looking back. But Charles seemed to notice neither awkwardness nor envy, casually including Levy among his friends, scrounging him dates and beers and asking his opinion of their dorm-mates or the books he read, or even Judaism, with a dispassion that suggested this was just another subject on which Levyâs thoughts were interesting. In turn, Levy noted that Charles, too, said little about his family, never showed surprise or hurt or anger, as if he were born a Harvard athlete, unscarred by any past and utterly self-possessed. As months passed, Levy sensed that this unruffled persona âeven Careyâs flat, sardonic speechâwas a cover for a vulnerability that Carey could not admit. With a shock of recognition, Levy saw his own loneliness in Charles Carey.
One night, in a waterfront Boston bar filled with smoke and sailors and the stale smell of beer drying on the floor, the two sophomores got very drunk. At a point Levy could no longer remember or define, they passed beyond mere palship amidst the noise and haze, and became friends.
âWhy do you hang out with me?â Levy had asked. âIâve been thinking maybe you were hard up for Jews.â
Charles shrugged. âIf you didnât study so fucking much, youâd probably notice youâre one of the few people around here worth talking with.â
âItâs premedâthe worst grind there is.â Levy drained the Scotch, smoky on his tongue and throat. âFrog-cutter to the world, thatâs me. I want to be a halfback.â
âItâs an overrated thrill. Besides, you wouldnât do all that if you didnât want to.â Carey peered at him with exaggerated concentration. âWould you?â
âI donât know.â Levy stared at his empty glass. âMy father thinks Iâve got âsurgeonâ stamped on my genetic code. My Son the Doctor , a Martin Levy Production. God help my sisterâheâs got her cast as Lillian Hellman.â
âCan she write?â
âNot a lick,â Levy said mournfully. âBut she can read.â
Carey grinned. âThen weâll make her an editor. How old is she, anyhow?â
âThirteen?â
âWell, when she grows up send her around to Van Dreelen and Carey. âLiteracy and Loyalty,â thatâs my fatherâs watchword.â In a different voiceâlow and intenseâCharles finished, âYou donât have to do what he wants, Bill.â
Levy caught himself smoothing his cowlick, a habit born of confusion. âWhat else would I do?â
Charles called for another round.
The din grew louder. A sailor next to them pitched from a sitting position face forward onto the table, as two others talked over him without missing a beat. The barman brought their drinks. Charles raised his in a mock salute and said, âBecome a psychiatrist.â
Levy tingled with surprise. âA shrink?â
Careyâs eyes locked with his. âIâve watched you. You see peopleâlook, I know youâre on to me.â His gaze broke. In one quick motion he snapped a lighter at his cigarette: drunk, he had the trick of doing small things perfectly, seeming suddenly sober. âThe point is that youâve got the insight to help people, maybe even the need. Think of this business with your father. He wants a chest-cutter, so you wear yourself out over whether to be one. What psychiatry says is that people can escape the ambush of their own childhood.â Charles stopped as if embarrassed, then began laughing. âBesides, think of all the great cocktail-party stuff youâll have: football molesters, guys who are fixated on Eleanor Roosevelt, frigid women â¦â
Now, treating Alicia Carey, Levy recalled with double poignancy that Charles had helped him to do so.
After that drunken night in Boston, Levy took his first psychology course. It was Charles who had queried him about it, smiling at his