Free Consenting Adult by Laura Z. Hobson Page A

pressures within the firm to get shut of Fred Dirkeley. “It’s a disease,” Ken had said repeatedly, “sometimes a fatal disease, but don’t let us be the ones who kill him off.”
    Until Fred Dirkeley’s death Ken had remained unchanged in his attitude. Surely he would be equally steady if one of their three children had been involved.
    Yes, but this was not alcohol. She herself had just wished with all her heart that this crisis had nothing to do with sex—how much more strongly would Ken feel that? That was another reason for all these delays about telling him. That morning she had said she would be home too late for dinner, but she had ascribed that to “going up to see an analyst Mark Waldo recommended.” She had made it sound offhand, almost casual. It was an a priori judgment about Ken that she was suddenly appalled by, a sort of superiority she was assuming.
    On impulse she stopped at the next highway gasoline station and called home. “I’ll be later than I thought, Ken,” she said. “I thought I’d better let you know.”
    “Where are you calling from?”
    “Near Norwalk. That analyst is in New Haven, didn’t I say that?”
    “I suppose you did.” His tone changed. “I’ve been wondering, why this much of a rush. I hadn’t thought you’d be going up all this fast”
    “It seemed better to get things in motion.”
    “There must be some sort of crisis I don’t know about,” he said slowly. “It’s been building up in my mind that there must be.”
    “I’ll explain it all when I get home, every bit of it. But if you get hungry before I get there, there’s cold roast beef from last night”
    She drove the rest of the way in an emotional stupor, unable to devise an opening that might make it easier for him. There could be no putting it off now and there was relief in being committed, but she could not put two sentences together in her attempted rehearsal. Perhaps it was best this way; there was something false in prepared statements within a family. She drove the car harder. Decision itself was a relief.
    “Well, what’s this all about?” Ken greeted her when she at last got in. “Here, you’ll want a drink after all that driving. What’ll it be?”
    “A light one, vermouth, I think. Thanks.”
    “Are you hungry?”
    “Not really, thanks.”
    He waited until she had had two or three sips of her drink. She looked tired, in that special way she had of looking tired when fatigue was laced with depression. “Come on, Tessa, let’s have it. I knew the other night that something was up, I think I did anyway, when you were so intent about ‘not verbalizing.’ I suppose I was willing enough to let it slip by, but now, with your rushing about lining up an analyst, why, I realize it must be something pretty serious.”
    “It is, Ken. But it’s something that might be changed around, so don’t be too unhappy about it.”
    “Too unhappy about what?”
    “Jeff told me, he wrote me that he—he’s terribly disturbed about it himself, but Mark Waldo thinks, and this new analyst, Dr. James Dudley, seems to agree that if it’s still in the earliest stages, the formative stages, it can be cured.”
    “Tessa, what are you getting at?” He was standing still, looking down at her. The color in his face had mounted. “You really are making a mystery of whatever it is. What happened? What did Jeff write you?”
    “Two days ago I got a letter from him.”
    “What did it say?”
    She swallowed audibly, trying to rid her throat of the knotting constriction there. If only she could say it matter-of-factly, if only she could stay easy and controlled as she said it. She shook her head as if in negation, opened her purse, drew out the letter and held it folded for a minute. “Darling, try not to feel hopeless about this. It seems there is a large chance—he’s so young, so pliable still—” Her tone shifted in intensity. “In fact, Dr. Dudley said that about twenty-five percent of the