a clipped white beard. His suit was mud-colored hopsacking, a couple of sizes too large. It shrouded him like a monk’s habit. He talked nonstop and jabbed his finger a lot. The students looked glassy-eyed.
“The Ratman himself,” said Larry. “And his merry band of Ratkateers. Probably going on about something sexy like the correlation between electroshock-induced defecation and stimulation voltage following experimentally induced frustration of a partially reinforced escape response acquired under widely spaced trials. In fucking squirrels.”
I laughed. “Looks like he lost weight. Maybe he’s doing weight-loss tapes, too.”
“Nope. Heart attack last year- it’s why he gave up being department head and passed it along to Kruse. The tapes started right after that. Fucking hypocrite. Remember how he used to put down the clinical students, say we shouldn’t consider our doctorates a
“Where’ve they run?”
“Trashy magazines. One square inch of black-and-white in the back along with pitches for military schools, stuff-envelopes-and-make-a-fortune schemes, and Oriental pen pals. Only reason I found out is, one of my patients sent away for it and brought the cassette in to show me. ‘Use the Behavioral Approach to Quit Smoking,’ the Ratman’s name right there on the plastic, along with this tacky mimeographed brochure listing his academic credentials. He actually narrates the damned thing, D., in that pompous monotone. Trying to sound compassionate, as if he’d been working with people instead of rodents all these years.” He gave a disgusted look. “Union cards.”
“Is he making any money?”
“If he is, he sure ain’t spending it on clothes.”
Larry’s beeper went off. He pulled it off his belt, held it to his ear for a moment. “The service. ’Scuse me, D.”
He stopped a waiter, asked for the nearest phone, and was directed to the big white house. I watched him duck-walk through the formal gardens, then got up, ordered another gin and tonic, and stood there at the bar drinking it, enjoying the anonymity. I was starting to feel comfortably fuzzy when I heard something that set off an internal alarm.
Familiar tones, inflections.
A voice from the past.
I told myself it was imagination. Then I heard the voice again and searched the crowd.
I saw her, over several sets of shoulders.
A time-machine jolt. I tried to look away, couldn’t.
Sharon exquisite as ever.
I knew her age without calculating. Thirty-four. A birthday in May. May 15- how strange to still remember…
I stepped closer, got a better look: maturity but no diminution of beauty.
A face out of a cameo.
Oval, fine-boned, clean-jawed. The hair thick, wavy, black and glossy as caviar, brushed back from a high, flawless forehead, spilling over square shoulders. Milkwhite complexion, unfashionably sun-shy. High cheekbones gently defined, rouged naturally with coins of dusty rose. Small, close-set ears, a single pearl in each. Black eyebrows arching above wide-set deep-blue eyes. A thin, straight nose, gently flaring nostrils.
I remembered the feel of her skin… pale as porcelain but warm, always warm. I craned to get a better view.
She had on a knee-length navy-blue linen dress, short-sleeved and loose-fitting. Unsuccessful camouflage: the contours of her body fought the confines of the dress and won. Full, soft breasts, wasp waist, rich flare of hip tapering to long legs and sculpted ankles. Her arms were smooth white stalks. She wore no rings or bracelets, only the pearl studs and a matching string of opera-length pearls that rode the swell of her bosom. Blue pumps with medium heels added an inch to her five and a half feet. In one hand was a matching blue purse. The other hand caressed it.
No wedding ring.
So what?
With Robin at my side, I would have taken brief notice.
Or so I tried to convince myself.
I couldn’t keep my eyes off her.
She had
Oddly boyish- one of those youthful older men who populate the better clubs and resorts and are able to bed younger women without incurring snickers.
Her lover?
What business was that of mine?
I kept staring. Romance didn’t seem to be what was fueling her attention. The two of them were off in one corner and she was arguing with him, trying to convince him of something. Barely moving her lips and straining to look casual. He just stood there, listening.
Sharon at a party; it didn’t fit. She’d hated them as much as I had.
But that had been a long time ago. People change. Lord knew that applied to her.
I raised my glass to my lips, watched her tug on one earlobe- some things stayed the same.
I edged closer, bumped into a matron’s padded haunch and received a glare. Mumbling apologies, I pressed forward. The crush of drinkers was unyielding. I wedged my way through, seeking a voyeur’s vantage- deliciously close but safely out of view. Telling myself it was just curiosity.
Suddenly she turned her head and saw me. She pinkened with recognition and her lips parted. We locked in on each other. As if dancing.
I felt dizzy, bumped into someone else. More apologies.
Sharon kept looking straight at me. The brush-cut man was facing the other way, looking contemplative.
I retreated further, was swallowed by the crowd, and returned to the table short of breath, clutching my glass so tightly my fingers hurt. I counted blades of grass until Larry returned.
“The call was about the baby,” he said. “She and her little playmate got into a fight. She’s tantrumming and insisting on being taken home. The other girl’s mother says they’re both hysterical- overtired. I’ve got to go pick her up, D. Sorry.”
“No problem. I’m ready to leave myself.”
“Yeah, turned out to be pretty turgid, didn’t it? But at least I got a look at La Grande Maison ’s entry hall- big enough to skate in. We’re in the wrong business, D.”
“What’s the right business?”
“Marry it young, spend the rest of your life pissing it away.”
He looked back at the mansion, cast his eyes over the grounds. “Listen, Alex, it was good seeing you- little male pair-bonding, hostility release. How about we get together in a couple of weeks, shoot some pool at the Faculty Club, ingest some cholesterol?”
“Sounds great.”
“Terrific. I’ll call you.”
“Look forward to it, Larry.”
Buttressed by our lies, we left the party.
He was eager to get going but offered to drive me home. I said I’d rather walk, waited with him while the bearded valet fetched his keys. The Chevy station wagon had been repositioned for quick exit. And washed. The valet held the door open and expectorated a mouthful of “sirs” as he waited for Larry to get
