The Other Adonis

by Frank Deford

  Of course, Nina was not put off; rarely did anyone first come to a psychiatrist confidently. But the woman in the Donna Karan seemed almost surly. She was, in fact, loaded for bear. As much as she had avoided confrontation throughout her life, as uncomfortable as this was going to be for her, the woman had decided exactly what she would say. She had rehearsed that, and now before she even introduced herself, Phyllis Buckingham ungritted her teeth, narrowed her eyes, and snapped, “Have you been screwing my husband, Doctor?”

  Nina was so unprepared for such a blunt accusation that she was able to answer reflexively, without any guile or artifice. “The truth of the matter is,” she replied, “that right now, I don’t happen to be screwing anyone at all.”

  That, of course, was the last response that Phyllis had expected—not only the content, but the tone: blasé, mixed even with a little whimsy. So, with no rebuttal at her command, all she could do was slump down into the chair, so deflated that Nina even rushed around the desk to console her.

  “I’m sorry, Doctor,” she finally managed to say, “but I’m just so confused.”

  Nina handed her a Kleenex box. “Excuse me: you are Phyllis Buckingham?” Phyllis nodded, sniffling. “Well, Mrs. Buckingham, maybe I can appreciate your suspicions, but I can absolutely assure you that my relationship with your husband is strictly doctor-patient.”

  “How long has Bucky been coming to see you—appointments?”

  Nina leaned back on her desk. “Technically, I shouldn’t answer anything about my dealings with a patient, but you’re obviously aware that he has been seeing me, so I won’t stand on ceremony. About two months now.”

  That helped Phyllis clear her head, sufficient to move back on the offensive. “If you’ll excuse my layman’s ignorance, Dr. Winston, but do dates at the Metropolitan, then cocktails, and a little private evening therapy”—ooh, how that word dripped with insinuation—“back here at the office.…” Purposely, she paused to glance over to the couch. “Does that now constitute a professional relationship?”

  This time, Nina was the one caught off guard. So Phyllis barreled on. “Even when I called, the first word out of your mouth was my husband’s name. Buckkky.”

  “That was you?”

  Phyllis sat up confidently now. “I don’t follow my husband, Doctor. But I had confided my suspicions that he was…running around, and by chance, one of my friends that I’d told had been at the museum. She saw you there with Bucky, and then later, she walked by your little tête-à-tête at the Stanhope bar, and—”

  “So then she followed us to my office and called you?” Phyllis nodded. Nina fought to suppress a smile. After all, even in her discombobulation, she had to laugh to herself that, since the woman of the hats had also been spying on her, it must have created quite a pedestrian jam there on the Fifth Avenue sidewalk that evening, as all these snoops reconnoitered her activity.

  “Well,” Nina went on, “I acknowledge—and apologize—for that professional indiscretion. But, I assure you that it was not premeditated. It was a chance meeting at the museum.”

  “My foot,” Phyllis snapped. “The last time Bucky was in any museum was when he was also singing in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.”

  “Let’s just say for now that he’s struck up a particular new interest at the Metropolitan.” Phyllis scowled. “And we came across each other there, and then after a cocktail”—well, Nina fibbed, with the singular—“which was strictly my suggestion…after that, I can promise you that nothing of impropriety happened between us in this office. Nothing.”

  “But isn’t that rather unusual, taking a patient to—”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  “Then can you explain to me why—”

  “I‘m sorry, Mrs. Buckingham, but you’ll have to ask Bucky about that. He’s not bound by any confidence with me, as I am with him.”

  Phyllis was not altogether satisfied with that response, but she was at least beginning to grow somewhat comfortable. “You can understand, can’t you, that I just assumed that this was all about another woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if it really isn’t you, then—?”

  “Now, please don’t read anything into this, Mrs. Buckingham, but I’m sorry, I must honor the strictures of my—”

  “Okay, okay,” Phyllis growled—not really accepting what Nina said, but only going along in the manner of a prosecutor who had been silenced by a judge, procedurally. “Okay. But the fact is that, suddenly, a few months ago, Bucky began to change. Never happened before. Of course I imagined it was another woman. What else? Then I find out he’s traipsing into a psychiatrist’s office after a couple of drinks with a woman. Bucky—going to a psychiatrist? You know, Doctor, the only thing wrong with my husband is he’s too normal. And then I start thinking about it, and it dawns on me: of course, the other woman is a psychiatrist.”

  Nina said, “Didn’t your friend mention that I was a bit too long in the tooth for such an attractive younger man?”

  Phyllis tossed her head in condescension. “Hey, Bucky’s always had a thing for older women.”

  “Really?”

  “You mean he hasn’t told you that? He hasn’t told you about Jocelyn?”

  “Jocelyn? I’m sorry.”

  “Then he’s B.S.ing you, Doctor. Jocelyn Ridenhour was the love of his life—the one before me. And she had to be fifteen years older than Bucky. Funny thing about him, Doctor. As boyish as Bucky can be, he’s always gravitated to the company of older people. I don’t mean just women. So many older men you’d never imagine would have anything in common with him, have taken to Bucky in business. He’s just sometimes this old soul. I know he woulda married Jocelyn if she hadn’t been sooo much older. So you see, Doctor, forgive me, but you fit the profile.” Nina chuckled, but then Phyllis hit her with this: “Of course, you are a little short for his taste. Bucky likes us tall and leggy.”

  As quickly as she could process that, Nina asked, “And this Jocelyn—she was tall, huh?”

  “Oh yeah, just like me. And eccentric—not like me. That’s about all I know about the lady.”

  Well, well, well, Nina thought. What have we here? How many loves of a lifetime does Mr. Floyd Buckingham have? Constance? Jocelyn? And not to mention such a chic and adoring wife? Still, Nina rather liked Phyllis, admired her gumption for confronting her—especially since it was so obviously out of character. “You know, Mrs. Buckingham,” Nina said, “if you had the courage to come see me, why don’t you just ask Bucky yourself about—”

  “Because I’m scared. Because, all of a sudden, I don’t know if I know him anymore. But at your next session with him…”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “I would like you to tell him I came here.”

  “All right.”

  “Maybe then he’ll explain to me why he’s acting so differently, why he could possibly feel the need for psychiatric help.”

  “Of course,” Nina said, rising, escorting her to the door.

  Phyllis waited there, though, before she held out her hand. Eventually, instead, she said, “I’ll bet you like Bucky, don’t you, Doctor?”

  “Yes, I don’t think it’s inappropriate for the psychiatrist to admit that.”

  “I know. Everybody does. Everybody likes Bucky. We all are crazy about him. The children and me, the dog and the cat. My mother likes Bucky so much more than she likes my father. All of us, we love Bucky. And so, if you’re really not sleeping with him—”

  “Phyllis, I’m not. I promise.”

  “Well then, if you could just help bring him back to us from wherever he’s gone to, I’ll be very grateful.” And quickly, then, before Nina could see the tears cloud up in her eyes, Phyllis pivoted and walked straightaway out that door, through the waiting room and the front door, out to Fifth Avenue, where it had begun
to drizzle.

  Nina watched her go, then held up a hand to Roseann—five fingers spread out. Five minutes. She rushed back to her desk and wrote the name down. Jocelyn. No question about that. But: Ridenhour? Or maybe it didn’t have an h in it. Ridenhour? Or maybe an ei: Ridenhour? That is what Phyllis had said, hadn’t she? R(e)iden(h)our. Yes, yes. One of those ways.

  Nina grabbed for the Manhattan phone book. Try that, first. Try it without the e, but with the h. Richey, Riddle, Ridello…Ridenhour. There weren’t that many of them. But there was the one, plain as day: Ridenhour Jocelyn. No pussy-footin’ around. No mere initial, no: Ridenhour J. Nina was the same way. What crazed pervert is going to be fooled by an initial? Winston Nina is what it said for her. Who’s kidding whom? You put down Winston N., everybody knows it’s a woman. So what’s the point? Good for her. Good for Ridenhour Jocelyn—even if she did follow Nina and break into her office and steal from her.

  The address was downtown, The Village or SoHo, or that new one that makes all the columns, wherever it is. TriBeCa. Or TRI BC if it’s a woman district. Anyway, for now, Nina preferred just to call. Not to talk. Not now. Just to call. Leave a message. Jocelyn Ridenhour should be at work now. Just leave a message on her phone machine.

  Nina dialed the number. And here came the fourth ring. But, no click. No phone machine? Fifth ring. Sixth. Seventh. There is no phone machine. Doesn’t this lady of the hats named Jocelyn Ridenhour know this is the twenty-first century? After the eighth ring, Nina hung up.

  So, she picked up the pad—the same pad that Jocelyn had written the note to her on—and printed this on it:

  If you are ,

  Please return my tape & my notes.

  Contact me & I promise: no police.

  Then, just to be mischievous, Nina added:

  Have a nice day

  Two can play this game.

  She found a blank envelope, addressed the letter, sealed it, and put it in her pocketbook to mail.

  14

  Over and over, Jocelyn Ridenhour listened to the tape, trying to fathom it. She would even get down on her knees in her apartment and pantomime the scream, trying to better imagine what Bucky was saying. And why.

  Read through Dr. Winston’s notes again. “On knees…Absolute agony on his face…Sees what? (It must be awful.)” Read them over. Listen to all Bucky said when he was in the trance. Even listen to Bucky and Nina talking briefly afterwards, before she flicked off the recorder. Do it all again. But, still: what was he screaming? Why was he screaming?

  Anyway, as pragmatic as Jocelyn could be, going about her task, the sheer horror of the wail affected her no less than it had Nina. It was a cry and a shriek and a moan all together.

  She had called Bucky, of course—called him regularly since that time in March when he had come to her, confused and disturbed, and she had told him to go to a therapist. Get hypnotized—maybe you can get the answer that way. That was when Jocelyn had given him Nina’s name. Jocelyn had heard about her. Dr. Nina Winston: as respected and reliable a shrink as a man could find.

  But, by now, Bucky’s reluctance to talk anymore to Jocelyn had too much frustrated her and annoyed him. The last time she’d called him, he’d all but hung up on her. “Damn it, Joc, how many times do I have to tell you? I know how interested you are. I know you gave me the shrink’s name. But this is my business. And I’m not going to tell you anymore. Now, don’t call me again. Good-bye.”

  That was when Jocelyn started assuming the initiative herself. This could be too important. Besides, she’d already written Sergei and Ludmilla. Yes, perhaps she’d contacted them too quickly, promised them too much. Certainly, that did put more pressure on her. And certainly, Jocelyn appreciated now she shouldn’t have broken into Dr. Winston’s office. That was foolhardy. That was two counts, breaking and entering. Theft. And there also must be an official, legal term for following someone. Stalking? It was all so foolish going after the doctor, anyway. The doctor’s not going to reveal anything to her. She can’t. She’s a doctor. Yes, Jocelyn admitted to herself, she’d been wrong to rush it, to take all these chances.

  Just give Bucky time, and he’ll tell her everything. He always did.

  So, Jocelyn played the tape again, down on her knees, mouthing the scream.

  She grew positive that it must be a name that Bucky had yelled. Ollie? Or maybe it was Al, with a trailing shriek. She thought back, then, all their time together. Bucky loved to talk to her as much as he loved to make love to her. But all that time, all that she ever heard him say—Jocelyn could not recall Bucky even once mentioning an Al or an Ollie. (Well, not counting the times he’d twiddle his tie, doing a very bad imitation of Stan Laurel talking to Oliver Hardy.)

  So then Jocelyn thought: well, maybe it wasn’t a name. Maybe it was a word from a foreign language, like alli. Could there be such a word? So, she searched foreign-language dictionaries—Spanish, French, German, Italian—for all the possible spellings. But: nothing like it. Allez in French, ole in Spanish. No, no—that wasn’t the sound. Not quite. And, anyway, you didn’t get down on your knees in pain to scream those kind of words. No.

  One day at lunch, Jocelyn went into a large bookstore, and in the travel section, she asked for a Flemish-English dictionary. Hadn’t Bucky told her about gallery twenty-seven, about Rubens? Wasn’t that the start of it all? Maybe Bucky was crying out in Flemish. Unfortunately, Jocelyn learned, there is no such animal. There is no Flemish language. Instead, she discovered, Flemish is simply a dialect of Dutch. Well then, she asked for a Dutch-English dictionary. But: no word in Dutch even remotely approximated that distinct sound that Bucky had uttered: “…owwwllllleeeeeee…”

  Jocelyn’s frustrations were growing. Her interests in other things wavered. She turned off the phone machine and stopped painting. Her mind would wander at work. And every day, as soon as she got back to her apartment, she would rush to the phone and contemplate calling Bucky. But she was getting a hold of herself now. She knew she must not irritate him any more. Be patient, Joc. Be patient. We are dealing with centuries here. Maybe eons. So what’s a few more days? Still, she knew she was so close. And to think that Bucky could be the one. After all this time, everywhere in the world—and Bucky had the answer for them. Bucky. Right here.

  Of course, this also: now why couldn’t it be me? That was the greatest irony.

  All that Jocelyn knew about reincarnation, about life past, about lives past—yet never could she get an inkling of who she might have been before. The shoemaker’s children had no shoes. Ah, yes, and Jocelyn Ridenhour had no past lives.

  Finally, she had to write Sergei and Ludmilla to tell them that things must wait a bit. But don’t worry: soon enough she’d be coming to visit them. By the end of the summer, no matter what. And then they’d start to work things out. Jocelyn had contacts. Soon, the whole world would know what they knew. Soon, the whole world would believe.

  Jocelyn did send them some money to help them continue their studies.

  But, Jocelyn was stymied. So, with nothing else to do, she went out and bought another hat. It was a large straw bonnet with a flowing pink ribbon—just the perfect sort of hat for a lovely English garden party in Dorset during Wimbledon fortnight. Or, if no one invited you to an English garden party in Dorset during the fortnight, then it was the perfect sort of hat to wear in your New York apartment, as you played the tape, again and again.

  And again and again heard: “…owwwllllleeeeeee…”

  And though the chills went up and down her spine, as they always did, there was no more. No more to learn from it. Nothing new, nothing else. Once again, Jocelyn got up off her own knees and adjusted her new straw bonnet with the flowing pink ribbon.

  15

  The knock upon Nina’s office door came only five minutes after she had begun her first hour of the day with the garrulous Mrs. Harrison of Rye. All th
e more amazing, because Roseann was under stringent orders never to bother Nina when she was with a patient, except under the most extraordinary circumstances.

  Nina opened the door. “I’m sorry, Doctor, but it’s Mr. Buckingham.”

  “Where?” Nina whispered, glancing about the waiting room.

  “I mean, it’s about him. I think he’s under arrest.”

  Barely apologizing to Mrs. Harrison, Nina grabbed the phone. The voice on the other end declared, “Dr. Winston, Robert Fernandez. I’m head of security at the Metropolitan Museum, and—”

  Nina tore up Fifth Avenue, dodging traffic, and was there at the security office in five minutes, tops. Fernandez, a slim man in a business suit—plainclothes—escorted her into his office. She was surprised; she had expected Bucky to be there—like waiting in the principal’s office until Mommy came.

  Fernandez anticipated her question. “We’re holding him,” he informed her, beckoning Nina to take the chair across from his desk. “This whole thing is very unusual, Doctor,” he went on, shaking his head in evident puzzlement. “Normally, something like this happens—” He stopped. “Well, nothing like this has ever happened. But, you know, somebody gets in trouble, we call a lawyer, maybe the family. He specifically asked that I call you.”

  “No, Mr. Fernandez, I appreciate your consideration. Mr. Buckingham is my patient. Now, can you tell me what he did?” Fernandez shook his head. “Well, to be truthful, we’re really not sure what he did do. All we know is, the museum opens at nine-thirty. Nine twenty-five, a guard finds Mr. Buckingham sitting upstairs in a gallery.”

  “Gallery twenty-seven?” Fernandez’s eyes flew wide open, and Nina smiled wanly. “Mr. Buckingham has something of a, uh, fancy for a particular painting in that gallery.”

  “Okay, that helps.”

  “So how did he get there?”

  “Well,” Fernandez replied, “he wouldn’t go into any detail till you arrived, but he did tell us he spent the night inside the museum.”