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with anyone? she asked. Anna said nothing. Dr. Berman said, Anna, you came home suddenly. You left college, you say you will not return. You cannot hide whatever grieves you here. I need your help in order to help you. I don’t need your help, said Anna, but there was a tremble in her voice. Dr. Berman heard it. Yes you do, she said. Her voice was like a whisper, soft but insistent. I have to leave, said Anna. No, said Dr. Berman, it’s not time. You seem sad, she said. What is making you sad? Nothing, said Anna, but her eyes filled with tears. I don’t know, said Anna. We’ll find out, said Dr. Berman. Anna said, I don’t care. You care, said Dr. Berman, and then she added, perhaps unwisely, Talk to me. And Anna thought but didn’t say, Never. Dr. Berman heard the never which might mean maybe even though it was silent, the way we know there is an e at the end of words like done or whole , or mine or have : maybe especially the word mine .
    The next session she asked Anna what she had thought she would do with her life when she was in high school. Anna said, I wanted to be a war correspondent. I wanted to write about the bodies of the soldiers who were hurt or killed. If you could, asked Dr. Berman, would you do that now? Yes, said Anna. I would. But it might be dangerous, said Dr. Berman. That wouldn’t bother me, said Anna. I’m not afraid. But you are afraid to tell me what brought you home, said Dr. Berman. Anna said nothing. At the end of the session when Anna stood up and turned to the door, she said to Dr. Berman, I am not afraid. Good, said Dr. Berman.
    Dr. Berman wondered about incest. Anna and that writer father, it was possible. Incest was an interest of hers. She had written three papers on the subject published in the international psychoanalytic journal and she had delivered one of the papers at the meeting in Mexico City the previous July. She had worn her red summer suit with a gold pin in the shape of the sun on the lapel. Nothing human was alien to her, but some things were more compelling than others. She had no doubt that attractions to shoes or nail clippings or animal fur were just signals from the dark, products of the want and disappointment that ran through the mind, everyone’s mind. Untamed thoughts, formed in the crucible of rage and need, corrupted by civilization’s niceties were common enough. Dr. Berman considered herself a kind of exterminator. She was after the lice of the mind. The putrid stuff within took no holiday, spared no one, lasted to the final breath and only then disappeared. Dr. Berman did not believe in the afterlife or the salvation of the soul. She did like being the chairwoman of psychoanalytic committees that determined matters of importance and affected the lives of others. At the last meeting when the talk turned to narcissistic personality disorders she had mentioned that she knew Justine Fast and while she wasn’t explicit about their relationship she did imply some knowledge of Justine’s absence from the public eye. She did manage to hint at the difficulty of treatment in such instances but express her confidence that all was well in hand. She shouldn’t have done that. She did it. If you treat a famous person and you don’t tell anyone you would be a candidate for sainthood and Dr. Berman was not interested in being canonized: simple awe and envy would do.
    It was hard to tell if the girl was intelligent. She would have to penetrate the shell and see. Anna would resist. Her therapist would pursue without seeming to pursue. Her therapist would have to be patient, patient but stealthy.
    Dr. H. and Dr. Z. were waiting downstairs for Dr. Berman. They were taking her to a dinner party for a visiting psychoanalyst from Zurich, one who had published original work on infant development. She was late. He asked the doorman to call upstairs. She was coming, the doorman said, soon.
    Dr. H. asked Dr. Z., Are you afraid of