Ordinary People by Judith Guest Read Free Book Online Page A

come. Example: You rate me ten, you only have to see me once a week.”
    Conrad laughs. “That’s crazy.”
    “Hey, I’m the doctor.” Berger grins at him. “You’re the patient.”
     
     
    The worst, the first session has been gotten through. And the guy is not bad; at least he is loose. The exchange about the razor blades reminded him of something good about the hospital; nobody hid anything there. People kidded you about all kinds of stuff and it was all right; it even helped to stay the flood of shame and guilt. Remembering that day at lunch when Stan Carmichael rose from his chair pointing his finger in stern accusation: “Profane and unholy boy! Sinner against God and Man, father and mother—” Robbie prompted him “—and the Holy Ghost, Stan—” and he ranted on “—and the Holy Ghost! Fall on your knees! Repent of evil! Ask forgiveness for your profane and evil ways, Conrad Keith Jarrett!” and he had nodded, eating on, while Robbie leaned across the table, and asked, “Stan, may I have your gingerbread? Just if you’re not going to eat it, buddy.” And Stan broke off his ravings to snarl petulantly, “Goddamn it, Rob, you’re a leech, you scrounge off my plate at every meal, it’s disgusting!”
    So, how do you stay open, when nobody mentions anything, when everybody is careful not to mention it? Ah, shit, Jarrett, what do you want? Want people to say, “Gee, we’re glad you didn’t die?” Poor taste, poor taste.
    He is suddenly aware of the other people on the street, hurrying by, intent upon their business. See? No one’s accusing. They don’t even seem repelled. As a matter of fact, they don’t even notice. So. No need to be affected by them, either, right? Still, as they pass him, he carefully averts his gaze.

6
    Cherry comes in, coatless, breathless, late from her lunch hour again. She gives Cal the practiced, wide-eyed smile. “What are you looking for, Mr. Jarrett? If it’s Braddock, that’s on Mr. Hanley’s desk. I’ll get it for you.”
    “That’s all right.” He nods curtly. “I’m looking for the Sandlin account. I had it the other day.”
    “Oh, just a sec, I know right where that is. I’ll bring it in to you, okay?”
    And again, the smile. A tall, big-boned girl who wears too much make-up, and her skirts too short. He has noticed lately that women aren’t wearing their skirts short. It must be out of style again, and now it looks cheap. Or else he is getting old. And the secretaries get younger every year. Cherry is nineteen. Lord, was he ever that young? Cherry. Now, who the hell would give a daughter that silly name? Nobody would. It’s a fake, like the smile. He goes into his office and stands at the window, waiting for the file, staring out at the flat, red-brick complex of buildings to the west. Evanston Township High School. Strange how institutional buildings resemble one another. He can spot them a mile off. That one looks much like the Evangelical Home.
    He glances at his calendar. Wednesday, November fifth. Get with Ray this afternoon about Braddock. Call George Sandlin’s broker. Call Burns and Rousch, set up a meeting for the nineteenth. Duties, services, advice. A good thing you do not have to know who you are, Jarrett, in order to perform, because today there is a minimum of information available on that subject.
     
     
    He hates fighting, and last night they had fought—over London.
    “I think you’re being unreasonable,” she said, “not even daring to ask him about it. Why don’t you just admit that it’s you who doesn’t want to go?”
    “You ask him, then! What am I? The official interpreter here? You see him every day, don’t you? Show him the travel folders, give him the pitch.”
    “I don’t see him any more than you do,” she said coolly. “What are you afraid of? It’s a question. It requires a yes or a no. You certainly ask him enough other questions—How did he sleep? How does he feel? How did I sleep? How do I