“He could be. If he didn’t go out.”

“Did he tell you he was going out?”

“No.” And seemingly my husband was disinclined to say anything more than that.

I went upstairs and found Duff’s door closed. There was no response when I knocked. I opened the door quietly. He was sitting on his bed with an impish grin on his face.

“Mama, Mama.” He admonished me with his finger.

“Why didn’t you answer when I knocked?”

“Because I knew you’d come in.”

“I just wanted to see if you were covered properly. It’s chilly tonight.”

“Bosh, it’s warm.” He patted my hand. “Never mind, Mama. I know you have my best interests at heart. Did you make an appointment for me with the shrink.”

“Yes, for tomorrow right after breakfast.”

“Okay. I hope some good comes of it for your sake.”

“You must be honest with the man, Duff. You must answer all his questions truthfully as best you can.”

“Right on, Mama.”

I wanted to kiss him—he seemed such a child again then—but I was afraid to. Instead I just nodded and went to my room and soon after to bed. Of course, I checked to see if the uniform coat was still under my mattress. It was, and I went to sleep certain that I wouldn’t be troubled by the General for another night.

17

Chapter Seventeen

The next morning Duff was up before me and downstairs waiting for me. He had made pancakes, burning them slightly, and the two of us had breakfast, not waiting for Franny and Jack.

We didn’t talk about the coming session with Dr. Jackson, but about other things, old times in Scarsdale mostly, and about his last birthday and his approaching one. For his sixteenth birthday several of his pals had come to dinner. I wondered now if he wanted a dinner party this year. He declined.

“Isn’t there some girl in your class you’d like to invite?”

He studied me for a moment. “No, there isn’t any girl.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.” He went and got his coat and mine. “Do you think I ought to find myself a girl, Mother?”

“I think you ought to do what you want to do.”

We did very little talking on the way to Cainesville. As we approached the motel I said, “You mustn’t worry about this. It’s painless.”

“Don’t you find it painful to talk about certain things, Mother? Or sometimes to even think about them?”

There was a sly note in his voice. I turned, half-­expecting to see the General, but it was only my son looking very serious and completely innocent.

“There are things in all our lives that we don’t like to be reminded about,” I conceded. “But sometimes by talking about them we can relieve the unhappiness they’ve caused us.”