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the Second World War and specialized in teaching methods of hand-to-hand killing.”
    “Tell me some more about Harry.” I was struck by the vehemence in Thelma’s voice when she said that Harry would kill Matthew if he knew about what had happened.
    “I met Harry in the thirties when I was dancing professionally on the Continent. I’ve always lived for two things only: making love and dancing. I refused to stop dancing to have children, but I was forced to stop thirty-one years ago because I got gout in my large toe—not a good disease for a ballerina. As for love, when I was younger I had many, many lovers. You saw that picture of me—be honest, tell the truth, was I not beautiful?” She continued, without waiting for my response. “But once I married Harry, love was over. Very few men (though there were some) were brave enough to love me—everyone was terrified of Harry. And Harry gave up sex twenty years ago (he’s good at giving things up). We hardly ever touch now—probably my fault as much as his.”
    I was about to ask about Harry being good at giving things up, but Thelma raced on. She wanted to talk, yet still without seeming to be talking to me. She gave no evidence of wanting a response from me. Her gaze was averted. Usually she looked upward, as though lost in recollection.
    “The other thing I think about, but can’t talk about, is suicide. Sooner or later I know that I will do it, it’s the only way out. But I never breathe a word of this to Harry. It almost killed him when I attempted suicide. He suffered a small stroke and aged ten years right before my eyes. When, to my surprise, I woke up alive in the hospital, I did a lot of thinking about what I had done to my family. Then and there I made some resolutions.”
    “What sort of resolutions?” No real need for my question, since Thelma had been on the verge of describing the resolutions, but I had to have some exchange with her. I was getting plenty of information, but we were not making contact. We might as well have been in separate rooms.
    “I resolved never to say or do anything which could possibly cause Harry pain. I resolved to give him everything, to give in to him on every issue. He wants to build a new room for his exercise equipment—O. K. He wants Mexico for vacation—O.K. He wants to meet people at church socials—O.K.”
    Noticing my quizzical look about church socials, Thelma explained, “For the last three years, ever since I knew I would eventually commit suicide, I haven’t wanted to meet anyone new. New friends only mean more farewells to say and more people to hurt.”
    I have worked with many people who have truly tried to kill themselves; but usually their experience is in some way transformational, and they ripen into new maturity and new wisdom. A real confrontation with death usually causes one to question with real seriousness the goals and conduct of one’s life up to then. So also with those who confront death through a fatal illness: how many people have lamented, “What a pity I had to wait till now, when my body is riddled with cancer, to know how to live!” Yet Thelma was different. Rarely have I encountered anyone who came so close to death yet learned so little from it. Those resolutions she made when she regained consciousness after her overdose: Could she really believe that she would make Harry happy by rubber-stamping his every request and keeping her own wishes and thoughts concealed? And what could be worse for Harry than for his wife to cry last week and share nothing with him? This was a woman steeped in self-deception.
    Her self-deception was particularly evident when she discussed Matthew. “He has a gentleness about him that touches the life of everyone who comes into contact with him. The secretaries all loved him. He said something caring to each of them, he knew all their children’s names, he brought in doughnuts for them three or four mornings a week. Whenever we went out during the