typist would have giggled, the office boy would have snorted, and every salesman on the force would have guffawed. Even Paul Chapman might have managed a wry smile. A real laugh had been beyond him for several months—ever since he asked Lucilla confidently, “Will you marry me?” and she answered, “I’m sorry, Paul—thanks, but no thanks.”
Not that seeing a psychiatrist was anything to laugh at, in itself. After all, the year was 1962, and there were almost as many serious articles about mental health as there were cartoons about psychoanalysts, even in the magazines that specialized in poking fun. In certain cities—including Los Angeles—and certain industries—especially advertising—”I have an appointment with my psychiatrist” was a perfectly acceptable excuse for leaving work early. The idea of a secretary employed by almost the largest advertising firm in one of the best-known suburbs in the sprawling City of the Angels doing so should not, therefore, have seemed particularly odd. Not would it have, if the person involved had been anyone at all except Lucilla Brown.
The idea that she might need aid of any kind, particularly psychiatric, was ridiculous. She had been born twenty-two years earlier in undisputed possession of a sizable silver spoon—and she was, in addition, bright, beautiful, and charming, with 20/20 vision, perfect teeth, a father and mother who adored her, friends who did likewise ... and the kind of luck you’d have to see to believe. Other people entered contests—Lucilla won them. Other people drove five miles over the legal speed limit and got caught doing it—Lucilla out-distanced them, but fortuitously slowed down just before the highway patrol appeared from nowhere. Other people waited in the wrong line at the bank while the woman ahead of them learned how to roll pennies—Lucilla was always in the line that moved right up to the teller’s window.
“Lucky” was not, in other words, just a happenstance abbreviation of “Lucilla”—it was an exceedingly apt nickname. And Lucky Brown’s co-workers would have been quite justified in laughing at the very idea of her being unhappy enough about anything to spend three precious hours a week stretched out on a brown leather couch staring miserably at a pale blue ceiling and fumbling for words that refused to come. There were a good many days when Lucilla felt like laughing at the idea herself. And there were other days when she didn’t even feel like smiling.
Wednesday, the 25th of July, was one of the days when she didn’t feel like smiling. Or talking. Or moving. It had started out badly when she opened her eyes and found herself staring at a familiar blue ceiling. “I don’t know,” she said irritably. “I tell you, I simply don’t know what happens. I’ll start to answer someone and the words will be right on the tip of my tongue, ready to be spoken, then I’ll say something altogether different. Or I’ll start to cross the street and, for no reason at all, be unable to even step off the curb....”
“For no reason at all?” Dr. Andrews asked. “Are you sure you aren’t withholding something you ought to tell me?”
She shifted a little, suddenly uncomfortable ... and then she was fully awake and the ceiling was ivory, not blue. She stared at it for a long moment, completely disoriented, before she realized that she was in her own bed, not on Dr. Andrews’ brown leather couch, and that the conversation had been another of the interminable imaginary dialogues she found herself carrying on with the psychiatrist, day and night, awake and asleep.
“Get out of my dreams,” she ordered crossly, summoning up a quick mental picture of Dr. Andrews’ expressive face, level gray eyes, and silvering temples, the better to banish him from her thoughts. She was immediately sorry she had done so, for the image remained fixed in her mind; she could almost feel his eyes as she heard his voice ask again, “For no reason at all, Lucilla?”
*
The weatherman had promised a scorcher, and the heat that already lay like a blanket over the room made it seem probable the promise would be fulfilled. She moved listlessly, showering patting herself dry, lingering over the choice of a dress until her mother called urgently from the kitchen.
She was long minutes behind schedule when she left the house. Usually she rather enjoyed easing her small car into the stream of automobiles pouring down Sepulveda toward the San Diego Freeway, jockeying for position, shifting expertly from one lane to another to take advantage of every break in the traffic. This morning she felt only angry impatience; she choked back on the irritated impulse to drive directly into the side of a car that cut across in front of her, held her horn button down furiously when a slow-starting truck hesitated fractionally after the light turned green.
When she finally edged her Renault up on the “on” ramp and the freeway stretched straight and unobstructed ahead, she stepped down on the accelerator and watched the needle climb up and past the legal 65-mile limit. The sound of her tires on the smooth concrete was soothing and the rush of wind outside gave the morning an illusion of coolness. She edged away from the tangle of cars that had pulled onto the freeway with her and momentarily was alone on the road, with her rear-view mirror blank, the oncoming lanes bare, and a small rise shutting off the world ahead.
That was when it happened. “Get out of the way!” a voice shrieked “out of the way, out of the way, OUT OF THE WAY!” Her heart lurched, her stomach twisted convulsively, and there was a brassy taste in her mouth. Instinctively, she stamped down on the brake pedal, swerved sharply into the outer lane. By the time she had topped the rise, she was going a cautious 50 miles an hour and hugging the far edge of the freeway. Then, and only then, she heard the squeal of agonized tires and saw the cumbersome semitrailer coming from the opposite direction rock dangerously, jackknife into the dividing posts that separated north and south-bound traffic, crunch ponderously through them, and crash to a stop, several hundred feet ahead of her and squarely athwart the lane down which she had been speeding only seconds earlier.
The highway patrol materialized within minutes. Even so, it was after eight by the time Lucilla gave them her statement, agreed for the umpteenth time with the shaken but uninjured truck driver that it was indeed fortunate she hadn’t been in the center lane, and drove slowly the remaining miles to the office. The gray mood of early morning had changed to black. Now there were two voices in her mind, competing for attention. “I knew it was going to happen,” the truck driver said, “I couldn’t see over the top of that hill. All I could do was fight the wheel and pray that if anybody was coming, he’d get out of the way.” She could almost hear him repeating the words, “Get out of the way, out of the way....” And right on the heel of his cry came Dr. Andrews’ soft query, “For no reason at all, Lucilla?”
She pulled into the company parking lot, jerked the wheel savagely to the left, jammed on the brakes. “Shut up!” she said. “Shut up, both of you!” She started into the building, then hesitated. She was already late, but there was something.... (Get out of the way, the way.... For no reason at all, at all....) She yielded to impulse and walked hurriedly downstairs to the basement library.
“That stuff I asked you to get together for me by tomorrow, Ruthie,” she said to the gray-haired librarian. “You wouldn’t by any chance have already done it, would you?”
“Funny you should ask.” The elderly woman bobbed down behind the counter and popped back up with an armload of magazines and newspapers. “Just happened to have some free time last thing yesterday. It’s already charged out to you, so you just go right ahead and take it, dearie.”
*
It was 8:30 when Lucilla reached the office.
“When I need you, where are you?” G.G. asked sourly. “Learned last night that the top dog at Karry Karton Korporation is in town today, so they’ve pushed that conference up from Friday to ten this morning. If you’d been here early—or even on time—we might at least have gotten some of the information together.”
Lucilla laid the
