Ordinary People by Judith Guest Read Free Book Online

studies it as he blows on his coffee. “What with? Pills? Gillette Super-Blue?”
    He sees the way to handle this guy. Keep it light. A joker. Slide out from under without damage. “It was a Platinum-Plus,” he says.
    The eyes are fixed upon him thoughtfully. They hold him still. “So how does it feel to be home? Everybody glad to see you?”
    “Yes. Sure.”
    “Your friends, everything okay with them?”
    “Fine.”
    “It says here, no sisters, no brothers. Right?”
    “Right,” he says. Don’t squirm don’t panic release is inevitable. Soon soon.
    Berger leans back in the chair, hands behind his head. It is hard to figure his age. He could be twenty-five. He could be forty. “So, what d’you want to work on?” he asks.
    “Pardon?”
    “Well, you’re here. It’s your money, so to speak. What d’you want to change?”
    He thinks, then, of his father; of their struggle to keep between them a screen of calm and order. “I’d like to be more in control, I guess. So people can quit worrying about me.”
    “So, who’s worrying about you?”
    “My father, mostly. This is his idea.”
    “How about your mother? Isn’t she worried?”
    “No.”
    “How come?”
    “She’s—I don’t know, she’s not a worrier.”
    “No? What does she do, then?”
    “Do?”
    “Yeah, what’s her general policy toward you? You get along with her all right?”
    “Yeah, fine.” He is abruptly uncomfortable. An endless grilling process, like it was in the hospital. He forgot how it tightened him up; how much he used to hate it.
    “You’ve got a funny look on your face,” Berger says. “What’re you thinking?”
    “I’m thinking,” he says, “if you’re a friend of Crawford’s you’re probably okay, but I don’t like this already. Look, what do you know about me? Have you talked to Crawford?”
    “No.” The blue high-beams have switched to low. The smile is benign. “He told me your name, that’s all. Told me to look for you.”
    “Okay, I’ll tell you some things.” He turns his head slightly, taking in the narrow window at the left of the bookcase. Sunlight streams in from the slot, cutting a bright path across the carpeting. “I had a brother. He’s dead. It was an accident on the lake. We were sailing. He drowned.”
    “When?”
    “Summer before last.”
    Staring now at the bookcase, he tries to make out the titles of the books from where he is sitting. He cannot. They are too far away.
    “I suppose you and Crawford talked about it,” Berger says.
    “Every day.”
    “And you don’t like to talk about it.”
    He shrugs. “It doesn’t change anything.”
    A pigeon, dull-gray, lights on the cement window sill. It pecks inquiringly at the window for a moment; then flies off.
    “Okay,” Berger says. “Anything else?”
    “No,” he says. “Yeah. About friends. I don’t have any. I got sort of out of touch before I left.”
    “Oh?”
    He does not respond to this technique; the comment in the form of a question. He had cured Crawford of it by telling him it was impossible to concentrate on what a person was saying if you were listening for his voice to go up at the end of the sentence.
    “Well, okay,” Berger says. “I’d better tell you. I’m not big on control. I prefer things fluid. In motion. But it’s your money.”
    “So to speak.”
    “So to speak, yeah.” Berger laughs, reaching for his notebook. “How’s Tuesdays and Fridays?”
    “Twice a week?”
    He shrugs. “Control is a tough nut.”
    “I’ve got swim practice every night.”
    “Hmm. That’s a problem. So, how do we solve it?”
    A long, uncomfortable silence. He is tired and irritated. And again, there are no choices; it only looks as if there are.
    “I guess I skip practice and come here twice a week,” he says.
    “Okeydoke.”
    It is over, and Berger walks him to the door. “The schedule,” he says, “is based on patient ratings. A scale of one to ten. The higher I rate, the fewer times you gotta