by Frank Deford
Bucky had been listening courteously, but now, suddenly, catching Nina completely by surprise, he banged the heel of his hand on the table. “No!” he shouted—and loud enough, too, that some other patrons turned to look. So he leaned closer, lowering his voice without diminishing the urgency of his tone. “No, Nina—you listen to me now. You’re so rational. You’re saying, well, you said Rubens was in Amsterdam, but he’s really in Antwerp. You said Venus was your girlfriend, but she’s really Rubens’s wife. So, Bucky, you gotta be all wet.
“But listen to me, Nina. Doesn’t that prove I’m not settin’ you up? I didn’t go study this stuff. Hell, at first I didn’t even know Rubens did that painting. I was just mesmerized by it. I just saw me. I saw just Constance. Somehow. I could feel us up there. But Rubens? All I ever knew about him is he’s the guy who liked to paint fat broads. And I just assumed he was Dutch. Flemish, Schlemish. I’m no art critic, Nina, but just put me under hypnosis, and I swear to you I’ll be in that studio, wherever it was.”
Satisfied, he reached again for his second martini. She finally finished her first. The people rushed by on the street. The cabs were jamming up, the start of theater traffic. As much as New York might be celebrated as a city for the night, that was really only so in midtown. Uptown, here, Nina always knew that the city is best now, at twilight. She slumped in her chair. “Okay, Bucky, I can’t beat you. So, just let me be very practical. Let’s suppose I did hypnotize you.”
“Now you’re cookin’ with gas.”
“I said suppose. And let’s suppose we followed the hypnotism-chic reincarnation manual and we took you back to your childhood. Then I said, all right, now go back, back, etc., etc., and all of a sudden you told me: yeah, I’m back here in the artist’s studio in 1635, and today I’m all dressed up in an orange sarong because I’m the Adonis the world-famous Peter Paul Rubens is going to paint. Also, look here, here comes my girlfriend, and she has all her clothes off, etc., etc.—”
“Etc.”
“Well, it wouldn’t mean diddly, Bucky.”
“Why?”
“What we try to do in hypnosis is to reveal thoughts that don’t lie on the surface—repressed in the vulgar vernacular. We try to bring things out. But here you are, already telling me and the world that you’re Adonis from Antwerp. So, hypnotizing you wouldn’t mean anything. You see? You’d only be playing the record back to me in hypnosis that you’ve already sung, live. You’ve crammed for the test, Bucky. You’ve even put an apple on the teacher’s desk. I’m part of all this by now, and so just my voice, my inflection, is capable of tricking your mind into releasing all that you’ve subconsciously rehearsed with me.” For gentle emphasis, Nina laid her hand on the book cover, on Venus’s face. “It’s pointless.”
But then, suddenly, his hand was covering hers. It was nothing like that soft, understanding touch that he had offered to her back on the rooftop garden the other day. This was different—and if it was not a menacing grasp, it certainly was a firm one. Nina raised her head, uneasily, to look into his eyes. “You’re scared,” he told her.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. I know you didn’t mean to scare me.”
“No.”
“But it’s just all so real, Bucky. No matter how I try, I can’t shake that.”
“Because it is real.”
She sighed. “Suppose, suppose—” Her voice trailed off, and when their eyes caught on one another again, Nina and Bucky knew what they must do.
10
Uneasy, still somewhat rattled, Nina opened the door to her office, switched off the alarm, and turned on the light. Bucky went into the bathroom, and that gave her a chance to compose herself…some. When he came out, Nina said, “Among the things which no self-respecting psychiatrist would do, one is to meet a patient away from the office. And—”
“And?”
“Go out to a bar with a patient. And—”
“And?”
“Drink dry martinis with a patient. And—”
“And?”
“Get involved with a patient.”
“Involved?”
“Let me be honest, Bucky. I know I’m not doing this as a doctor. I’m doing this because you’ve fascinated me. Because I’m curious. Because I like you. Those are all the wrong becauses.”
He waited for her to ask him to leave. Instead, Nina simply said, “Are you ready?”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course not. Are you ready?”
“Well,” Bucky said. “The two drinks I had. They won’t—”
“Look, there’re night-club hypnotists all over America putting on a good show, hypnotizing drunks in the audience. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
He nodded. “Okay, so what do I do?”
“There’s no hocus-pocus. It’s really not unlike any of our other sessions. We’ll get comfortable.”
“Lie down?”
“No, sitting up is fine. I’ll make it dark, with a candle you can focus on. But don’t worry, I’m not doing any Vincent Price stuff with a sparkling pendant.”
“You just talk to me, right?”
“Exactly. And if a subject wants to get hypnotized—and, surely, no one ever wanted that more than you—and if you have the right disposition—and you certainly seem to—then you’ll go under, nice and easy. All hypnosis is really self-hypnosis, you know. I’ll just be holding your coat, so to speak.” Nina paused. “And, for that matter, I’ll take mine off. I need to be relaxed, too.”
Bucky helped her with her jacket, slipped off his own, and unloosened his tie. Nina also kicked off her heels. She was just turning to lead Bucky to the couch, when all of a sudden, there was a knock on the door. “Jesus,” Nina said.
“Who the hell?”
“Who is it?” Nina cried out.
“Police, ma’am.”
Nina peered through the little peephole. Sure enough, she recognized the same officer who’d been by a few days before. She opened the door to him. “Remember, I’m Officer Gomez, Doctor.” He nodded toward the other cop, a woman. “Officer Sabatini.”
Nina greeted them both. “Is there anything the matter?”
“Well, Doctor, you know there’s been the trouble with break-ins in the offices ’round here, and we saw the light on, and so—”
“I appreciate your vigilance, Officer, but I, uh, sometimes have evening hours, and my patient, uh—”
Both Nina and Bucky saw the cops sneak a quick glance to one another. They knew exactly what they were thinking. Attractive, older female doctor: shoeless, jacketless, gin on her breath, flushed. Handsome younger “patient”: jacket and tie off, gin on his breath, flustered. “Of course,” said Officer Gomez, suppressing a knowing leer. “Can’t be too careful.”
“Oh no, thank you,” said Nina, closing the door behind the two cops. Although just then, as she started to shut it, she idly glanced up. Across the street in the dusk under a street light was a woman looking in her direction. Hadn’t Nina seen her before? Tall, gray-haired; she had some kind of a hat on. Where? But the woman turned away then, stepping back into the shadows, and—
Oh well.
It went out of her mind. Nina closed the door and bolted it, and when she turned around, Bucky stepped up to her and gently took her by the shoulders. “You still okay?” he asked.
“Fine, really. Just a little put out. After all, there goes my well- cultivated good-girl reputation in the neighborhood.”
He dropped his hands. “You sure you wanna go ahead with this?”
Nina shrugged. “What the hell, why not? The whole thing has sort of vague sexual connotations anyway, doesn’t it? I mean, Bucky, no reflection on your honor, but right now, I do feel sort of like those times when I went to bed w
ith somebody, even though I knew I shouldn’t have.”
“Dr. Winston—heavens to Betsy!” Bucky cried, in mock horror, hand before his mouth.
“Oh, don’t worry—not that often,” Nina replied, laughing. “Not often enough.” He laughed. “Come on now, just sit down and relax. I’ll be right in.” Then what she said hit her, and in chagrin, she banged her hand on her own forehead. “Good God,” Nina yelped, “now I sound like a hooker.”
But, following Bucky into the room, she placed a candle on the table between them, lit it, and turned out the lights. Then, facing him directly, looking into his eyes, speaking softly, Nina told him to relax, to be comfortable. No need. Barely had she uttered a word before she knew he was in a trance, fading back within himself, at peace somewhere. It was too easy. And so, chatting now, talking about coziness and serenity, about trust and sweetness, she flipped on the tape recorder and encouraged him to think of the past. “Do you remember your childhood, Bucky?”
He beamed. “Of course. Terrific childhood. Wonderful.”
“Well, can we go back there, Bucky? Can we?”
“You bet,” he said—but in an enthusiastic voice higher from the mature man’s she’d just been listening to.
“Where are we?”
“Down the shore.”
“Oh, where ’bouts down the shore?”
“Cape May,” Bucky’s little voice said, irritated. “You know we always go to Cape May.”
“Oh, of course. Sorry.” Then, quickly: “How old are you, Bucky?”
“Six and three-quarters.”
Nina remembered he had a birthday in September, and if this were summer at the shore, then that would be soon, so she asked him what presents he wanted. She asked what grade he’d be going into; she asked about his friends and his favorite things. There was no stress, no anguish. Little Floyd Buckingham appeared as happy and easygoing a child as was big Floyd Buckingham guileless and content an adult. So, Nina idly whiled away more childhood time with him, using the extra minutes primarily to relax herself. She was gaining her rhythm now, slipping more securely into her professional role. And so, she took another sip of water and decided to move on—which was, to move back.
“Bucky, can we remember the earlier days? Can we go back before school, back when you were even younger?” And promptly, he was changed again, smiling and nodding, altogether accommodating, acting like a baby. Not goo-gooing, not like some foolish adult playing a role at Charades, pretending to be a baby. Had Bucky carried on like that, Nina would’ve been sure that it was just a pliant patient trying to please the doctor. But no, with Bucky, there was just enough of a child, just a baby’s agreeable manner.
It was going so well, so smoothly. “All right now, Bucky, let’s see if we can go even further back.” Bucky smiled his assent. He didn’t talk, though, because, of course, babies don’t talk. “Further back in time,” Nina went on, “further, further—”
Bucky nodded at her. But suddenly, then, Nina was surprised to see his face begin to change. It was no longer that vacant, happy, baby face. It was growing different, showing surprise—even, it seemed, some pain.
“Are we further back, further—”
And now, even more to her shock, came the new voice, one that was different altogether, both shriller and more guttural, so unusual that Nina found it hard to believe that it was emanating from Bucky’s mouth. But it was. The voice said only: “Yah, yah.”
Nina was astonished. My God, she thought, what is this? “Tell me,” she started to say. “Where—”
But at that moment, without warning—without any warning whatsoever—Bucky’s eyes widened in horror and he fell from his chair, upon his knees, onto the carpet. His hands flew to his chest, and then, in even greater despair, they reflexively flew up high, and his screeching voice pierced the night. What Nina heard Bucky scream was: “…owwwllllleeeeeee…”
11
Bucky looked around, astonished to find himself down on his knees. After his scream, Nina had felt that she had to rush to bring him out of his trance. He’d been too agitated. And God, but the chills still reverberated through her own body, the echo of that horrible howling still in her ears. She put on her most reassuring face, but she could not stop thinking: if the mere sound could affect her so, then what must have happened to Bucky…somewhere…sometime…to make him actually emit such a noise?
“It’s okay,” Nina said, “you’ve just been very restless. Very animated.”
He stood up brushing off his knees. “Well, did I—?”
Nina shook her head. “Not what you wanted, no. Sorry. You were terrific at going back into your past—back to a very charming little baby Bucky. But then…something stopped you.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. You got”—Nina searched for the best euphemism—“uh, upset about something.” Nervously, Nina rose and rubbed her hands. “Bucky, please, let’s not forget that maybe that’s it—baby Bucky.” He frowned, so she sought to offer him more consolation. She had to. Whatever Floyd Buckingham had encountered in his mind was terrible, and Nina knew that if there was any chance whatsoever of finding out what may have happened to him—in whatever existence, real or imagined—then she could not press fear upon him now. Besides: first, do no harm; the patient’s well-being was a damn sight more important than the doctor’s curiosity. So, feigning nonchalance, Nina threw up her hands. “Look, we just couldn’t break through something. And that’s not unusual.”
“Damn. Does that mean it’s a no-go?”
Nina casually flipped off the tape recorder and turned back on more of the lights. “No, not necessarily. It just means we’ll have to give this more thought.” She glanced over at him again, surprised to see him tucking his shirt back in. He’d exerted himself so when he screamed that he’d pulled his shirt clear out of his pants. So, composing herself anew, putting on her most professional face, Nina strolled into the waiting room where she picked up the appointment book on Roseann’s desk. “Okay, let’s talk again. Just here—no hanky-panky, no martinis.” She glanced down. “Tuesday at four?” He shrugged in the affirmative.
Then Nina picked up her purse and took out a little package. “Here, a present for you.”
Bucky opened it in delight—then shock when he saw what it was. “Earrings? You’re giving me earrings?”
“Look closer at ’em.”
He held them up. “Oh my God, they’re Venus’s. Where did you—?”
“They’re very popular. Right in the Metropolitan.”
But it didn’t seem as if Bucky was listening anymore. Instead, he was holding the earrings high, gazing at them, lost in his own new trance. Suddenly, he dropped his eyes to Nina. “I got it!” he cried out.
“Got what?
“Constance doesn’t know any of this stuff. She never heard of you, doesn’t know Adonis from Adam, doesn’t know Rubens.” He waggled an earring before Nina. “Hypnotize Constance.”
Instinctively, Nina backed up, folding her arms across her chest. Why, if there were a psychiatrist studying Nina Winston, she would say that hers was a classic defensive body language. But the scream—Bucky’s awful scream—Nina could still hear that. She was still scared. But even more fascinated. Constance. Of course. Nina wasn’t even surprised when she heard herself telling Bucky, “Okay, Constance.” He pecked Nina in delight on her cheek.
As soon as Bucky was gone, Dr. Winston threw some water on her face. Then, despite herself—who hypnotized whom?—she picked up the tape recorder and played with the Rewind until she had it right there. Play. The scream. And no matter that now she heard it, alone, prepared for it, in the bright light of her own office. Still, her whole body shook.
Nina turned off the tape. So abruptly had Bucky stopped. The howl. Then: nothing. Just kneeling on the floor, his face full of anguish, his eyes staring. At the
candle? At…what? Why? Nina rewound the tape and pushed Play for another instant. Again: the howl. No. Enough. Stop. Make some notes while it’s fresh in your mind, and then fly home, ladybug.
She took the tape out—don’t be tempted anymore—laid it on her desk, then began to scribble down all her recollections. Finished, she left the notes there by the Rubens book, stood up, and reached for her jacket. That was when the phone rang. No one knew she was at the office except…“Bucky?”
But, no answer. “Bucky, don’t play games.” She heard the phone click off.
Oh well.
At least: no heavy breathing. She put on her jacket. And her shoes. She picked up her pocketbook.
Outside, the evening air was as fresh as anything you could order from an L.L. Bean catalogue, so Nina decided to hoof it home. Working a random diagonal, then—a block across, then down one or two, just drifting with the lights, she headed east for her apartment in the Sixties.
It was funny how quickly she felt it, though. Hardly had she reached Madison when Nina sensed that she was being followed. That was all the more weird, because she had never been followed before—not ever, not once in her life. But it was like the first time she’d known a strange man was staring at her with lust in his heart: sixteen years old, in a mini-skirt, her little rear and boobs barely enough to qualify as jib and ballast…but instinctively she had turned around, and sure enough, there he was, lounging in the doorway, smoking a cheroot, giving her a once-over. So.
Casually now, in the security of the intersection of Madison at 78th, Nina glanced back. But she couldn’t spot anyone. So, she crossed 78th, and like she’d learned in the spy movies, she pretended to study a shop window, using that ruse to glance back idly to see if anyone else had stopped. And: well, there was another woman, across Madison, up at the next corner. Nina’s eyes were drawn to her. Unfortunately, her eyes didn’t draw very well right now because she’d taken her contacts out back at the office. Still, she could see this: that as soon as she spotted the woman, the woman stopped in her tracks, pretending to obey the Don’t Walk sign, even though in New York, nobody paid any attention to Don’t Walk signs.
