Chapter Four. Betty, 1964
CHAPTER FOUR
—The New York Times
“Isn’t it a bit late?” Betty protested as she sat beside Douglas, watching their headlights carve a path through the dark streets.
“Betty, if what I think is happening is actually happening, I have to bring you to Dr. Trimble.”
“But surely he’ll be home relaxing at this time of night.” Like we should be, she thought.
Douglas gripped the Impala’s steering wheel, peering at the road ahead. “Dr. Trimble is always working.”
The psychology building rose up before them, its pale stone walls gleaming beneath the moonlight. With its leaded glass windows and tall pointed spires topping the roofline, it looked like a haunted house from a child’s storybook.
“That’s Dr. Trimble’s Buick.” Douglas pointed to a maroon car, the only one parked on the street.
Betty felt lightheaded. “Darling … I’m not sure about this.”
He didn’t seem to hear her. He climbed out of the car and hurried up the steps as she struggled to keep up with him.
Douglas unlocked the tall, arched door to the institute with a key on his chain. “Dr. Trimble?” His voice seemed to be swallowed up by the empty hallway. “Let’s check his office.”
Betty had come to the institute a few times before, but in this shadowy light, details took on an ominous dimension.
A photograph on the wall of a college girl lying on a cot with her eyes closed while three men in dark suits stared down at her.
Stacks of heavy books threatening to topple over on the floor of Dr. Trimble’s office.
And a peculiar blindfold, made from fabric straps and two halves of a Ping-Pong ball, resting on a small round table.
The director’s dinner plate was on his desk: a chop, a baked potato congealing in a puddle of melted butter, a glass of milk, and a slice of chocolate cake.
“His wife must have delivered it,” Douglas explained in a whisper, like they were in a sacred space.
The scent of cooked meat lingered in the air, but the meal was untouched.
Betty flinched when she caught sight of a barn owl perched on a table staring at her with round, unblinking eyes.
“It’s stuffed,” her husband whispered, but he was wrong. A stuffed animal was a sweet toy. This creature had been alive once. It was a trophy whose soul had been claimed by Dr. Trimble.
When the door flew open from the adjacent room, Betty started. Silas Trimble stood there blinking rapidly. In an instant, Betty understood why. The director had been in a small room that was completely dark. His eyes were now being assaulted by the light.
Betty peered beyond him into the room. The walls were painted black. There was nothing in it but a recliner chair. No artwork. No windows. It was worse than a jail cell. She couldn’t imagine why anyone would voluntarily seal themselves inside.
“Why did you bring her here?” Dr. Trimble asked, frowning, as he looked over Betty’s head to address Douglas.
“I’ve been testing her with Zener cards for the past few hours. Her average is eleven. My own wife! Who would ever have thought what you’ve been searching for could be right under my nose!”
Douglas’s cheeks were flushed and excitement rang through his voice. She could envision him as a boy, bringing home a perfect report card to his father. Delivering a prize.
Betty knew he respected Dr. Trimble. Now she understood it was more than that—Douglas revered him.
Betty tried to smile pleasantly as she took in Dr. Trimble’s graying beard and fringe of darker hair above his ears, his broad shoulders and slightly curved back. He was a large man, perhaps six feet two, and he carried extra weight in his belly.
“She may as well sit down.”
Betty sank into the chair opposite his desk, with Douglas standing by her side.
Dr. Trimble packed fresh tobacco into his wood pipe and lit it, then exhaled blue-gray smoke that smelled like burnt vanilla.
He pushed aside his dinner plate and reached for a deck of cards identical to the one Douglas had shown her.
“I’m going to hold up the first card. Tell me the symbol when you’re ready.”
What began as fun in her living room carried a deep undercurrent of tension here. Her body clenched as she closed her eyes. The sweet smoke tickled her nostrils and she became aware of Douglas’s breathing hitching faster than normal.
“A square,” she finally said, because she had to say something.
She called out symbol after symbol, desperate to get this over with. To return to their cozy home and lie together in bed, their hands entwined as they drifted off to sleep.
“Five,” Dr. Trimble announced. “Exactly what chance would allow. Are you sure you didn’t let your wife see the cards, Douglas?”
Betty’s eyes flew open at the rebuke in Dr. Trimble’s voice.
Douglas stared at her, his whole face flushed now. She’d embarrassed him.
Betty had followed all the rules for young married girls, the ones she’d learned from experts like Suzy Wagner and Betty Crocker: She applied makeup and did her hair before Douglas awoke.
She’d perfected seven recipes, one for each day of the week.
She spritzed on jasmine perfume every morning before she greeted Douglas, and she did her facial saving exercises every night to keep her youthful appearance.
Her job as a married woman was to keep her husband happy. She had to fix this.
She took a deep breath, hoping her voice wouldn’t shake.
“I was nervous. I know I can do better. Can I please try again, sir?”
She closed her eyes as Dr. Trimble held up the first card.