to do with human sexuality that never produced a shred of data.
But he hadn’t been expected to be academically productive, because he hadn’t been a member of the tenured faculty, just a clinical associate. One of scores of practitioners seeking academic cachet through association with the University.
Associates gave occasional lectures on their specialties- in Kruse’s case that had been hypnosis and a manipulative form of psychotherapy he called Communication Dynamics- and served as therapists and supervisors of the clinical-psych graduate students. A nifty symbiosis, it freed up the “real” professors for their grant applications and committee meetings while earning the associates parking permits, priority tickets to football games, and admission to the Faculty Club.
From that to Blalock Professor. Incredible.
I thought of the last time I’d seen Kruse- about two years ago. Chance passers-by on campus, we’d pretended not to notice each other.
He’d been walking toward the psych building, all custom tweeds, elbow patches, and fuming briar, a female student at each elbow. Letting loose with some profundity while copping fast feels.
I looked down at all that silver writing. Cocktails at four. Hail to the chief.
Probably something to do with a Holmby Hills connection, but still the appointment defied comprehension.
I checked the date of the party- two days from now- then reread the address at the bottom of the invitation.
La Mar Road, no numbers. Translation:
I pictured the scene two days hence: fat cars, weak drinks, and numbing banter wafting across money-green lawns.
Not my idea of fun. I tossed the invitation in the trash and forgot about Kruse. Forgot about the old days.
But not for long.
2
I slept poorly and woke with the sun on Friday. With no patients scheduled, I dived into busywork: messengering the video of Darren to Mal, finishing other reports, paying and mailing bills, feeding the koi and netting debris out of their pond, cleaning the house until it sparkled. That took until noon and left the rest of the day open for wallowing in misery.
I had no appetite, tried running, couldn’t get the tightness out of my chest and gave up after a mile. Back home, I gulped a beer so quickly it made my diaphragm ache, followed it with another and took the six- pack into the bedroom. I sat in my underwear and watched images float across the TV screen. Soap operas: perfect-looking people suffering. Game shows: real-looking people regressing.
My mind wandered. I stared at the phone, reached out for the receiver. Pulled back.
The shoemaker’s children…
At first I’d thought the problem had something to do with business- with forsaking the world of high tech for the hand-cramping, poorly compensated life of an artisan.
A Tokyo music conglomerate had approached Robin about adapting several of her guitars into prototypes for mass production. She was to draw up the specifications; an army of computerized robots would do the rest.
They flew her first-class to Tokyo, put her up in a suite at the Okura Hotel, sushied and sake’d her, sent her home laden with exquisite gifts, sheaves of contracts printed on rice paper, and promises of a lucrative consultantship.
All that hard sell notwithstanding, she turned them down, never explaining why, though I suspected it had something to do with her roots. She’d grown up the only child of a mercilessly perfectionistic cabinetmaker who worshipped handwork, and an ex-showgirl who grew bitter playing Betty Crocker and worshipped nothing. A daddy’s girl, she used her hands to make sense of the world. Endured college until her father died, then eulogized him by dropping out and handcrafting furniture. Finally she found her perfect pitch as a luthier, shaping, carving, and inlaying custom guitars and mandolins.
We were lovers for two years before she agreed to live with me. Even then she held on to her Venice studio. After returning from Japan, she began escaping there more and more. When I asked her about it she said she had to catch up.
I accepted it. We’d never spent that much time together. Two headstrong people, we’d fought hard for independence, moving in different worlds, merging occasionally- sometimes it seemed randomly- in passionate collision.
But the collisions grew less and less frequent. She started spending nights at the studio, claiming fatigue, turning down my offers to pick her up and drive her home. I was keeping busy enough to avoid thinking about it.
I’d retired from child psychology at the age of thirty-three after overdosing on human misery, had lived comfortably off investments made in Southern California real estate. Eventually I began to miss clinical work, but continued to resist the entanglement of long-term psychotherapy. I dealt with it by limiting myself to forensic consultations referred by lawyers and judges- custody evaluations, trauma cases involving children, one recent criminal case that had taught me something about the genesis of madness.
Short-term work, with little or no follow-up. The surgical side of psych. But enough to make me feel like a healer.
A post-Easter lull left me with time on my hands- time spent alone. I began to realize how far Robin and I had drifted from each other, wondered if I’d missed something. Hoping for spontaneous cure, I waited for her to come around. When she didn’t, I cornered her.
She shrugged off my concerns, suddenly remembered something she’d forgotten at the studio and was gone. After that, I saw her even less. Phone calls to Venice triggered her answering machine. Drop-ins were maddeningly unsatisfying: Usually she was surrounded by sadeyed musicians cradling mangled instruments and singing one form of blues or the other. When I caught her alone she used the roar of saws and lathes, the hiss of the spray gun, to blot out discourse.
I gritted my teeth, backed off, told myself to be patient. Adapted by creating a heavy workload of my own. All during the spring, I evaluated, wrote reports, and testified like a demon. Lunched with lawyers, got stuck in traffic jams. Made lots of money and had no one to spend it on.
As summer neared, Robin and I had become polite strangers. Something had to give. Early in May, it did.
A Sunday morning, rich with hope. She’d come home late Saturday afternoon to retrieve some old sketches, had ended up spending the night, making love to me with a workmanlike determination that scared me but was better than nothing.
When I woke, I reached across the bed to touch her, felt only percale. Sounds filtered from the living room. I jumped out of bed, found her dressed, handbag over one shoulder, heading for the door.
“Morning, babe.”
“Morning, Alex.”
“Leaving?”
She nodded.
“What’s the rush?”
