The Vicarage Bench Anthology Read Free

said showing a bit of humor for the first time.
    “Write your name and this address. I want to see if your handwriting is the same.”
    “How do you spell McGillicuddy?”
    “You are joking, right?”
    “How should I know how to spell her name?”
    “Whose name?”
    “Lucy’s name, of course. Isn’t that who we’re talking about?”
    He looked at her piercingly. Her features were perplexed, even sad, but without an ounce of guilt or duplicity.
    John said thoughtfully. “I have a friend, Robert Andrews, who might be able to help sort this problem out. He’s a psychologist. I know it’s a relatively new form of medicine, but I can assure you that it’s an acceptable practice and helpful to many patients.”
    “A shrink? Sure, yes—it’s a good idea. Maybe he can hypnotize me, or give me some kind of fancy drugs so I can get my life back.”
    “Right. Well, that’s fine, then.” He was openly shocked by her easy acceptance of his suggestion. “You rest tonight. I’ll notify the library so they will be aware that you are under medical care for a short time, and I will be here to introduce you to Dr. Andrews in the morning.”
    “He’ll come here? A house call?”
    “Yes, I’m sure he’ll be able to fit you in.” The truth was that to the ordinary working person in 1963 psychiatry was an unknown practice, and many people referred to Dr. Andrews and his form of medicine as quackery. A new patient would be a roundabout relief to the scholarly fellow whose nose was, more often than not, happily buried in some large tome. He was seldom busy.
    After John left, Jenna was restless and turned to the television, expecting to see normal programming, though she knew the late-night shows from New York City wouldn’t be on here in England. She was disappointed with a buzzing black-and-white test pattern, proving that it was late in the evening and the networks were finished for the day.
    Oh, God, I’m in hell. She slowly made her way to the fussily-decorated main bedroom, where pink reigned supreme, including the rose-colored chenille bedspread detailed with tiny rosebuds and the white lacy dresser skirt and chair skirt intertwined with pink flowers and ribbons.
    In the wooden wardrobe she found a voluptuous granny nightgown that, sadly, fit her bloated body, and in the bathroom she giggled uncontrollably when she spied the bag of curlers and the silk cover that was apparently supposed to be worn to keep them in place.
    “I don’t wish to intrude, but what’s so blasted funny?”
    Jenna looked around suspiciously, wondering where those words came from. Am I hearing voices now?
    She refused to look in the mirror. With disgust, she threw away the cheap facial products she found in the drawers, and so it was with some difficulty that she followed a portion of her nightly ritual. Her old routine took her anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour, depending on what her schedule looked like for the next day. She was highly paid and took her responsibilities seriously. Her looks were her bread and butter, and she was brutal in keeping to her regime. Tonight, she coped as well as she could with what she found acceptable and then crawled onto the misshapen mattress and let the copious tears flood.
    “I don’t know why you’re crying, for heaven’s sake. It’s my life you’ve taken over, my body you hate, my things you’re laughing at and my bloody bed you’re sleeping in.”
    “What? Hello?” Now I’m talking to myself, or thinking to myself, or—whatever. More tears flowed.
    “You’re thinking, well, talking to me. It’s Lucy.”
    “How can I talk to you when I’m you? Or, no, you’re me. Aw, shit! When we’re the same.”
    “I wish! You’re beautiful, and I’m plain and fat. Stop crying! My eyes swell terribly when I cry, and they can stay that way for hours.”
    “Hell’s bells, now I can’t even cry without getting hassled. Go away.”
    “No, I won’t. It’s taken me this long to come