Back in the library I turned off the video camera, removed the cassette, tagged it, and began my report, working slowly, with even greater precision than usual.
Trying to forestall the inevitable.
Several hours later the damned thing was finished; evicted from the helper role, I was, once again, someone who needed help. Numbness rolled over me, as inevitable as the tide.
I considered calling Robin, decided against it. Our last conversation had been anything but triumphant- tongue-biting civility finally sabotaged by depth charges of hurt and anger.
“… freedom, space- I thought we were past that.”
“Well, I never got past
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I really don’t.”
“I’m just trying to figure out what you want, Robin.”
“I’ve explained it over and over. What more can I say?”
“If it’s space you want, you’ve got two hundred miles of it between us. Feeling any more fulfilled?”
“Fulfillment’s not the issue.”
“Then what is?”
“Stop it, Alex. Please.”
“Stop what? Wanting to work this out?”
“Stop cross-examining me. You sound so hostile.”
“How am I supposed to sound, a week stretched to a month? Where’s the end point?”
“I… I wish I could answer that, Alex.”
“Terrific- the endless dangle. And what was my big sin? Getting too involved? Okay, I can change that. Believe me, I can be cool as ice. In training I learned how to detach. But if I pull away, ten to one I’ll be accused of male indifference.”
“Stop it, Alex! I was up all night with Aaron. I can’t handle this right now.”
“Handle what?”
“All your words. They’re coming at me like bullets.”
“How’re we supposed to work anything out without words?”
“We’re not going to work anything out right now, so let’s put it aside. Goodbye.”
“Robin-”
“Say goodbye, Alex. Please. I don’t want to hang up on you.”
“Then don’t.”
Silence.
“Goodbye, Robin.”
“Goodbye, Alex. I still love you.”
The shoemaker’s children go barefoot.
The shrink chokes on his words.
The low mood gathered strength and hit me full force.
Having someone to talk to would have helped. My list of confidants was damned short.
Robin at the top.
Then Milo.
He was off with Rick, on a fishing trip in the Sierras. But even if his shoulder had been available I wouldn’t have cried on it.
Over the years, our friendship had taken on a certain rhythm: We talked about murder and madness over beer and pretzels, discussed the human condition with the aplomb of a pair of anthropologists observing a colony of savage baboons.
When the horrors piled up too high, Milo bitched and I listened. When he went off the wagon, I helped talk him back on it.
Sad-sack cop, supportive shrink. I wasn’t ready to reverse the roles.
A week’s worth of mail had piled up on the dining room table. I’d avoided opening it, dreading the superficial caresses of come-ons, coupons, and get-happy-quick schemes. But I needed, at that very moment, to keep my mind tethered to minutiae, free from the perils of introspection.
I carried the stack into the bedroom, pulled a wastebasket to the side of the bed, sat down, and began sorting. At the bottom of the pile was a buff-colored envelope. Heavy linen stock, a Holmby Hills return address, embossed silver script on the back flap.
Rich for my blood. An upscale sales pitch. I flipped the envelope over, expecting a computerized label, and saw my name and address printed in extravagant silver calligraphy. Someone had taken the time to do this one right.
I checked the postmark- ten days old. Opened the envelope and pulled out a buff-colored invitation card, silver-bordered, more calligraphy:
DEAR DOCTOR DELAWARE,
YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO JOIN
DISTINGUISHED ALUMNI AND MEMBERS OF THE UNIVERSITY COMMUNITY AT A GARDEN PARTY AND COCKTAIL RECEPTION HONORING
DOCTOR PAUL PETER KRUSE,
BLALOCK PROFESSOR OF PSYCHOLOGY AND
HUMAN DEVELOPMENT.
UPON HIS APPOINTMENT AS
CHAIRMAN, THE DEPARTMENT OF PSYCHOLOGY
SATURDAY, JUNE 13, 1987, FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON
SKYLARK
LA MAR ROAD
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 90077
RSVP, THE PSYCHOLOGY DEPARTMENT
Kruse as chairman. An
It made no sense; the man was anything but a scholar. And though it had been years since I’d had anything to do with him, there was no reason to believe he’d changed and become a decent human being.
Back in those days, he’d been an advice columnist and a darling of the talk-show circuit, armed with the requisite Beverly Hills practice and a repertoire of truisms couched in pseudoscientific jargon.
His column had appeared monthly in a supermarket-rack “women’s” magazine- the kind of throwaway that prints articles on the latest miracle crash diet, closely followed by recipes for chocolate fudge cake, and combines exhortations to “be yourself” with sexual IQ tests designed to make anyone taking them feel inadequate.
Endowed professor. He’d made only the slimmest pretense of conducting research- something
