by Frank Deford
He would have heard her open the glass door and go into the medieval section, except that the fountain was so incredibly loud.
18
Well, Nina had to admit to herself: Constance Rawlings truly was stunning.
But, as we know, nobody has it all. Nina immediately noticed that Constance was stylistically challenged—everything just a bit out of kilter. “How do you do, Mrs. Rawlings?”
“My pleasure, Doctor.” There it was, to the naked ear. Nothing intrinsically wrong with saying “my pleasure.” But somehow, just as Proctor Lee saw Constance ride a horse: not…quite…right.
And those clothes. A perfectly attractive light blue summer suit. Right for the season—but altogether too resort-y for New York. Besides, Constance wore it with a large black patent leather belt and matching black pumps. Once again: a smidgen off. But still: enough. If Nina’s daughter, Lindsay, had shown up so attired, Nina would have thought: somehow…somehow I have failed as a mother.
Nina also found out, quickly enough, that Constance was reluctant to provide any cooperation. “Please be informed that I do not wish to offer myself up to your prying,” is the stark way she phrased it.
Nina was caught short. Patients might have second thoughts when first they encountered her, but they were never hostile. “Then I’m sorry you bothered to come so far,” Nina replied, coolly, closing the folder (for effect) on her desk, “for I’m unable to be of any help if you resist my…prying.”
“It’s nothing personal,” Constance said, at her most impersonal.
“No, not to me.” Nina paused. “But I’m sure Bucky will take it personally. As I explained on the phone, this was at his request.” That did seem to register with Constance, so to dramatize the point, Nina rose. “You need not take up any more of your time, Mrs. Rawlings. I respect your wishes.”
Constance did not budge. Instead, she spoke deliberately. “Please sit back down, Doctor. Do not conclude that a failure to be enthusiastic must indicate a failure to be cooperative.” If Nina did not sit back down, neither did she show any more displeasure. As much as she hated to admit it to herself, she didn’t want to lose Constance. Instead, she only clasped her hands before her and said, “I understand you’re a stock analyst.” Constance nodded. “I appreciate that a dispassionate approach is crucial in that field, but here we must deal more with emotions.”
“I can turn it on, Doctor. That’s not the issue. It all just seems so unnecessary to me.”
“How’s that?”
“Oh really, it’s perfectly obvious that Bucky and I are intended for each other.” Constance even shook her head in some exasperation. Whereas Bucky accepted whatever fate had driven the two of them together, he took that with a certain amount of natural wonder and some healthy confusion. Constance, though, simply concluded it was the way things are. Life was a), b), c), or d) none of the above.
Nonetheless, as they began the session more formally, Constance promptly started to recite the story of that first meeting with Bucky with vivid recall. Then, moving on, her tale of their chance encounter of February 11th featured a recitation of detail that so perfectly jibed with Bucky’s version that, for Nina, it might as well have been a part of the Baltimore Catechism. Constance only diverged in expressing pique that Bucky had required them to go through a “grace period” before taking up with each other. “But of course,” she allowed, “what with Bucky’s children in school and my own daughter preparing to go off to college, I would agree that it will play less havoc with their lives if Bucky and I strike out together during the summer school vacation.”
That tied Nina’s tongue. For all the emotion Constance displayed, she might as well have been discussing a dentist appointment or the twenty-thousand-mile check-up for the family car. Finally, Nina found herself. “Now, that does beg the question—just a devil’s-advocate-type-thing, you understand—that to make such a momentous decision, it might be best to get to know each other a little better before, uh—”
“Doctor, I appreciate that it may sound too unequivocal to someone in your profession, but you must understand that there is no gray area here. Bucky and I are simply intended to be together.” She shifted in her seat, ever so slightly—a rare movement, that. “I’ve long been agnostic. I am, therefore, under no spiritual delusion that a god has sent Bucky to me. I’m sure it’s just a matter of the laws of chance.”
“Oh?”
“It’s logical to conclude that every one of the billions of us on this planet has someone who is best suited for him or her. The ideal mate.”
Nina strove to put some poetry into this formularization. “As the old love song goes: ‘For every man, there is a woman, for every woman there…’”
“Absolutely. At least by some infinitesimal measure. It’s just that what are the odds that, on all the earth, you would meet that one best love?” Then she folded her hands, alerting Nina to something new on the conversational horizon. “May I ask, Doctor, are you married?”
“No, not presently.”
“Well, imagine. It is within the realm of possibility that the one man best suited for you is, in fact, only blocks away. Or, it is statistically just as likely that he is residing on the island of Negros, in the Philippines.”
“So,” said Nina, getting into the mathematical spirit of love eternal, “we all probably end up settling for second best.”
“More likely: eighty-seven thousand, four hundred and sixty-third best,” Constance declared. That passed as a joke for her, and she chuckled. “But, you see, Bucky and I are that rarest statistical anomaly—the one man meant for the one woman, who actually did meet each other. Alas, we just happened to come together after I was married to another man.”
“A day late and a dollar short,” Nina offered, but Constance was not interested in that sort of folk arithmetic. Nina went on. “So, obviously you have no fears about moving ahead to a life together with Bucky.”
“None whatsoever. And, you know, Doctor, you may have noticed that Bucky and I are marked by somewhat different personalities.”
“Yes, I think it’s fair to say that no one would ever call you two peas in a pod.”
“Precisely. Laymen might say: opposites attract. More obvious to me: we bond on deeper levels. Bucky and I are simply meant for one another. I expect it will be absolute perfection when we do have sexual intercourse—a flawless physical expression of an ideal union.”
Well, that summed that up.
But at least Nina was given an opportunity to consider what tack to take next, because Constance inquired about the bathroom. Nina had concluded long ago that it was revealing of a patient how one addressed that subject. There were, she had decided, distinct differences between those who asked “to use the john” and those who inquired if they might “go to the bathroom.” Likewise, there were differences between those females who called it “the little girl’s room,” “the ladies’ room,” or “the women’s room”—the latter invariably being among the more ideological of feminists. Moreover, those of either gender who preferred the more euphemistic “rest-room” were usually her most difficult subjects, those least likely to volunteer anything. (Nina had originally thought the recalcitrant Bucky must be a restroom type, until he abruptly asked if he could “pop into the can.”) As for Constance, Nina decided right away that she would be the sort to use the word “lavatory.” Because: that’s exactly what it was.
And now, as Nina looked at her notes, she heard Constance say, “May I visit your lavatory?”
Nina could not resist replying, “Yes, the powder room is right there.” That made her irritated at herself; Nina was afraid she was allowing her own personal considerations to block out her professional objectivity. It wasn’t that she disliked Constance (although she probably, in fact, did), but it was just so damned disconcerting, trying to put her together with Bucky. A lavatory person with a
can person. Moreover, Nina knew who Constance was replacing. Phyllis Buckingham was so attractive, so sympathetic and…well, so much like Bucky.
Constance returned then, sat back on the couch, taking the exact same proper position, crossing her long legs at the ankles. Nina began again, tentatively. “I imagine it’s been difficult for you at home, since you made this decision about Bucky.” Constance looked at her, a bit unsure, so Nina amplified. “I mean, has your husband noticed any change in your behavior?” (Nina caught herself before she added: “…the way Bucky’s wife has.”)
Constance only answered, “No,” amplifying that response only when she realized that Nina expected a bit more. “As you can probably tell, Doctor, I’m not the sort of person who wears her heart on her sleeve. Carl is not particularly demonstrative either, and if he is suspicious, he certainly hasn’t given me any reason to think so.”
“I see,” Nina said.
Then, out of the blue: “I’ve given him a lot of fellatio.” Nina was taken aback by such a bald announcement, but Constance assumed her failure to respond promptly indicated some lack of understanding. “You know, in the vernacular: blow jobs.”
“Yes, of course. Blow jobs.”
“You’re aware how much men like them—though I don’t speak with any broad firsthand experience. I was a virgin when I met Carl, and he remains the only man I’ve ever had sexual intercourse with. But, that is what I understand.”
“Yes,” Nina said, retaining a strict noncommittal stance on the subject.
“I never particularly enjoyed providing fellatio for Carl. Didn’t actively dislike it, you understand. But, just not my cup of tea. After I saw Bucky in February, though, I began to think often of him in that context. So I began giving Carl fellatio while fantasizing about Bucky. As you might imagine, Doctor, my husband has been very pleased with this arrangement.”
“I see. And how is your daughter?”
“Elise.”
“Yes, are you concerned that Elise’ll be terribly affected when you leave her father?”
“Fortunately, it works out quite well.”
“It does?”
“Yes, for this will happen exactly as Elise departs for college, to a new phase in her life. Happily, she’s chosen to attend Oberlin, which is in Ohio, so that will place her almost midway between her father in Chicago, and me here in New York with Bucky.”
Nina nodded. Well, that took care of the marriage and the family. Carl gets a year’s worth of blow jobs, Elise a nice, centrally located college, so everybody should be happy and move on. Nina swallowed and took another approach. “Mrs. Rawlings, what’s your family heritage?”
“You mean, ethnically, that sort of thing?” Nina nodded; she was wondering if there could be any Flemish connection, any Belgian past. “Not very exciting, I’m afraid. Quite mixed. No tribal customs handed down.” She shifted her position, trading the right ankle on top of the left for the left on the right. “My maiden name was Bauer.”
“German.”
“Yes. Some people, in noting my reserve, have suggested that there is a Teutonic streak in me, but honestly, whatever German was originally in the family has long since been blurred. My mother was a McDonald. She used to joke: no relation to either the farm or the hamburger.” Constance chuckled at this family humor, and Nina joined in.
“Mrs. Rawlings—”
“Oh, I wish you’d call me Constance. After all, it’s our secret, but I won’t be Mrs. Rawlings much longer, will I?”
Nina shook her head, sort of. “Well…Constance, do you have any particular outside interests—hobbies, clubs, anything like that?”
Immediately, she brightened. That alerted Nina. Heretofore, the most incredible thing about Constance had been her utterly even nature. Nina had thought: I have met the human level playing field. But now, Constance perked up with genuine delight. “Show jumping. It’s my passion. After Bucky, of course.”
Nina threw herself forward in her chair, so happy was she to see a spark fly off Constance. “Why…why do you love it so?”
“Oh, Doctor, there is, at once, such a great peace to it, but such a great thrill. Everything we do in the show ring is so even, so fair—the same route, same fences, same challenge, same judge. And yet, there is this wonderful sense of being in command that comes from handling your animal.” She paused, smiling in reverie. “But I must completely depend on my horse. So you see, my power is only part of the equation. There is such a glorious balance to it all.”
Nina nodded, posed a few more perfunctory questions that went nowhere, and then stood up, asking Constance if she would agree to return tomorrow.
“If you wish.”
“You understand: I’m giving you another opportunity to duck out.”
Constance’s bosom heaved impatiently. “I would have thought by now that you would have learned that I finish what I start.”
Nina indicated that she understood, but: “I wanna try something new—hypnosis.”
“Oh, I see where you’re going, Doctor. Plumb the subconscious to find why the woman is so desperately in love with Bucky.”
“Something like that.”
“Well, be my guest.”
“Have you ever been hypnotized before?”
“Yes, once. My husband and I were in Miami Beach at a medical convention. There was a hypnotist in the hotel nightclub, and much to Carl’s surprise, I volunteered. As it turned out, I was an absolutely perfect subject.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. But then, I understand hypnosis. I know it’s not hocus-pocus, but basically quite straightforward. The hypnotist had a field day with me.” Constance laughed heartily at the memory. “Yes, he even had me going around to the others on the stage, taking their belly buttons.” She held out her hands. “I was carrying them all over. Not actually, of course.”
“Yes, I understand,” Nina said. “You’ll obviously be a terrific subject for hypnosis. And one other question. The Metropolitan is just a few blocks up from here, and—”
“I’m sorry. The Metropolitan what?”
“The Metropolitan Museum of Art.”
“Oh, I see. I’m afraid I’ve never been there. Art can be decorative enough, but it’s just altogether too subtle for me.”
“Well, that’s all right,” Nina assured her—which was true enough, inasmuch as she was pretty much making this up as she went along. “You see, I like to take some subjects up to the museum, use certain paintings as a sort of Rorschach test. Perhaps we could take a stroll up there during one of our sessions.”
“Fascinating,” Constance said. “That sounds like such an original approach.”
Nina had saved a couple of hours in the middle of the next day for Constance, but when it came out that she was an early riser, Nina suggested they meet first thing, and they agreed on seven-thirty. Constance paused at the door. “Will you be talking to Bucky?” she asked.
“Before tomorrow?” Constance nodded. “No. Why?”
“Oh, I know I have no reason to hope for it, but I had let myself dream that you might tell him to come see me. I’m just down at the Sherry-Netherland.” Suddenly, she showed Nina a little-girl smile. “Between you and me and the lamp-post, I hoped he might spend the night with me.”
“I’m sorry, but I really think it really would be better to finish up our work here before—”
“Of course, Doctor, that’s most unlike me—getting ahead of myself.”
“I understand,” said Nina. “And I do thank you for coming.”
“My pleasure,” said Constance.
19
Nina prepared meticulously for the next morning. She was going to go to bed early and rise early, ready herself for Constance, to be at her very best in trying to take this woman of the millennium back into time, back to Antwerp in th
e year 1635.
The day’s meeting had made Nina even more anxious, too, because she had learned that if ever there was a perfect subject, it surely must be Constance Rawlings. It was not only that she was so enthusiastic about undergoing hypnosis and professed to be so malleable a candidate. More than that, Constance was a veritable tabula rasa when it came to the pertinent matters at hand. While Nina had made sure not to influence her by mentioning reincarnation, Constance had herself volunteered that she was not only without religion, but held no belief in the spirit world. For Constance, there was no soul, no future life, no past life. Our existence was only and all a circumscribed show ring.
Moreover, she possessed only the most limited knowledge of art or history, and she had no hidden family memories that could account for any possible lingering heritage. Instead, Constance was, by her own definition, an altogether literal person, lacking any vivid imagination. She could not recall the last novel she had read. She rarely went to the movies, never to the theater, and watched little “fanciful” (her word) television. It was impossible to believe that Constance Rawlings could make anything up out of whole cloth, nor that anything but facts and reality lurked in her mind. She was simply ideal.
At the same time Nina was contemplating her meeting the next morning with Constance downtown, at Jocelyn Ridenhour’s third-floor walk-up, the buzzer rang. Expecting no one, she went to the intercom and asked who was there. “Well, my heavens,” she said, “a blast from the past.”
Jocelyn buzzed him in, waiting at the open door, accepting a fond kiss on the cheek as he moved inside. “To what do I owe this unexpected honor?” she asked.
But Hugh Venable only responded gruffly, hands on his hips. “I’m not here to play games, Joc,” he said. “What in God’s name are you doing to Nina Winston?”
Jocelyn sashayed past him. “Ah, I should have known,” she said. “The love of your life.” Frowning, he followed her into the kitchen, where, automatically she poured two cups of coffee. Jocelyn Ridenhour always had on a pot of coffee; she had been a personal Starbucks long before coffee was invented in Seattle, Washington. “Tanzanian,” she explained, “from the highlands of Kilimanjaro.”
