The honoree and spouse had come closer. Suzanne Kruse tagged along after her husband as if bolted to a track. She looked fragile, with bony shoulders, a tight-corded neck bisected by a diamond choker, nearly flat chest, hollow cheeks, and sharply pointed chin. Her arms were shapely but sinewy, bony hands ending in long, spindly fingers. Her nails were long and red-lacquered. They clutched her husband’s sleeve, digging into the tweed.
“Must be true love,” I said. “He stuck with her all these years.”
“Don’t bet that it’s wholesome monogamy. Kruse’s got a rep as a major-league pussy hound and Suzy’s known to be tolerant.” He cleared his throat. “Submissive.”
“Literally?”
He nodded. “Remember those parties Kruse used to throw at his place in Mandeville Canyon the first year he joined the faculty? Oh, yeah, you were in Frisco.” He stopped, ate an egg roll and ruminated. “Wait, I think they were still going on in ’75. You were back by ’75, right?”
“Graduated,” I said. “Working at the hospital. I met him once. We didn’t like each other. He wouldn’t have invited me.”
“No one was invited, Alex. These were open houses. In every sense of the word.”
He chucked me under the chin. “You probably wouldn’t have gone, anyway, because you were a good boy, so serious. Actually, I never got further than the door, myself. Brenda took one look at them coating the floor with Wesson oil and hauled my ass out of there. But people who went said they were plus-four orgies, if you could stand fucking other shrinks. Oh! Calcutta! meets B. F. Skinner- what a scary idea, huh? And Suzy Straddle was one of the main attractions- tied up, harnessed, muzzled, and flogged.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Campus gossip. Everyone knew- it was no secret. Back then, no one thought it was all that weird. Pre-microbe days- sexual freedom, liberating the id, expanding the boundaries of consciousness, et cetera. Even the radical libbers in our class thought Kruse was on the cutting edge of something meaningful. Or maybe it just got their rocks off being dominant. Either way, it was philosophically acceptable to flog Suzy because she was fulfilling some need of her own.”
“Kruse do the flogging?”
“Everyone did. It was a real gang scene- she was an equal-opportunity floggee. There, look at her, how she’s holding on to him for dear life. Doesn’t she seem submissive? Probably a passive-dependent personality, perfect symbiotic fit for a power junkie like Kruse.”
To me she looked scared. Adhering to her husband, but staying in the background. I watched her step forward and smile when spoken to, then retreat. Tossing her long hair, checking her nails. Her smile was as flat as a decal, her dark eyes unnaturally bright.
She moved so that the sun hit the diamond choker and threw off sparks. I thought of a dog collar.
Kruse turned abruptly to take someone’s hand and his wife was caught off balance. Throwing her arm out for support, she took hold of his sleeve and held on tighter, wrapping herself around him. He continued to knead her bare shoulder, but for all the attention he paid to her, she might have been a sweater.
Love. Whatever the hell that means.
“Low self-esteem,” said Larry. “You’d have to be down on yourself to fuck on film.”
“Guess so.”
He drained his mug. “Going for a refill. Can I get you something?”
I held up my half-full soda glass. “Still working on this.”
He shrugged and went to the bar.
The Kruses had circled away from our table toward one filled with magpies. A fizz of small talk; then he laughed, a deep, self-satisfied sound. He said something to a male graduate student, pumped the student’s hand while running his eyes over the young man’s pretty wife. Suzanne Kruse kept smiling.
Larry returned. “So,” he said, settling, “how’s it going with you?”
“Great.”
“Yeah, me too. That’s why we’re here without our women, right?”
I sipped soda and gazed at him. He maintained eye contact but busied himself with a chicken wing.
The therapist’s look. Gravid with concern.
Genuine concern, but I wanted no part of it. Suddenly I felt like bolting. A quick jog back to the big stone arch, farewell to Gatsbyland.
Instead, I dipped into my own bag of shrink-moves. Parried a question with a question.
“How’s Brenda doing in law school?”
He knew full well what was going on, answered anyway. “Top ten percent of the class for the second year in a row.”
“You must be proud of her.”
“Sure. Except there’s another entire year to go. Check me same time next year and see if I’m still functioning.”
I nodded. “I’ve heard it’s a rotten process.”
His grin lost its warmth. “Anything that produces lawyers would have to be, wouldn’t it? Like turning sirloin into shit. My favorite part is when she comes home and cross-examines me about the house and the kids.”
He wiped his mouth and leaned in close. “One part of me understands it- she’s bright, brighter than I am, I always expected her to go for something other than housework. She was the one who said no, her own mother had worked full time, farmed her out to babysitters, she resented it. She got pregnant on our honeymoon, nine months later we had Steven, then the rest of them, like aftershocks. Now, all of a sudden, she needs to find herself. Clara Darrow.”
He shook his head. “The problem is the timing. Here I am, finally getting to a point where I don’t have to hustle referrals. The associates are reliable, the practice is basically running itself. The baby starts first grade next year, we could take some time off, travel. Instead, she’s gone twenty hours a day while I play Mr. Mom.”
He scowled. “Be careful, my friend- though with Robin it’ll probably be different, she’s already had her career, might be ready to settle down.”
I said, “Robin and I are separated.”
He stared at me, shook his head, again. Rubbed his chin and sighed. “Shit, I’m sorry. How long’s it been?”
“Five weeks. Temporary vacation that just seemed to stretch.”
He drained his beer. “I’m really sorry. I always thought you guys were the perfect couple.”
“I thought so, too, Larry.” My throat got tight and my chest burned. I was certain that everyone was looking at me, though when I looked around, no one was. Just Larry, eyes as soft as a spaniel’s.
“Hope it works out,” he said.
I stared into my glass. The ice had melted to slush. “Think I will have something stronger.”
I elbowed my way through the crush at the bar and ordered a double gin and tonic that fell just short of single strength. On the way back to the table I came face to face with Kruse. He looked at me. His eyes were light-brown flecked with green, the irises unusually large. They widened- with recognition I was certain- then flicked away and focused somewhere over my shoulder. Simultaneously, he shot out his hand, grasped mine firmly, covered it with his other, and moved our arms up and down while exclaiming, “So nice you could come!” Before I had a chance to reply, he’d used the handshake as leverage to propel himself past me, spinning me halfway around before relinquishing his grip and moving on.
Politician’s hustle. I’d been expertly manipulated.
Again.
I turned, saw his tailored back retreating, followed by the shimmering silver sheet of his wife’s hair swaying in counterpoint to her narrow, tight derrière.
The two of them walked several steps before being taken in hand by a tall, handsome middle-aged woman.
Slim and impeccably assembled in a custard-yellow silk cocktail dress, white rose corsage, and strategically placed diamonds, she could have been any President’s First Lady. Her hair was chestnut accented with pewter, combed back and tied in a chignon that crowned a long, full-jawed face. Her lips were thin, molded in a half-smile.