The Other Adonis

by Frank Deford

  “My pleasure,” she said, and turning, left his office and went to the parking garage. There, in her forest green Nissan, she headed onto the Edens Expressway toward Lake Forest. No radio, no CD. No, now that e-MicroGraphics was out of the way, she could devote all her thoughts to her beloved Bucky. She imagined the two of them alone, soon enough, watching the sunset together. She imagined them drinking champagne. Yes: for this, she would have a glass. She would have two! Constance cooed to herself. She imagined Bucky kissing her. She imagined Bucky undressing her. She imagined them making love.

  No. They weren’t in bed. Instead, they were in a shower together, soaping each other. But now that that was the image, Constance dwelt on it. She didn’t really know why—why they were in the shower. Sunsets, champagne, kisses—sure. But she had never once stood in a shower with Carl, let alone with any other man, let alone even thought about it. But having met Bucky again had revitalized her imagination. Suddenly, Constance daydreamed. She visualized things in the brightest colors. Her memory was more vivid, too. So much came back to her. It was as if Bucky had, by his reflected light of love, put a shine on old things gone dark.

  Why, when Constance had been a little girl, she had possessed such clear, odd memories. She had grown up in a city, in Rochester, New York, but she told her parents of cows, sheep, and tall sailing ships at anchor, then moving across a sea—curious visions that her mother and father found amazing…but benign. What sights these children see on television now!

  But little Connie knew that these sights had not come to her from a screen in the family living room. She had seen these very things herself, alive, with her own eyes. That is why she certainly never tried to tell anybody about Bess. If Mom and Dad wouldn’t believe about the cows and the ships, what would they make of Bess?

  Poor Bess. Poor, dead Bess, in her pretty, long, blue gown with her cold, blank eyes, staring up at Constance from the shallow creek where she lay, drowned. How did Bess get there? Why was Constance looking down at her? How did Constance even know that her name was Bess? Constance couldn’t remember that. But she knew it was Bess. Of that she had no doubt. Bess.

  It also helped, too, that there was a way that sometimes Bess could be driven from her mind. That vision would suddenly be replaced with a pattern of diamonds. It was always the same pattern, and it was always in red and black. In fact, the first time that Constance saw a checkerboard, she thought: so that’s what I’ve seen in my mind every now and then. It’s just a gameboard. But then she looked more closely, and Constance realized that in her red-and-black vision, the pattern was diamonds, not squares. And it was a much more complicated pattern than the checkerboard.

  First of all, the diamonds in Constance’s mind were not aligned horizontally as they are on a checkerboard. Rather: more diagonally. Furthermore, the pattern was fixed in an odd fashion. Between vertical rows of pairs of red diamonds, there was a cluster of four red diamonds, then a solid line of black, then a cluster of six red diamonds, then another solid black line, then another four red-diamond cluster, another solid black line, another cluster of six red diamonds, and so on, over and over. In Constance’s mind, no matter how many times she envisioned the pattern, this is always exactly what she saw:

  But then, over time, as little Constance grew up, as her miniature world expanded, as she did indeed remember things from television or from family trips, all these exciting new sensations overwhelmed the bizarre old ones that had been squirreled away in her mind. Soon, what she thought of was cars and trucks and Captain Kangaroo and Mister Greenjeans and teachers and the sights of Rochester—not sheep and sailing ships. Not Bess. In fact, when Constance first remembered Bess again the other day—suddenly, as she rode up alone in the elevator at Merrill Lynch—she couldn’t even recall her name. It had been so many years since last she had seen Bess. But the vision was just as clear as ever it had been back in Constance’s childhood: the pretty, young woman in the long, blue gown, empty eyes staring through the clear, shallow water where she lay on the pebbly bottom.

  But Constance did not dwell long on Bess. The vision always came and went because her mind always fled back to Bucky. Six months, he had said. August the eleventh. Only eighty-two days to go.

  At the stables near her house where Constance rode, she changed into her riding clothes—a floppy sweatshirt, boots, and jodhpurs. She tied her hair in a polka-dot ribbon, then pressed on her helmet and mounted her bay gelding, New York Minute. She adored riding. It had so quickly become Constance’s favorite activity—she, who had never otherwise held any interest in sports.

  Proctor Lee watched her now, as Constance guided her mount about the ring, taking each jump smoothly, clear all around. Proctor Lee had taught Mrs. Rawlings how to ride twelve years ago. He had taught hundreds of her North Shore neighbors the same—how to ride, how to jump a horse, how to perform in a show ring. He marveled at Constance. In almost forty years of teaching, he’d never encountered a student who’d been more adept so quickly. At first, in fact, it had depressed Proctor that Mrs. Rawlings had come so late to the sport, for otherwise he imagined that she could have been the very best, a champion.

  Immediately, Constance could do everything he taught her. Straight back, perfect seat, balancing her buttocks there on the horse’s back, then working her legs independently, the one or the other—just the right amount of pressure—guiding the reins with exactly the touch he had instructed her. But as perfect as Constance was at following his directions, Proctor Lee also saw soon enough that Constance lacked that mutuality, that canny ability to blend with the animal, to become one—that talent that every outstanding horseman or horsewoman instinctively possesses. It was always a perfect technical ride that Constance gave; it was also, however, never a fluid one, never quite pretty.

  Oh, she would win some ribbons—even an occasional blue or red in a small show if the judge was a man. Even now, as Constance paused after another loop over the jumps, Proctor Lee couldn’t help but stare at her, shaking his head at the beautiful tableau that she and New York Minute formed—the absolutely gorgeous woman, sitting tall and still, astride the magnificent steed. But she was just too mechanical; Constance Rawlings in repose, even lost in a baggy sweatshirt that masked her voluptuousness, was far more beautiful than she was in action, in animation.

  That was why there was no more that Proctor Lee could teach her.

  Back in the stable, Constance didn’t bother to change out of her riding clothes because she wanted to wash them when she got home. She came into the house, and there was Carl, in an easy chair, splayed out, exhausted, watching the five o’clock news, sports, and weather on WLS. “Hard day, honey?” Constance asked him.

  “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Long.”

  Constance said, “I’ll make it better for you.” Without fanfare, then, she pulled off her sweatshirt and tossed it aside, undid her bra, and stood in front of her husband, reaching up behind her head, untying the polka-dot ribbon that held her hair. Dumbfounded, but altogether pleased, Carl raised his hands to caress his wife, just as the ribbon came untied and her hair tumbled down around her bosom, hiding his hands in the swirl. Constance sighed at his touch, but only for a moment, for then she leaned down, undid his fly and threw her mouth upon him, swiftly bringing him to his joy.

  Thereupon, without further ado, Constance scooped up her clothes, went upstairs, and stepped into the shower. She let the water splash all over her, tilting her head back, imagining that it was a waterfall on some desert island, and that now it was Bucky’s hands (not her own), that drew over her body, pausing to touch all the precious parts.

  “Oh, Bucky darling,” Constance said, opening her mouth, letting the shower water rain on her tongue, over her shoulders, pelting all her body. “Oh, Bucky, only eighty-two more days.”

  5

  Bucky and Nina strolled across the museum lobby, around the information desk, toward the grand staircase direct
ly before them. “Up we go,” he announced. Nina touched his sleeve, then pointed over to the left, to an escalator. “Gee,” Bucky sighed, “I didn’t know that was there.”

  “I didn’t think so. Can I ask you, Bucky, exactly how many times were you here before, you, uh, discovered whatever it is I’m about to see?”

  “Well, Phyllis and I brought Sarah here a few years ago after we took her and a couple friends to the Central Park Zoo, but then it started raining.”

  “Any port in a storm.”

  “Yeah, I guess I’m really not much of a museum person.”

  “Suffice it to say,” said Nina, as the escalator deposited them on the second floor, and Bucky started to steer her over to the large section of European paintings. They were fortunate in that this general area wasn’t crowded, because, adjacent, the Metropolitan was featuring a special exhibit of the works of Mary Cassatt, and this was drawing the bulk of the crowds. Idly, Nina asked, “Have you seen the Cassatts?”

  Bucky puzzled. “I don’t think I know them.”

  Nina shook her head, grinning. They took some seats in the middle of an empty gallery . Nina said, “Mary Cassatt was an American painter, but she spent most of her life in France. With the Impressionists.” She paused. “You have heard of the Impressionists?”

  “What do you think, they don’t learn us anything at UVA?”

  Musing, Nina said, “I’ve never understood why there are so few female painters. All the women writers, and almost no women artists.”

  “I think it has to do with the boobs,” Bucky replied. Straight-faced.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The boobs.” He pointed to a couple barebreasted paintings. “Most art is boobs, so I think men throw themselves more into it.” Only after a few moments did he let a little grin spread, and she realized he was putting her on. Maybe. Nina punched him, lightly, on the arm.

  “I do like some of it,” Bucky added, then, his voice taking on more seriousness. “Sometimes, you know, I only play the Philistine. It’s what I’m supposed to be, a bozo selling ad space for magazines. The work doesn’t lead much to salons and ballets.”

  “Yes,” Nina said, keeping a straight face herself, “you do a good job of masking your intellect.”

  An older couple strolled by, and Nina and Bucky fell silent; a gallery is not conducive to private conversation. Only when the people moved on did Nina ask, “So, what brought you back here? Another rainy day at the zoo?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yeah. It was back in March—the twelfth to be exact. I was going for a kill with a client. I mean, this was a whole new product category we’d been trying to crack, and I was sure they were coming into both my books. They were from outta-town and took a suite across the street, at the Stanhope. They were seeing a lot of magazines. I was so confident. I mean, Nina, this is my business. You get so you can tell if somebody’s gonna come into your tent, and with these guys, I was so sure, I’d gotten room service to bring up two champagne bottles. And on one of them, there’s a little ski cap, the other a sea captain’s hat. Those are kinda our symbols—Snow Ski Vacation and Summer Sailing—”

  “Yeah.”

  “But then the guy says, sorry, thanks but no thanks—and I am crushed. Devastated. I was gonna drown my sorrows at some bar, but I came outta the Stanhope and I saw the museum across the street, so I decided to retreat into culture instead.”

  “Serendipity?”

  “Is that another one of the Impressionists?” Nina tapped his arm again. “So, I came in and started walking around. Helter-skelter. Checked out the Egyptian stuff first, all the yucky mummies, that old Temple of Dunbar, Dendur—whatever. Then I dragged up those goddamn stairs and ended up in here.”

  “This room?”

  “Yeah, I sat right here, feeling sorry for myself, staring at that picture.” Bucky pointed to a large painting on the long wall facing them. “It’s called Apollo and Aurora, and, you know, I thought it was kinda neat. Better than those damn mummies.”

  Nina studied the work. It was very florid, Apollo standing up in a chariot, Aurora next to him in a starry blue gown, scattering flowers to the winds. “It’s terribly romantic,” she said, “but then, you do possess a romantic view of the world.”

  “Doctor, you don’t know the half of it,” Bucky said, and he reached for her hand, just long enough to help pull her up. “So then, I moved into the next room, just ambling, like this.” He imitated himself ambling through the door, not stopping till he approached a bunch of Rembrandts.

  There, he caught his breath. “Okay, now this is it. Imagine me that day—March twelfth. I’m all alone, walking from this room into that one”—he pointed to the gallery ahead, number twenty-seven—“and I just stopped dead. I could feel it…exactly like I feel the same thing now.” Bucky gulped and bit his lip.

  “What? What do you feel?”

  “I feel Constance. And weirdness. All mixed together.”

  Nina reached out, and took hold of his sleeve before he could advance into gallery twenty-seven. “Now wait, Bucky. Explain to me: what do you mean you can feel Constance here?”

  “Nina, I can’t explain it. If I could explain it, I wouldn’t’ve come to you. It’s just like back on the airplane or in Philadelphia. It’s just…Constance. And love.”

  Nina tried to gain some control. “Okay, I know you’re trying,” she said, “so let’s do this. Can we, like, reenact? Can we walk into that room now exactly the way you did the first time?”

  “Okay. But you stay with me.” And this time, when he reached out and took Nina’s hand, he held it firmly. They stepped into gallery twenty-seven that way, together. But as soon as he came through the door, Bucky’s step faltered. It was almost as if a stiff wind had blown into his face. He nodded to her, caught his breath, and plunged ahead again, turning to the right. Then he stopped a second time. “Right away, I looked around. I mean, I knew Constance had to be here.”

  “But she wasn’t?”

  He didn’t answer, only shrugged. Then he turned to face the first painting. “That’s when my eyes fixed on her,” he said. Nina saw: it was the Madonna. Still holding Nina’s hand tightly, Bucky stepped up the painting. She saw that it was entitled Holy Family with Saint Francis, and it was by Peter Paul Rubens.

  “Rubens,” she said.

  “Yeah. ’Course, I’d heard of him, but then I didn’t know who painted this. I was just mesmerized by the Madonna. Like now. I just wanted to keep on staring at her—and I’m not very religious, Nina. That’s not it. I’m not even Catholic, like you. But then suddenly I felt myself being pulled along this wall. Just like now. I wanna keep in touch with the Madonna, but I gotta move along. I have to.”

  Nina was pulled along with him, but she didn’t hear everything Bucky was saying. Her mind was short-circuited. I’m not Catholic, like you. How did he know what religion she was? She would never volunteer that information to a patient. In fact, Nina purposely tried to keep her office neutral of gender, of background, of religion—certainly religion. And plants, not flowers. Flowers can seem too feminine. No personal photographs. No memorabilia. Paintings of the hotel school. And, above all, nothing religious. So how did Bucky know she was Catholic? And wait a minute: hadn’t he once made a passing reference to “your daughter?”

  But these thoughts were literally yanked out of her mind because Bucky had pulled Nina past a small painting in the middle of the wall to arrive before the huge canvas next to it. They stood before it, and she could actually feel some kind of sensation that emanated from him. And, my God: if she could feel this from him, what must he be feeling himself? Bucky was even trembling a little, taking deep breaths, his eyes fixed on the painting in some mixture of awe and adoration. She was, frankly, disturbed. Even a little frightened. “Come on, Bucky,” she said, “let’s sit down.”

  Of cours
e, a lot of it was what was happening to Nina, too. She had to sit down herself. No patient of hers had ever affected her this way.

  Bucky did momentarily regain some of his equilibrium when she turned him away from the painting, and when he slumped to the bench in the middle of the room, he could speak again. “That’s exactly what I did the first time,” he said. “And all the other times.”

  “What is it?”

  “You look at the picture.” As he kept his own eyes away, Nina examined the painting. It was dominated by two large forms, a man and a woman. He was strong and powerful, with some type of orange toga draped over him in such a way that his muscular back and arms and his magnificent, flared calves were altogether visible—and so simply perfect, so beautiful, so defined. Nina was even assured, staring at the man, that once upon a time, God had made better men’s bodies Himself than men did today, tricked up with steroids.

  By contrast, the woman holding onto the man was fat and chunky, nearly formless, save for a lovely pair of breasts. Her legs were even downright ugly. Nina would have known at a glance, anywhere, that this was also a Rubens. “Venus and Adonis,” Bucky said. And then, a long, worrisome pause, as he found the nerve to say the words, “That’s us up there.” He held out his hand, and Nina saw that it was shaking. “That’s us up there—me and Constance.”

  “Bucky, come on, you know Venus and Adonis are mythological.”

  He turned to her, and crossly, “I know that, Nina. Don’t patronize me, for Chrissake. I mean, Constance and I were the models Rubens used. I can feel Constance up there. I swear to God, I can smell her. I know now: we were together in Holland in 1635.” And now Bucky spoke softly, tears—of love? of fear?—forming in his eyes. “I know it, Nina. That’s what’s strange. I know I’m looking at me and the lady I love when we were together three hundred and fifty years ago.”

  Nina just said, “Oh, I see.” After all, Bucky was so matter-of-fact; he made it all sound so plausible.