Free Dark on the Other Side by Barbara Michaels Page B

courtesy
had left him, and Michael liked him all the better for it. “A
psychiatrist can think up labels. I can’t. But I know, better than
anyone else can. She’s pulling away, moving back; and now the world
she’s invented is becoming real, for her. She—sees things.”
    “Interesting,” Michael said carefully. “How that phrase,
which has a perfectly matter-of-fact meaning, can suggest so much that
isn’t at all matter-of-fact. I gather you mean she has hallucinations?”
    Gordon’s swift glance at his guest was not friendly; but
Michael returned it equably, and after a moment the queer empathy
between the two men had reestablished itself. Gordon laughed suddenly
and leaned back, putting his glass down on the table.
    “Thanks again. That’s my greatest danger, I
guess—becoming mystical myself. We all do, when catastrophe strikes.
What has brought this curse upon me?—that kind of thinking. And it is,
to say the least, nonconstructive. Yes, she has hallucinations.”
    Michael nodded silently. He was afflicted with an unusual
constriction of the brain. Three words. That was all she had
said—groaned, rather—just before she slid through his fumbling hands in
a genuine faint. But those words, coupled with the similar incident in
the grove earlier that day, had told him enough. He was on the verge of
repeating his knowledge to Gordon when something made him hesitate.
After a moment, Gordon went on,
    “The hallucinations are only part of the problem, but to
me—and to Hank Gold, whom I’ve consulted—they seem a particularly
alarming symptom. It seems to be an animal of some kind that she
fancies she sees—a dog, perhaps. Why it should throw her into such a
frantic state…”
    The black dog.
    The words formed themselves in Michael’s mind so clearly
that for a moment he thought he had spoken them aloud. He did not; nor
did he stop to analyze the reasons for his continued silence on this
point. Instead, he said, “It seems to be an animal? Don’t you know?”
    Gordon laughed again; this time the sound made Michael
wince.
    “No, I don’t know. Don’t you understand? Whatever her
fear is, I’m part of it. I’m the one she hates, Mike.”
    It all came out, then, like a flood from behind a broken
dam. Michael sensed that this had been building up for a long time,
with no outlet. Now he was the outlet. He listened in silence. Comment
would have been unnecessary.
    “Linda was barely twenty-one when I met her,” Gordon
said. “She was a student, taking the course I taught that one year—you
know about that, I suppose. It was an experiment; I thought perhaps
teaching might give me something I had failed to find in other
pursuits. It didn’t. But it gave me something that meant more.
    “She was beautiful. She never knew, nor did any of the
clods around her, how beautiful she really was. You can see it still,
though it’s contaminated now, faded. What you may not realize is that
she was also one of the most brilliant human beings…Oh, hell, that’s
the wrong word; why can’t I find the right words when I talk about
Linda? Intelligent—yes, surely. Original, creative, one of those rare
minds that sees through a problem to its essentials, whether the
problem is social, arithmetical, or moral. But there’s an additional
quality…. Wisdom? Maybe that gives you a clue, even if it’s not quite
right. The quality of love. You know how I mean the word—‘And the
greatest of these…’I know, I’m making her sound like a saint. She
wasn’t. She was still young, crude in some ways, impatient in others,
but that quality was there, ready to be developed, drawing…
    “It drew me. God, how it drew me! I couldn’t sleep
nights. I sat around waiting for that damned class to meet, three days
a week, so that I could see her. I had every adolescent symptom you’ve
ever heard of, including humility. It took me four months to realize
that I didn’t have to wait for class, or skulk around the library