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Authors: Collin Wilcox
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colleges, she’d’ve spent most of her time in the boiler room of some fraternity house, feeling basically even guiltier, with the result that she’d’ve been an even sicker person psychologically.” She looked at me didactically, a dumpy pedagogue in blue jeans. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes,” I answered, impressed. “You make yourself very clear.” I decided not to press the compliment further, since she seemed to distrust praise or flattery.
“Assuming that she was carrying on an affair with the man with whom she was found, was she also going around with anyone here on campus, that you know of?”
“Oh, sure,” she answered readily. “Several. Or, rather, several boys were completely gone on her, and she didn’t do anything to discourage it, as long as they didn’t press her too hard for possession. That’s one thing about Roberta, she might’ve played rough with the boys, but she played fair.”
“How do you mean?”
“She didn’t give them any false hopes or herself any unfair advantages. Most girls, as you probably know, make devastating use of their looks and their desirability. Or, to put it another way, the average girl uses the man’s sex drive against him, for her own ends. Roberta didn’t do that, in spite of the fact that, objectively, she was a really gorgeous, desirable girl. Maybe that’s the reason—she didn’t have to be reassured.” Her glance flickered aside, involuntarily a little pensive. “The rest of us, I’m afraid, have to have constant reassurances that we’re desirable to men. So we tease them a little, make them beg. It’s all part of the game, as I’m sure you know.” Again, briefly, her eyes wavered aside as she thought about it. Reluctantly, I had to admire her uncompromising insight. I wondered how many chances she’d had to tease the boys and therefore confirm her own desirability.
Finally, a little subdued, she summed up, “Basically, I think Roberta wanted to always have the initiative with men. Which isn’t, of course, an especially feminine characteristic. It does, however, go with the Electra complex.”
I nodded. I was beginning to get hungry and a little impatient to get away from the psychology, in spite of its revealing insight.
“Was there any boy here at Bransten that Roberta saw more of than any other?” I asked. “Or one that seemed more in love with her than any other?”
She thought about it, now eating a cream-filled cookie.
“There’s John Randall. I gather that she’d go back to him, from time to time, and he’d go back to her. John himself is like her, in many ways, basically self-centered, attractive, and inclined to be rough on the opposite sex. Maybe that’s why they got along. They played by the same rules.”
I nodded, making a mental note of the name. Then, responding to an impulse, I said, “Do you know Roberta’s brother, Miss Stephenson?”
“Yes.” She almost snapped out the single word.
“What kind of a person is he?”
The answer came promptly, as if she were reading from a prepared text. “He’s a semi-hysterical, ineffective, spoiled, unattractive brat who spent his entire life in the shadow of either his sister or his father, and who therefore doesn’t have any sense of self-identity whatever. As a result, ever since he came here, he’s been strutting around like a little Hitler, imitating, I suppose, his illustrious father.” Her lip curled as she took a deep breath. It was the first time I’d seen her show any real feelings or convictions. My impression was that she was reacting mostly to Grinnel’s politics, which she obviously despised.
She began again. “Bobby and Roberta, each in their different ways, are practically textbook examples of what happens to a child when he has the misfortune to have someone like Robert Grinnel for a father. As infants and young children, he undoubtedly gave them constant overdoses of himself, and his—” she hesitated, but only briefly—“his
“Yes,” I answered, impressed. “You make yourself very clear.” I decided not to press the compliment further, since she seemed to distrust praise or flattery.
“Assuming that she was carrying on an affair with the man with whom she was found, was she also going around with anyone here on campus, that you know of?”
“Oh, sure,” she answered readily. “Several. Or, rather, several boys were completely gone on her, and she didn’t do anything to discourage it, as long as they didn’t press her too hard for possession. That’s one thing about Roberta, she might’ve played rough with the boys, but she played fair.”
“How do you mean?”
“She didn’t give them any false hopes or herself any unfair advantages. Most girls, as you probably know, make devastating use of their looks and their desirability. Or, to put it another way, the average girl uses the man’s sex drive against him, for her own ends. Roberta didn’t do that, in spite of the fact that, objectively, she was a really gorgeous, desirable girl. Maybe that’s the reason—she didn’t have to be reassured.” Her glance flickered aside, involuntarily a little pensive. “The rest of us, I’m afraid, have to have constant reassurances that we’re desirable to men. So we tease them a little, make them beg. It’s all part of the game, as I’m sure you know.” Again, briefly, her eyes wavered aside as she thought about it. Reluctantly, I had to admire her uncompromising insight. I wondered how many chances she’d had to tease the boys and therefore confirm her own desirability.
Finally, a little subdued, she summed up, “Basically, I think Roberta wanted to always have the initiative with men. Which isn’t, of course, an especially feminine characteristic. It does, however, go with the Electra complex.”
I nodded. I was beginning to get hungry and a little impatient to get away from the psychology, in spite of its revealing insight.
“Was there any boy here at Bransten that Roberta saw more of than any other?” I asked. “Or one that seemed more in love with her than any other?”
She thought about it, now eating a cream-filled cookie.
“There’s John Randall. I gather that she’d go back to him, from time to time, and he’d go back to her. John himself is like her, in many ways, basically self-centered, attractive, and inclined to be rough on the opposite sex. Maybe that’s why they got along. They played by the same rules.”
I nodded, making a mental note of the name. Then, responding to an impulse, I said, “Do you know Roberta’s brother, Miss Stephenson?”
“Yes.” She almost snapped out the single word.
“What kind of a person is he?”
The answer came promptly, as if she were reading from a prepared text. “He’s a semi-hysterical, ineffective, spoiled, unattractive brat who spent his entire life in the shadow of either his sister or his father, and who therefore doesn’t have any sense of self-identity whatever. As a result, ever since he came here, he’s been strutting around like a little Hitler, imitating, I suppose, his illustrious father.” Her lip curled as she took a deep breath. It was the first time I’d seen her show any real feelings or convictions. My impression was that she was reacting mostly to Grinnel’s politics, which she obviously despised.
She began again. “Bobby and Roberta, each in their different ways, are practically textbook examples of what happens to a child when he has the misfortune to have someone like Robert Grinnel for a father. As infants and young children, he undoubtedly gave them constant overdoses of himself, and his—” she hesitated, but only briefly—“his
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