The Celestial Bed

by Irving Wallace

"I know. Not to worry."

  She went to him and placed an arm around his waist. "I told you all this because I want to help us. I can get you to Dr. Freeberg. He'd take you as a patient. He'd set you right, and there'd be no more problem."

  Hunter nodded, kissing her. "Of course, Suzy. You're a doll. I'll see your Freeberg . . . I sure will. If he takes me on, everything will be rosy. Of course, I don't know if I have enough money for that kind of treatment."

  "Never mind, Chet. I can loan you enough."

  "No, thanks. I can get the money on my own. Leave it to me."

  She started to dress. "But you will see Dr. Freeberg? I mean, as soon as possible?"

  "You know I will. I already promised it, didn't I? You can depend on me. Now, let's have a drink to it. You and me together, making it, making out very soon."

  Having completed her first session with her first patient in Hillsdale, Gayle Miller returned to the Freeberg Clinic in midevening, locked herself in one of the three soundproof small rooms downstairs reserved for taping reports, and dictated into the cassette machine all that had transpired with Adam Demski. After that, she left the tape on Dr. Freeberg's desk, so that he could listen to it in the morning, and then she went next door to the Market Grill for a cup of coffee and a cheese croissant.

  Now, seating herself at the only free table along the picture window overlooking the street, she recognized a familiar figure enter and search for a place to sit. The five stools at the counter were occupied, and the rest of the tables in the room were also filled. Observing Paul Brandon hunting for a table, Gayle was not certain that she wanted him to sit across from her, remembering his annoying remark to her this morning. Then, watching him cool his heels, she softened. For one thing, he was a fellow sex surrogate. For another, he was damned attractive—about five eleven, she guessed, well-built but lean, with dark mussed hair in need of a trim, and a gaunt angular face. Good chin, shaven. He was wearing a gray blazer over an open-collared checked sport shirt, and faded denims.

  Seeing him coming nearer, as he cast about to learn if any place would soon be free, she lifted one hand and signaled to him. When he saw this, she pointed to the empty chair across from her.

  Realizing who she was, he smiled, nodded, and gave his order to a passing waitress.

  As Brandon came up to her, she indicated the vacant chair again. "If you like," Gayle said.

  "I like," Brandon said. "Thanks, Gayle. I wasn't sure you'd want me here, after our little exchange this afternoon."

  "Oh, that. Forget it."

  Brandon shrugged. "Well, you put me down, and I deserved it." He waited until the waitress had delivered his black coffee and spoon. "Anyway, I apologize for being a smart ass. It's not my style. I think I just wanted to get your attention."

  She sipped her coffee. "Why? Actually, I had a feeling you somehow disapproved of me."

  His eyes on her, he shook his head vigorously. "No, not at all. In fact, quite the opposite. I approve of you very much. For one thing, you were speaking mostly to the women, and I wanted you to know I was there and aware of you." He hesitated. "For another, I just . . . Well, observing you, I couldn't see how a girl as lovely as you, as desirable, was . . . I don't know—"

  "Going to bed with different men?"

  "I suppose that's it. I know that's foolish, after all my training."

  "Yes. And you did work side by side with all our other female surrogates."

  "Not the same. They're a nice group, but I found you younger, fresher, and just an unlikely surrogate. So when you mentioned that you had a patient tonight, I senselessly wanted to get your attention—maybe unconsciously I wanted to keep you from being involved with another man."

  "Well, Paul, whatever your good intentions, I simply have no problem seeing and working with men. I do it because I feel that I'm accomplishing something, doing some good, making another human being whole."

  He drank his coffee. "Okay, if you want me to feel ashamed, you've succeeded."

  "I only want you to understand my motivation."

  Brandon nodded. "I do, I think. I've thrown in the towel. By the way, how did it go with your patient tonight?"

  "Routinely well. We did both the hand caress and the face caress. He's very shy, so I'm trying to get on some trusting basis with him. I just finished filing my first report for Dr. Freeberg." She nibbled at her croissant and sipped more of her coffee. "By the way, what are you doing here at this hour? You don't have a patient yet, do you?"

  "No. And I don't have an apartment yet, either. I'm still staying in a fleabag hotel. I came over to the clinic to go through a list of rooming prospects Suzy had left for me, and then I got involved in reading a psychology book in the clinic library."

  "Psychology book?" Gayle said with interest. "Psychology is my subject and goal. Is it yours?"

  "I'm not sure. Maybe psychology. Maybe sex education. Right now it's a toss-up. Are you telling me your surrogate work isn't your goal?"

  "That's not it, Paul. I've been in it a while, and I wouldn't mind going on and on. But there's a lot of stress in the work, as you'll find out, and I figure I'd better have a fallback position once I'm a burnt-out case. Sex psychology would be perfect, if I can get a graduate degree and do it while I continue my surrogate work. I could go for a long time with the surrogate work, knowing I'm doing something necessary."

  "You're making me feel more unworthy than ever."

  "I'm only telling you how I feel," she said seriously.

  "And I believe you." Brandon pushed aside his coffee and extracted his pipe. He held it up. "Mind?"

  "Not a bit. There's something both contemplative and mature about a pipe."

  Brandon laughed. "That's the point." He filled his pipe bowl and ran his flaming lighter over the top. He studied her. "I'm curious, Gayle. How did a cheerleader type like yourself become a sex surrogate?"

  She smiled. "Lucky, I guess. No, I don't mind telling you the truth. You have an open face. In college, I had a few light affairs. I couldn't get going. I blamed it on myself and worried because I was nonorgasmic. So I heard of Dr. Freeberg, who'd just moved to Tucson. I went to him, and we talked it out. He directed me to try masturbation. I'd never tried that since childhood. Maybe I thought it was sinful. It wasn't. It was wonderful. It seemed to break the ice. In my next two sexual encounters, I was very orgasmic. No problem. Am I boring you?"

  "I'm entranced."

  "Then I fell in love with a classmate, a young introvert and history major named . . . My God, have I forgotten his name already? Oh . . . it was Ted, Ted whatever . . . He was as smart as could be—but a brooder. A very disturbed young man, but I didn't know to what extent at the time. He fell for me, too. We made it to bed, but that's all. No further. He couldn't perform at all. Another mother's victim. I tried my best with him. I think we went to bed six, seven, ten times. He couldn't get it up once. Anyway—I don't want to go into detail—one morning they found him dead. He'd overdosed. A suicide at twenty. I can't tell you how it shook me up. Anyway, I went back to Dr. Freeberg and poured out my feelings. Finally, I realized it hadn't been my fault, and I got on my feet again. Meantime, between that episode and my visits to Dr. Freeberg, a resolve began to form in my mind. I told myself that what had happened to Ted must never happen to anyone else again, if it could be prevented. I wanted to be useful, to assist in the recovery of other men who were sexually disabled. Dr. Freeberg had once mentioned the words 'sex surrogate' to me, and I asked him to tell me more. And he did. Then he told me he had been considering using a sex surrogate himself. He had some seemingly hopeless cases, and he felt working with a sex surrogate might repair them. He wondered if I was interested. I certainly was. So he trained me, and then I went to work for him. It was exhilarating—but it was also illegal. When this was found out, Dr. Freeberg was forced to leave Arizona for California. I was eager to follow him. He'll do well here. So will I. How's that for a long story?"

  "Not long enough," said Brandon earnestly. "Some evening,
when you have time, I'd like to hear more. You're an interesting lady."

  Gayle ignored his verbal pass. She stared at him. "What about you? Why are you here?"

  "You really want to know?"

  "Everything. Like what were you doing and where were you doing it when you decided to move to Hillsdale?"

  "I'll try to make it a short short story," said Brandon. "I graduated from the University of Oregon in Eugene. I took a B.S. in biology. I'd also taken some classes in sex education. After that, because of an involvement with someone, I spent a brief interlude in Los Angeles. Then I scurried back to Oregon and put in some time as a substitute science teacher at the secondary school level, all this while trying to determine what to do with myself. When I heard of Dr. Freeberg's need for a male sex surrogate, I applied. But I knew I couldn't make a living at that. So at the same time, I applied to the Hillsdale School District for a job as a substitute science teacher. I took and passed the California Basic Educational Skills Test. I've been teaching off and on since I got here, going through my surrogate training, and waiting for an assignment from Dr. Freeberg. There you have it, Gayle."

  "Not quite," said Gayle, who had been listening intently. "I've told you why I'm in surrogate work. But you still haven't told me why you're in it. Why are you in it, Paul?"

  He gave her a crooked smile. "Is this the honest hour?"

  "Absolutely. I prefer you to be honest. Why are you a sex surrogate?"

  He let out his breath, then said, "Money. I have a little savings. I didn't want it to drain away. I needed something to supplement my teaching salary. Sex surrogate sounded just right. It could help me make a living temporarily at what comes naturally. I mean, while having fun."

  "Well, it's not always fun, as you'll find out when you get involved. Only money?"

  "Only money," he repeated.

  "You are honest."

  Brandon forced another smile. "Right now I wish I weren't. I wish I had a loftier motive."

  "No, you are what you are," she said. "It is just hard for me to see it the way you do. I really think I'm doing some good."

  "And you are," he said, knocking the ash out of his pipe. "Your patients are very lucky. They're getting a very beautiful young woman . . . and a very devoted one."

  Gayle gathered up her purse and check. Standing, she momentarily stared at him once more. "You know what, Paul? I'm not sure I believe you entirely, that you're doing this only for money, I mean. After all, you went into teaching, and that's a low-paying profession. You must want to teach for reasons other than money. Maybe because you also want to help young people. Which led you into surrogate work for the same reason." She looked at him questioningly. "Yes, I suspect there's more to you than meets the eye."

  Rising, he grinned. "There's only one way to find out. See me again." He reached over and quickly pulled away her check. "If you pay for yourself, this is only an encounter. If I pay, it's our first date. What about our second?"

  She came up beside him. "Call me up when you can. Suzy has my number. Then we'll see." She shook her head. "Two sex surrogates on their own time together? Sounds awfully kinky to me." She touched his hand. "But why not?" And then she walked out of the cafe.

  Chapter III

  It was morning, and in his Hillsdale clinic office, Dr. Arnold Freeberg was awaiting the arrival of Dr. Max Quarrie, a medical colleague and psychoanalyst from Los Angeles.

  Earlier that morning, after breakfast and before leaving for his clinic, Freeberg had received the unexpected phone call from Dr. Quarrie.

  Following brief social amenities, Dr. Quarrie had settled down to something more professional. "Got your letter, Arnold," he had said. "So you're in business?"

  "I'm in business," Freeberg had agreed, wondering.

  "Well, I may have someone for you. It all depends. Do you have a trained male sex surrogate on your staff?"

  "I do. I have one. Fully trained. A competent one, I believe."

  "I was remembering the little talk we had at that sexual dysfunction seminar in Buffalo, and you were saying trained male surrogates weren't easy to come by."

  "Because there's so little demand for them, Max. Lots of women with problems could use them, but as we agreed then, most women are understandably reluctant to have contact with a male stranger these days. However, from recent inquiries I've had from other doctors, I know that more and more women are accepting the idea, provided there is no risk involved. So I took on a male surrogate, and now he's fully trained. You have a case in mind?"

  "I do, Arnold. A case referred to me by an M.D. friend. This young lady has a problem. I feel it can be dealt with. Not by me, I decided, and not by a gynecologist. I've tried that, too. But maybe by somebody like you. I think I'd like to see you, the sooner the better. When can I come over?"

  "Why, right now, if you wish. I'll be free in an hour."

  "I'll be there in an hour. Then you can decide if anything can be done. I'll bring the case history."

  "Sure thing, Max. Be glad to see you."

  Now Freeberg was in his office, behind his desk, and myopic, pudgy Dr. Max Quarrie was seated in a chair opposite, holding a blue folder in his lap.

  With his free hand, he extracted a handkerchief and mopped his brow. "Damn humid out, and it's not a short drive." He pushed the handkerchief back in a pocket and held the blue folder in both hands. "Her name's Nan Whitcomb. Single. Never been married but not inexperienced either. In her late thirties. Plain. Physically sound. She was orphaned in her early teens, then taken in by an elderly aunt who looked after her. The aunt never had much money. About three months ago the aunt died, and Nan was left alone. When she'd almost used up the small amount of money she'd inherited, Nan realized she would have to find a job to subsist. She also needed companionship. She had a few male friends, but they came to nothing. Her female friends are all married and have families."

  "So she needed a job and a home?"

  "Yes, Arnold. She'd never held a real job before, except filling in as a cashier in various stores during every Christmas holiday season. She's good at figures. Anyway, she began to read the want ads for an opening as a cashier, found several but no luck. Then about two months ago she saw an ad for an experienced cashier in the main Hillsdale restaurant of a chain of eateries owned by a man named Tony Zecca. I've never met him. But I gather from Nan he's a Vietnam veteran, forty-five years old, a rough character whom Nan suspects has organized crime connections—a minor cog, but I'd guess those outsiders financed his restaurant chain. Anyway, Nan applied for the cashier's job at Hillsdale Mall, and late one afternoon Zecca himself interviewed her in his office. He's a short, bull-shouldered man, with hooded eyes, I gather. It was a long interview, mostly routine questions, and throughout it, Zecca kept staring at her.

  "The way Nan tells it, at one point Zecca suddenly sat up, still staring, then shook his head and said, 'This is really weird.' Somewhat confused, Nan said, 'What is, Mr. Zecca?' He said, 'You. The way you look and sound like a girl I used to know. That was just before the army. Her name was Crystal. I was just getting to know her, nothing intimate yet, and kind of thinking I really liked her, when I got grabbed up for Vietnam. I got her promise to wait for me until I was discharged—then maybe we'd get married. She promised to wait. But she didn't.' She sent Zecca one of those Dear John letters, or whatever they're called now, saying she was sorry, but she'd met some other man, and they were getting married and moving to the East. Zecca was understandably bitter. He swore never to trust another woman. And then Nan came into his life. 'What's weird,' he told Nan, 'is that you're so much like Crystal. I can't believe it. It's sort of like she came back to me.' I think Nan said, 'I'm flattered you think I resemble someone you cared for.'

  "Anyway, by that time it was getting dark, and near the dinner hour, so Zecca asked Nan if he could continue the interview while they dined in a corner of his restaurant. She was happy to do so." Abruptly, Dr. Quarrie handed the blue folder across the desk to Freeberg. "The rest is in
there. At least the highlights. You can see for yourself. Take your time." Dr. Quarrie stuck two pieces of gum in his mouth. "Mind if I wander around, have a look at your facility while you read?"

  "Please do."

  Alone, Freeberg rocked back in his swivel chair, opened the case history of someone named Miss Nan Whitcomb—and presumably, Mt. Tony Zecca—and began to skim through the neatly typed double-space pages. Here and there he lingered to read and reread more carefully.

  It was Freeberg's habit, whenever he studied a written case history, to recreate it as he suspected it had actually happened in life. He went back to an earlier section, the part recounting Nan's extended job interview and dinner with Tony Zecca in the corner of his restaurant. Reading it once more, Freeberg began to recreate it . . .

  Seated in their booth, Zecca was uninterested in his food. He was interested in his drinks. Nan nursed one drink but observed nervously that Zecca was on his fourth Scotch. His questions about her job qualifications were beginning to repeat themselves, and his voice was starting to slur slightly. He became less and less communicative, and he stared at her more and more, at her nervous countenance, at her rising and falling bosom.

  Suddenly, breaking another silence, Zecca leaned forward, his eyes fixed on her, lowered his voice, and said, "Hey, lady, are you a virgin?"

  She tried to make light of it. "Is anyone over fourteen a virgin these days?"

  "Yeah, sure. Ever have any serious affairs?"

  "No."

  "I mean, ever fall for anyone in a big way?"

  "Not—not yet," she said more nervously but a bit provocatively. She wanted that job. She needed it.

  "Okay." Long pause. "Think you could fall for me?"

  She was uncertain about how to handle this. "Maybe. It depends."

  "Depends on what?"

  "Well, what you're after, Mr. Zecca."

  "Tell you what I'm after." He was pressing closer against the table so that it now separated them by less space. She could see that he had a broad face, pugilist's nose, and that his arms and chest were very large for a short man. Absently, he finished his fourth drink, and she could smell the alcohol on his breath. "Lemme be frank with you. I don't believe in holding things back. I like to come straight to the point. That's how I got where I am—nice large house in Sherman Park, five restaurants, plenty of cash in the bank. By being frank. You be frank with me the same way, and we'll get along. You understand?"