Free Beautiful Girl by Alice Adams

it would have taken to pay for all that silk.
    All her mother had ever said, in a tearful voice that was supposed to extract similar sincerity from Cathy, was “At one time in my life when I was very troubled, a psychiatrist really helped me a great deal. In fact, you might say that he saved our marriage, Bill’s and mine.” Not wanting Cathy to sense a conspiracy, she had not told Cathy that she was sending her to her own psychiatrist. This was in August, when Cathy had said that she was not going back to school in the fall, and her mother and Bill—her stepfather for the past ten years—had told her that in that case she must go to see Dr. Fredericks.
    “But I’m not troubled,” Cathy had lied. Then she had giggled in her unrelated, unnerving way. “Or married. I just don’t want to go to school for a while,” she had said.
    “But I hope you will be married,” her mother had said. She had sighed, frowned and then smiled, attempting reassurance. “Dr. James helped me a great deal,” she said. “He’s one of the best doctors in San Francisco.” She used the first name of Dr. Fredericks—Dr. James Fredericks—which Cathy did not think was a very smart disguise.
    While the long pause after his question lasted, Dr. Fredericks struggled with his counter-transference. He stared down at Cathy’s rather squat, short body in its jeans and blackturtleneck sweater, at the long, limp brown hair that fell from the edge of the couch and the perfectly round brown eyes in a pale, round face. He had to admit it—he couldn’t stand the little girl. Injecting kindliness into his voice, he said, “Isn’t there anything on your mind that you’d like to tell me about?”
    At this, Cathy burst into tears. A quick, noisy storm of sobs shook her shoulders and her chest, then stopped, and she said, “You dumb fink.”
    He leaned back comfortably in his raw-silk chair that did not creak. Seductively he said, “I suppose by your standards I am in some ways rather dumb.” He did not say, Such as they are.
    “Such as they are,” she said. “I’m not interested in standards, or school or earning money or getting married.”
    “I wish I knew what you were interested in,” he said.
    This seemed to Cathy his most heartfelt and least contrived remark of the hour, and she answered him. “Clouds,” she said. “And foghorns. I wonder where they all are.”
    “If you really wonder, you could go to the library and get a book.”
    “I’d rather wonder.” She giggled.
    “The ‘trip’ is more important than the destination, is that what you mean?” Despite himself, he had underlined “trip.”
    “I don’t drop acid, I’ve told you that,” she said, deadpan.
    “Well,” he said, warming to his task, “that’s a reasonable enough fear. But perhaps you have some other less reasonable fears.”
    “Deer-hunters. God, they have the worst faces I ever saw,” she suddenly brought out, forgetting him and remembering the weekend just past. She and her mother and Bill had driven up to Lake Tahoe—a jaunt intended to prove that they were not really angry with Cathy, that they lovedher nevertheless. By an unfortunate coincidence, this was also the first weekend of the deer season. On the other side of Sacramento, winding up past Auburn through beautiful mountain rocks and trees, Highway 80 had been lined with white camper trucks bearing hunters. The men wore ugly red caps and red plaid shirts. They had looked remarkably alike, at least to Cathy—as alike as their campers. Fathers and sons and friends, their faces had been coarse and unintelligent, excited, jovial and greedy. “God, I hope they all shoot each other,” she said to Dr. Fredericks.
    “Well,” he said hopefully. “Let’s see if we can find out what deer-hunters mean to you. I doubt somehow that it’s sheer dislike of killing. For instance, you don’t seem to be upset about the war in Vietnam.”
    “That’s so bad I can’t think about it at all,”