The Other Adonis Read online

  Third Session—May 14th

  “More of the same, but he did bring up hypnosis again. Why does this intrigue B so? I explained once more, patiently, that on those rare occasions when I did employ it, it was more for diagnosis than for treatment. ‘Well, yeah, it could be like that,’ he mused. But when I tried to get him to expand on that, he deftly turned the conversation back to me—asking me to expand on my earlier revelation about why I had left my pulmonary specialty for psychiatry. B quite approved, endorsing my inner wisdom. Sometimes, I’d swear that B was flirting with me. But then, I’m a lonely old woman given to such delusion. Still, I am starting to feel more like a geisha. Shall I make some green tea next time? Please, B, fish or cut bait.”

  That was the sum of it—sparer even than Nina had remembered. It bugged her, too, for Nina was good at what she did; she didn’t like giving up on a patient. She was professionally cagey, but so naturally empathetic that people—even men, even evasive men like Bucky—opened up to her despite themselves. Hypnosis? Nina was hypnotic simply as a good ear.

  But then, there was a certain law of inversion that always worried Nina. Invariably, those patients who came to her all flap-gum, babbling from the start, had the least to reveal. Meanwhile, the reticent ones, like Bucky, might well be keeping the lid on the most painful anguish. Nina could not forget, either, his reaction whenever she felt as if she had zeroed in on something sensitive. Then, his eyes would go vacant, even as he maintained a smile and kept on talking. It was, she thought, as if he was lost in some sweet, private reverie—prouder still that he could enjoy this intimacy even as he kept on giving Nina a line. She had even coined a word for this response: “buckysmirking.” All one word. “Buckysmirking.” But it wasn’t funny to Nina. It was maddening. Even a little eerie. And it was why she didn’t quite yet want to give up on him.

  So, she would see if she could call the smooth-tongued Mr. Buckingham’s bluff. Nina buzzed her secretary. “All right, Roseanne, send him in.” And Floyd Buckingham promptly entered, as jaunty as ever. He had a daisy in his lapel, which, although a new touch, was certainly in keeping. He bounded across the room in his long strides, reached across the desk, and gaily cried out “Nina!” as he handed her a copy of Summer Sailing that was fresh off the presses, freighted with shiny advertisements.

  Nina thanked him. “I like the boutonniere, Mr. Buckingham,” she added.

  “Tut, tut, Nina, we agreed: first-name basis.”

  “First name at the couch, but Mister and Doctor at the desk. And, Mr. Buckingham, sit down here.” Nina gestured to the chair across from her. Bucky, taken aback at this formality, even a bit chagrined, accepted the seat reluctantly. Nina, for her part, sat down too. “Look,” she began, venturing firmness across the desk, “this just isn’t working.”

  Predictably, Bucky tried to interrupt her, but Nina simply held up a hand and proceeded. “I do look forward to your appointments, Mr. Buckingham. I’ve always heard that the men from UVA were good company, and you have certainly held up that standard. But we’re not just here for a tête-à-tête.”

  “I know,” he said somewhat sheepishly.

  “Oh? Sometimes I get the impression that I’m just another client of yours, that you’re, uh—”

  “Bullshitting?”

  “Yes, thank you. I suppose that’s the word I was searching for. But it puzzles me, because you don’t need me for that. You’ve got all those ski people and boat people”—she tapped the cover of Summer Sailing—“to converse with. And on expense account.” Again, he started to interrupt; Nina even thought she saw the first signs of buckysmirking. So, quickly, she stood up.

  Petite as she was, this hardly afforded her a commanding position, but it did at least imply emphasis. And, indeed, Bucky listened to her more intently as she began to address him anew in that doctorish tone that she had learned to employ—the one that expressed omniscience gently. “I think, Mr. Buckingham—I think—that you’ve decided that you should feel guilty. It’s only an educated guess, because you’ve given me so little to go on. But you’ve obviously got a wonderful wife and two terrific kids. You adore your work, and you’re very good at it. Obviously, too, you make oodles of money.”

  Bucky nodded, unabashed once more. “Oodles. Haven’t heard that in years.”

  “I am a woman of a certain age. But you, you Mr. Buckingham, are in the very prime of your life. You have your health, you’re slim and tall, and I can see you tan nicely, to boot. You’re obviously not addicted to any substance—not even to golf. But you get along with everyone and have many friends, good and true.” Nina paused. “Right so far?”

  Buckingham sighed in the affirmative. “The worst was when I gave up smoking. Effortlessly. First time I tried.”

  “Exactly. But you look around and everybody else is getting divorced, or their kids are on drugs, or they’ve just been downsized—even though you’re sure they’re smarter than you—or they’re losing their hair, or they’re fat, or entirely too emotionally involved with the New York Knicks. So, naturally, all that makes you feel perfectly awful about your own success—your lucky self.”

  Buckingham was listening, which made Nina rather pleased with herself, so that she not only came round the desk toward him, but thrust a forefinger into the air. “And not only that, Mr. Buckingham, not only that—but you’ve heard of something called ‘mid…life cri…sis,’ and so you’ve decided, aha!, you must be in the midst of that. And so somebody gave you my number, and you’ve come here to chat me up in the hopes that I can make you feel even worse about how wonderful your wonderful life is. Right?”

  He shrugged. “Basically.”

  She stepped over to a shelf and plucked off a large book. “The Diagnostic Manual of Psychiatry,” Nina said, hefting it. “It was about a hundred, hundred-fifty pages when I got into this twenty years ago. Now: four, five hundred. All kinds of new stuff. But look under M: still no Midlife Crisis.”

  “No, none in my book either,” he said. And no buckysmirking.

  So, Nina had smoked him out. Bucky really was just face value after all—no dark secrets or traumas. She was sort of disappointed; she was going to miss him.

  Oh well.

  “So, my professional advice to you, certified and approved”—Nina mockingly swept her arms around the room at her diplomas and citations—“is to stop using my time and your money, and instead, take that beautiful wife of yours out on the town. Then, just before you swoop her up in your arms, you tell her how lucky you are—and how grateful.” Nina turned back then to bang the desktop. “Case closed, Sergeant Preston.”

  Buckingham applauded. “Well done, Doctor. You’re very perceptive.”

  “Then leave, and Godspeed…Bucky.”

  But he shook his head then. “Sorry…Nina. I’m not quite finished.” She slumped. He sat up and went on, “If I’d come to you a year ago, everything you just said to me would’ve been spot on. That’s what they say in England when you get it just right. Spot on.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “But things have changed.” He drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t, uh, well, I haven’t altogether leveled with you.”

  “All right, what haven’t you told me? I mean, besides everything.”

  “Well, two things.”

  “And you’re prepared now to let me in on these two things?” He nodded almost solemnly. “All right, and how would you characterize these two things?”

  “Well, one is just very important. Huge.” He paused then, pondering.

  So Nina asked, “And number two?”

  “Strange. Number two is the strangest thing you’ve ever heard.”

  “I’ve heard a lotta strange things in this job.”

  “Not this strange. I’ll bet.”

  “All right,” Nina said. “Then let’s start with number one.” She beck
oned him to move to the corner, to the couch, which was familiar territory for them, but the ambiance now was suddenly new and different.

  2

  “The important thing,” Buckingham said, “is that I am in love with another woman.”

  Nina gritted her teeth. Oh great, she thought. All this time, all this build-up, only to hear the most hackneyed, predictable revelation from a man in an alleged midlife crisis. She sat back in her chair. She knew what Buckingham expected of her: a psychiatric certification of his angst that would justify his infidelity. Midlifers thought she could be like the school nurse. Bucky has a little temperature, so please excuse him from his marriage for the rest of the day so he can go get laid.

  Hoping that her professional face didn’t betray her personal irritation, though, Nina proceeded with the approved script. “And how long has this affair been going on?”

  “Oh, it’s not an affair.”

  “So, you love her from afar?” Oops…Watch out, Doctor, Nina told herself, your facetiousness is showing. But Bucky didn’t notice.

  “Always, I’m afraid,” he replied, without irony. And suddenly, then, his voice was almost tremulous. “Nina, from the moment I laid eyes on her, I knew—I knew—we’d been intended for each other…forever.”

  “When was that?”

  “Twenty years ago.”

  “And you loved her all this time?” He nodded. “Bucky, will you tell me her name?”

  “Constance.”

  “Well, uh, what brought this twenty-year romance with Constance to, uh, a boil?”

  “I met her again.”

  “When?”

  “February eleventh.”

  “Where? Come on, Bucky, help me out. You’re not being cross-examined.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Lemme stand up.” He rose from the couch and began to pace. “It was on a plane, American 362—the three o’clock from O’Hare. I just made it. And I really had to get back. It was my son’s thirteenth birthday. Jesus. But the instant I entered that plane, I swear, Nina, I could feel something. My head was swimming.”

  “Forgive me, Bucky. It can be a long run, O’Hare.” Maybe that wasn’t sympathetic, but damn it, Nina had to get a little substance back into all this poetry.

  “No, no, no,” Bucky replied emphatically, holding his arms up. “This was different. It was like the atmosphere on Earth had changed. Finally, I had to get up. I was in first class. You know, I fly first cabin.”

  “Of course.”

  He paused at her tone, and, for just a moment, the old Bucky returned. “I’m sorry. That really sounded horseshit of me, didn’t it?” he asked. Nina shrugged. “Anyway”—and the grave new Bucky was speaking again—“I got up and headed to the back of the plane. You know, turning back the little curtain. I had to. I knew Constance was there. I swear. I hadn’t laid eyes on her in twenty years, but there was no doubt. No doubt. I even whispered it out loud: ‘God Almighty, Constance is here.’”

  “And she was?”

  “Twenty-six C, aisle. By the time I actually saw her, I was hyperventilating.”

  “And Constance?”

  “She just said: ‘I knew it was you, Bucky.’ Just like that. So I sat down next to her. And my heart…” He touched it. “I’m sorry, I know this sounds so phony.”

  In fact, Nina was mesmerized. She couldn’t help but believe what Bucky said. Every detail. He had invested such intensity and such sincerity—such purity—into what was usually so God-awful tawdry and ordinary, that Nina had forgotten to take any notes or even to turn on her tape recorder. She pushed the button now. “And how was she? How was Constance?” she asked, much too anxiously.

  “She put her hands like this,” Bucky said, thrusting his own hands under the opposite sides of his jacket, up under his armpits. “She had to. Otherwise, she told me she knew she would’ve grabbed me.”

  “And to that moment, it had been twenty years since you saw her last?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Okay, how long had that lasted?”

  Bucky turned back, to stand before Nina in some form of supplication, holding his hands out to her. “I’m telling you, there never was any that. Never. I swear, I’ve never touched Constance, never kissed her, never even been alone with her.” And he stared, helplessly, right through Nina.

  “But you are in love with this woman?” He nodded. “And she with you?”

  He nodded again. “I’m telling you, we are meant for each other. I mean, we were always meant for each other.”

  Nina rose and pointed to the couch. “Okay, Bucky, you sit back down. I stand up and pace. That’s the way it works. Get comfortable. Start from the beginning.” He followed her orders, taking off his jacket as he fell back onto the sofa. “You wanna glass of water?”

  “If you mix it with scotch.”

  “I’m a psychiatrist, not a bartender.” That gave them both a chance to smile, and she poured him the ice water. “Now.…”

  Bucky took a swallow. “We’ll start with Philadelphia,” he said, and with that announcement, he leaned back and began talking, all but oblivious to Dr. Winston. “It was that fall after I graduated from UVA. I really didn’t know what I wanted to do. In fact, that whole summer, I’d just farted around down the Jersey shore. But I met an old buddy there, and he worked for an ad agency in Philly—I’m from Philly myself—and he thought maybe that was something for me. So, they gave me a shot and started moving me around, trying to figure out where the hell I fit in.

  “And one day, they had some project in marketing, so I went over there. And there was Constance. And it was just like on the goddamn plane in February. I mean, Nina, I could feel it the minute I walked into her little office. I swear to you, I was in love with her right away. I can see her now—the skirt, the blouse had these little purple flowers on it, her hair up…I’m sorry, I won’t bother you with all that.”

  “No, no—do,” Nina said. “Whatever you remember.”

  “Well, right away, Constance ducked her head. And I was sure I knew why, because she had the same feeling I was feeling—only for her it was even more complicated because she was already married. She was just out of college, but she was married. Girls still did that then.”

  “I remember.”

  “Constance had met this guy like the first week in college. She went to Smith and he went to Amherst, and they met at some goddamn mixer. He was a big-deal sophomore, cherry-picking the new Smithies. She never went out with anyone else in college. Constance is a one-man woman, you see. She just had the wrong one man and didn’t know it. They’re still married, too. Still. And he doesn’t know, the poor sonuvabitch, all this time, she’s been meant for me.”

  He paused for another drink of water. Nina wrote the word meant on her pad. It struck her the way Bucky kept referring to the romance as some sort of fait accompli. Then he barreled on. “Of course, neither does Phyllis know that all this time I’ve been meant for Constance. It’s not fair, really, is it? Anyway, suffice it to say—I like that: ‘suffice it to say’—suffice it to say, I went, basically, out of my mind the next two weeks working around Connie every day.”

  “On the marketing project?”

  “Yeah. And I know what you’re thinking, Nina. Did I ever express my feelings? And the answer is a thousand times…almost. Actually, though: never. I mean, the lady is not only married, she is a friggin’ newlywed. Just that June, after she graduated. That’s why she’s in Philly. He’s there in med. school. His name is Carl. Amherst Carl. Constance is taking courses at night for her masters and working in the ad agency to help support Amherst Carl. And she’s a whiz, Nina. Numbers, statistics, all that crap. A genius. She does the same stuff for Merrill Lynch in Chicago now. Went to Wharton—the whole nine yards. She wouldn’t have anything to do with a jerk like me if it wasn’t that it was, you know, m
eant to be that way.”

  Nina underlined meant. She didn’t have to prod him. The words were pouring out of Buckingham now, devoid of any self-consciousness.

  “One night it was my birthday. September twenty-seventh. I was, uh, twenty-three that year, so four or five of ’em took me out for a birthday drink after work. Bookbinders. That’s a big deal in Philadelphia, Bookbinders. And guess what?”

  “Constance comes along.”

  “You got it. And this is the first time I’d ever been, uh, off the premises, you might say, with her. And, one by one, the others left. Truth is, they probably felt uncomfortable being around us. I know there were whispers.”

  Without so much as a please, Bucky held out his empty water glass, stiff-armed, in the general direction of Nina. She took it and refilled it as he rattled on.

  “Constance doesn’t drink, but she said she’d stay for one more Coke. And we were laughin’, and then we were getting serious, and she’s telling me all about herself. And then, just like that, I guess she started to feel guilty because she starts talking all about Carl. Carl and Constance. Constance and Carl.

  “But I’m just looking at her and thinking: no, it’s Constance and Bucky. Come on, Constance, say it. Say it. Tell me you love me. But she didn’t say it. And I couldn’t. You know how it is sometimes, Nina. You’re absolutely 100 percent sure, but you can’t be positive. You know? I mean, suppose, just suppose I’m wrong? I didn’t know then—”

  “Know what?”

  “Know…well, I’ll get to that. That’s number two. That’s the strange part. Okay?” Nina didn’t push it; she only nodded. Bucky’s shoulders sagged. “So, she left. She had to go to class. And there I am, sitting all by myself at big-deal Bookbinders. But I knew, then. I knew. I had to get my ass outta there. I don’t mean Bookbinders. I mean Philly—away from her. So, the next morning, I walk into the boss’s office, and I say, thanks and all that, but I’ve really decided that I wanna go to New York. Fact is, I’d never ever in my life wanted to go to New York, but I figured it’s where you go when you wanna escape. Right?”