place.

A lot more than medical consultation.

Melissa had sensed something out of the ordinary, without fully understanding: She’s my mother’s friend… She likes my mother…

Jacob Dutchy had known, too- made a point of portraying Gina’s avoidance of me as a generic fear of doctors.

I’d questioned it: She met with Dr. Wagner.

Yes. That was a surprise. She doesn’t cope well with surprises.

Are you saying she had some sort of adverse reaction just to meeting with Dr. Wagner?