The Other Adonis

by Frank Deford

  Nina sat back down in the chair next to him and agreed.

  “Yeah. So I dropped by and said good-bye to Constance. I was still hoping that she’d fling herself at me, but she didn’t.”

  “Suffice it to say,” Nina said, but sweetly.

  “Yeah. Suffice it to say. We just stared at each other for a while, and then I went back to this little cubicle I had, and well…I cried. Have you ever cried for love, Doctor?”

  “Yes, I have, Bucky.”

  “I know I’m not supposed to ask you stuff, but—”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Yeah, boys aren’t supposed to cry. But I cried my eyes out. And then I left. And I didn’t see Constance till that American flight number 362, last February the eleventh.”

  He took a considerable swallow. “That is quite a story,” Nina said.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry, but I gotta walk around.” In fact, he walked in a circle, eventually coming to stare at the wall.

  Nina finally said, “You never talked to Constance again—no contact at all?”

  Bucky turned back, leaning up against the wall, arms akimbo. “No, never. I just tried to forget her. And a few years later, I meet Phyllis. I was starting to do pretty good then. I can sell magazine pages, Nina. It’s a silly little thing, but it’s my thing. I was making some good bucks—not oodles yet, but good bucks—and so, I proposed. I’d almost forgotten Constance by then. Almost.” Suddenly, he pushed off the wall, holding his arms up, palms out. “Wait a minute. I don’t want that to sound wrong. I love my wife, Nina.”

  “I understand.”

  “I really love Phyllis. I do. It’s just that always and forever, I have to love Constance. It’s crazy, isn’t it?”

  “Sorry, we’re not supposed you use that word with patients,” Nina said, trying to make things a little lighter. “And you haven’t seen Constance since—”

  “Haven’t talked to her. We got off the plane. We’re both shaking. I thought I was going to pee in my pants. Excuse me. Then we found an empty gate, and we just sat there and stared at each other for a long time. Finally, I touched her. I took her hands. I just had to touch the woman I love.” Nina nodded. “And then we just stared some more. You know that expression, about how a guy undressed somebody with his eyes?”

  “I do indeed.”

  “Well, it was like that with both of us—only it was like we were both undressing ourselves of all our things, all our everyday stuff, all our…lives. We were naked to the heart. To the soul. You know?”

  Nina was hushed at the vision Bucky’s words conveyed. Nor did she really understand, at first, that his question was not rhetorical, that he really wanted her to respond. But when she saw his eyes pleading for certification, Nina not only heard herself saying, “Yes, I do,” but adding, “I had that happen to me once, too.”

  She could not believe she had volunteered that to a patient. Hell, Nina thought, why shouldn’t she just lie down on the couch and tell the good Dr. Buckingham everything? What was it about this guy that made her so susceptible?

  “Really?” Bucky asked. “When was that?”

  Nina got back on track, waving him off. “Some other time, Bucky. I really think we have our hands full enough now just trying to deal with you.”

  “Yeah,” he concurred.

  So, Nina faced him again, clasping her hands before her in her most pronounced no-nonsense pose. “You were telling me about undressing souls,” she declared. “At LaGuardia.”

  “Yeah, so I finally said to Constance: ‘Look, I love you. I have to love you. I can’t explain it, but I felt that way the minute I walked into your office twenty years ago.’ And you know what she said? ‘Me too, Bucky.’ Just: me too!”

  Nina had to smile. Bucky went on, “So Constance said then: ‘All right, now what do we do?’

  “And I said: ‘Look, we gotta be sure. We gotta give this some time.’ You see, Nina, even then, I’m trying to tell myself this is crazy, that it’ll all go away.”

  “But it won’t?”

  Bucky shook his head. “You sound like Constance. That’s what she said, flat out: ‘A month, a year, whatever, it won’t ever change, darling. Ever.’ But I told her I had to have some time to sort it out. ‘Gimme to the summer. I’ll call you in six months—August the eleventh.’”

  “And that’s it?”

  “That’s it. We squeezed each other…hands—just hands. And both of us said ‘I love you’ again, and then she just stood up and walked away, down to the baggage claim. I waited a while, and then I went home to my kid’s birthday party.”

  Nina let his words trail off into silence. She glanced down to her watch. “If you don’t mind, Bucky, I think that’s a good place to stop for now.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, and since you’ve told me about the important thing, next week you can tell me about the strange thing.”

  “Aw, I can’t tell you, Nina.”

  “Come on, whatever it is, I’m sure you can tell me. If you’ve told me all about this, then—”

  “No, no, no. I mean I gotta take you out and show you this.”

  Nina tapped her foot, making a little joke. “Bucky, I’m sorry, but the class rule is: no field trips.”

  But suddenly, then, he stepped before her—so direct, so firm, that Dr. Winston might even have been frightened if she didn’t think she knew the man so well. “No, no, Nina,” he snapped. “You must come see this.”

  She fell back, startled. “Well, I—”

  “It’s not far. Only three, four blocks.”

  Nervously, but curious now, “Where?”

  “The museum.”

  “The Metropolitan?” He nodded. Nina considered. She shouldn’t even have considered considering. But she did. Despite herself. Despite her professional demeanor and her personal instincts. Despite. So—despite—she stepped behind her desk and checked out her appointment book. “All right, if it’s that important—”

  “It is. It really is.”

  “Okay, day after tomorrow, I’m through with my last patient at four.”

  “I’ll meet you at the museum. Out front. A few minutes after four.”

  Nina waggled a finger, trying to lighten things up a bit. “But I’m telling you right now: I don’t do this for all the boys. This better be good and strange.”

  “Oh, it’s very strange, Nina. Very, very strange.” He reached up, took the flower from his lapel, and grandly, presented it to her. “Forget me not, Doctor.”

  Nina laughed. “Don’t worry, Mr. Buckingham. You’re a hard man to forget.”

  3

  Two mornings later, when Nina arrived at her office, she was greeted by a police officer who was there with Roseann. Poor Roseann—she was beside herself. “Oh, Doctor,” she cried out, “someone broke in last night.”

  The cop nodded gravely. Someone had indeed gotten in—managing, it seemed, to force open a casement window. Nina loved those old windows; she would crack them and let in good old-fashioned New York City air. “You might want to look around, Doctor,” the officer said, “but it appears he had to beat it outta here pretty quick when he tripped the motion alarm.”

  “We don’t think he even got into your room,” Roseann said. “Just here.” Her arm swept around the waiting room.

  The cop pulled at the casement, making sure it was shut tight. He was not, however, approving. “I’d have bars put over this, Doctor.”

  “I guess,” Nina replied. But she’d always resisted that idea. A few doors off Fifth Avenue, a doctor’s office—bars on the windows. The thought was just abhorrent to her.

  “They have nice designer-style bars,” the officer informed her, helpfully. “Curlicues and what-not.” Nina thanked him for that security fashion tip, then took a coffee and went into her own offic
e, closing the door behind her.

  She needed time to pull herself together. There was, after all, no denying it any longer: somebody was, for some reason, trailing her. “Let Lindsay try and attribute a break-in to computers,” Nina said out loud to no one, smirking. Then, to herself, “Jesus, I’m talking to myself again.”

  That was all so ironic. It had just never occurred to Nina Gaither Winston that she would ever be left alone. Sad sometimes—probably. Sick—it happens to everybody. Unsuccessful—maybe. Confused—well, yes and no. But alone? That had simply never crossed her mind as a viable possibility. Yes, of course, the husbands do die first, but no, they don’t die in their fifties. That wasn’t in the plan. Anyway, Nina had always just assumed that if Kingsley did (as the insurance men always put it) “pre-decease” her, she would surely be that one American widow—in what was it officially now: in a million? in a blue moon?—who would find another guy.

  After all, Nina liked men. Most women her age were really tired of men—all the boorishness, all the golf, all the games on television, all the, well…all the men bullshit. What most women Nina’s age wanted was company. Nina didn’t want to settle for company. She wanted men. She had always liked them, always been their friend—she had been as faithful to Kingsley as the day is long. Well, of course, until Hugh. And there’s the rub. There’s the goddamn rub. Now Kingsley was gone, and Hugh wouldn’t have her.

  And Nina was damned if she was going to go on a cruise.

  She sipped her coffee and tried not to think about the break-in, tried not to think about how someone was after her. Yes, of course, she could call Lindsay and say I-told-you-so, or call some girlfriends for some pointless commiseration. But why bother? Instead, she picked up her first patient’s file, determined to lose herself in her work. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Only she couldn’t manage that now, because her thoughts kept flying ahead from the day’s first patient to the last.

  Yes, today was the day that she was going to rendezvous with Bucky at the museum. And the prospect charmed Nina. It wasn’t just the strangeness of what he promised. There was even a tint of danger, sort of. No, she wasn’t afraid of Bucky. But yes, she was afraid of where Bucky—Bucky’s story—was taking her. Ultimately, Nina was afraid of herself. Call it off. Cancel.

  She would have, too, but the truth was, that as much as Nina hated to admit it to herself, there was a certain personal anticipation here. A date. It was like a date. Well, almost. Close enough. We’ll meet at the museum. We’ll have some innocent fun, a few laughs. Why call that off?

  Of course, Nina knew very well that reputable doctors shouldn’t go meet patients after work simply because they had something strange to show you. But Bucky was good company…and, okay, he was cute, too. He looked like one of those movie stars, like whatshisface. No, not the real star stars from the disaster pictures, or the guys playing opposite Julia Roberts—no, not your Mel Gibson or your Tom Cruise, but one of those almost kinda stars who play the exasperated father in the family movie, or the white guy with Eddie Murphy. That was Bucky, and she was going to meet him at the museum. So there.

  Nina even had to admit: she had dressed for Bucky today. A trim maroon suit that kept her looking properly “professional,” but that still showed her femininity to its best advantage. Nina had a fine little figure. Pert is the word you would use if, in fact, anybody actually used the word pert anymore. And, more importantly, Nina looked younger than she was, which was officially, certifiably, fifty-three years old.

  Her mind remained distracted. The patients came and went, but Nina Winston was not a particularly good doctor today. With Mr. Armistead—poor, tedious, well-meaning Mr. Armistead—Nina even began to wonder if she could seduce Bucky. Just thinking theoretically, of course—and never mind all the ethical canons of her profession. Just blue-skying, kicking it around…but, if she did theoretically try to seduce Bucky, could she? After all, when it was the other way round, when she went to Hugh for counseling, didn’t he seduce her? (It was he who seduced her, wasn’t it?) Anyway, turnabout is fair play, and it certainly made sense, seducing Bucky. His marriage seemed to be falling apart, but he wasn’t scheduled to contact his assigned dreamboat again for another few months. There was a window of opportunity here.

  And then, to herself, Nina thought, “You are perfectly asinine.”

  In the mirror, two hours later, after her last patient, Nina checked herself out. She turned around, looked back over her shoulder, and thought: I have one great little ass. That’s the advantage of starting out with a little ass. You can maintain it as a great little ass, while all the big asses that men rave about get to be too-big asses.

  Next, Nina examined her face in the mirror. She’d had a little laser work a couple of years ago. Doug Frazier had done it for her. They’d been in medical school together, and he was gay, and Nina could always talk to him. In fact, Doug was the only person she ever told about Hugh. Even then, though, she only confessed to Doug about Hugh after she found out that Kingsley had cancer. That had put Nina over the top, guiltwise: her husband’s dying, while she’s screwing another guy.

  Oh well.

  Doug had helped more with her face than with her guilt. She looked deep into the mirror. There were no lines to speak of. She stood back. The whole package was, in fact, pert.

  So, out the door and up Fifth Avenue she walked. And there he was. Even before she had crossed the street up by the Stanhope Hotel, she spotted Bucky. He was high up on the steps of the museum. He had on a double-breasted gray suit with a pink shirt—she could pick that out, even from a distance—and a handkerchief of another shade of pink protruding from his breast pocket. “Hey, good looking,” he hollered, gaily, as soon as he saw her.

  Nina waved back, marveling how wonderful it must be for anyone to be so assured. “You know what you are?” she asked, as she came up the steps toward him. “You’re what we used to call a bon vivant.”

  He laughed, but only for an instant, because then there was a bit of uncomfortableness for them both, inasmuch as the convention of this time called for one of them to peck the other on the cheek. But this was still a doctor-patient meeting, even if it wasn’t in the office. Typically, though, Bucky went right to the heart of things. “I don’t think you’re supposed to kiss your doctor.”

  “No,” Nina replied.

  “Well,” he went on, “if I were going to start kissing doctors, I want you to know, I’d start with you, Dr. Winston.”

  Despite herself, Nina blushed. So, quickly, then, “Now, you’re going to show me the…strange?”

  “Right this way.” He handed her a little admission button. Today it was an ugly sea green. Why, Nina wondered, did The Metropolitan Museum of Art feature such awful colors? Bucky ushered her up the last of the great front steps to door of the museum. “Really, it’s very strange,” he assured her.

  That made her pause. There was no give in Bucky’s voice now, no playfulness. In fact, he spoke sotto voce, lacking any expression whatsoever. Buckysmirk had become buckyblank. Nina was almost frozen, the one foot still poised to move into the building. It would have been easy—a little embarrassing, perhaps, but easy nonetheless—to conclude this little adventure right here, to voice second thoughts, to confine their appointments to professional territory, to her office. But instead, Nina held her tongue, and side by side with Bucky, she strode into the Metropolitan.

  4

  In Chicago, in the Merrill Lynch office where Constance Rawlings worked as a stock analyst, Terry Schulbach, her boss, was despised by virtually all the women; he was known as “Schulbeast” or “Mr. Slimebach.” In fact, almost alone among those women who tolerated him was Constance. It was certainly not that she had been spared his crude come-ons—especially considering her superior anatomy—but simply that Constance was so amazingly controlled, detached to the point of frostiness. She was perfect for her job—analyzing econom
ics, studying companies, creating market profiles, which would then be forwarded up the line, leading to recommendations to buy or sell.

  Probably, in fact, Constance had grown even more insular, distant from the everyday world around her, ever since she had renewed her acquaintance with Bucky. So it was that in Chicago at the same time that Bucky and Nina were entering the Metropolitan, Constance appeared at Schulbach’s office, and, closing the door behind her, took up the seat across from his desk.

  Ignoring his usual transparent ogle, she spoke coolly to him, “This is confidential, Terry.”

  “Hey, Connie,” he said, leaning forward, “better from your lips to my lips, but, from your lips to my ears—it’s safe with me.”

  “Good,” she said. “I want you to arrange a transfer to New York for me.”

  “Oh, Connie, noooo.” But then, in the next moment, Schulbach came together professionally. “You’re the best person in this office.”

  “Then, I would expect you to relay that assessment to New York so there won’t be any problems.”

  “Don’t worry. They know how valuable you are.” He pulled out a pad. “All right, when?”

  “I’ll be leaving in August. Around the eleventh.”

  “Carl moving to a new hospital?” Schulbach asked idly, pulling out some forms.

  “I’m not at liberty to reveal the reason,” Constance answered, rising. “And I will expect you to honor this information that I’ve entrusted to you.”

  “You can take it to the bank, Connie.”

  “I’d also like the rest of the afternoon off,” she went on, leaning over, without guile, even while Schulbach gazed directly down her cleavage. She placed a folder before him. “I’ve finished the e-MicroGraphics file.”

  Schulbach tapped the cover of the report, then stood up, and, as formal as he could be, he declared, “It’s been a privilege working with you, Connie. I know I kid around a lot, but I’m serious: you’re the best analyst I’ve ever had. Thanks.”