The Love Machine (12 page)

It happened on a Tuesday, a week after he had hired Amanda. He had spent the day checking the commercial copy. Everything went according to schedule. He had felt good. It had been one of those rare days, a day that had passed without any crisis. Even the weather was clear. He had taken the five-ten train and when he walked up the path to his house he suddenly felt a sense of well-being. It had snowed the day before. In New York it was already mashed into small banks of dull gray slush. But in Greenwich it looked like a Christmas card, clean and untouched. The lights that glowed in the windows beckoned warmth and hospitality. He entered and felt enveloped with contentment. The kids had yelled “Daddy! Daddy!” with pealing enthusiasm. He had played with them, enjoyed them, and felt relief when the maid took them off to bed. He had mixed martinis and had Mary’s waiting when she came into the living room. He complimented her on her hair. She accepted the drink without smiling. “It’s the same way I’ve been wearing it for a year.” He refused to
allow her lack of enthusiasm to penetrate his sense of tranquillity. “Well, it looks particularly good tonight,” he said, as he raised his glass.

She stared at him suspiciously. “You’re home on time. What happened? Did Robin Stone stand you up today?”

He was so angry he choked on his martini. Mary accused him of being flustered and he stormed out of the room. A tight knot of guilt began to form in his throat. Robin
had
stood him up. Well, not exactly, but when Amanda was in his office, she had begged off at four thirty, claiming she had a five o’clock modeling session. Secretly he had been pleased: Robin would be alone at the Lancer Bar. He called Robin the moment she left the office. “Lancer Bar at five?” he had asked.

Robin had laughed. “For Christ’s sake, Jerry, it’s my first day back in town. Amanda is cooking for me. I’m skipping the bar today, see you tomorrow.”

His face had burned with anger. But after a few minutes he cooled off. Big deal! So he’d see Robin tomorrow. And it was high time he surprised Mary for once and got home early.

Of course he had made up with Mary. She had come up to the bedroom waving a fresh martini as an overture of truce. That night Mary didn’t cream her face or use the fat pink rollers, but when they went to bed together he couldn’t get it up. This had never happened before! Sporadic as their sex life had been during the past year, the few times they had been together, it had always been fully consummated. She had turned away from him and he knew she was crying. He buried his own fears and apologized to Mary—blamed it on himself, on the martinis, on the pressures of the new Christie Lane Show. Then he even went for a checkup and asked for a B-12 shot. Dr. Anderson said he didn’t need B-12. When he finally stammered his real problem, Dr. Anderson recommended Dr. Archie Gold.

He stormed out of the office. He didn’t need a psychiatrist! God—if Robin ever dreamed he even considered such a thing he’d—well, he sure as hell wouldn’t waste time on him. Robin would look at him in disgust, he’d be a weakling.

He didn’t care what Dr. Anderson said. He didn’t care how many healthy normal men went to psychiatrists when they stumbled
on some kind of “block.” He would never go to a shrink!

But it was Mary who broke down his resistance. She greeted him with a smile each night. She never wore the pink rollers anymore. He noticed she had new eye makeup. She took to snuggling against him in bed, and twice he had tried—but it hadn’t worked. Now he was afraid to try. Each night he pretended to be exhausted. The moment he hit the bed he’d fake the even breathing of a man who has fallen asleep. Then he would lie awake and stare into the darkness as Mary crept into the bathroom and removed her diaphragm. He could hear her muffled sobs.

Dr. Archie Gold was surprisingly young. Subconsciously he had expected a guy with thick glasses, a beard, and a German accent. But Dr. Gold was clean-shaven and nice-looking in a subdued way. He accomplished very little in the first session. Jerry had come right to the point: “I can’t make it with my wife in bed, yet I love her and there is no other girl. Now, where do we go from there?” Before he knew it the fifty minutes were over. He was stunned when Dr. Gold suggested three visits a week. Jerry had been positive that whatever was bugging him could be straightened out in an hour. It was ridiculous! But he thought of Mary—the muffled sobs in the bathroom… . O.K. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays.

On his third visit, he did the entire session on Robin Stone. Gradually Amanda crept into the sessions.

At the end of two weeks he felt better. After some intensive Freudian soul-searching and probing back to his childhood, he had come to some disturbing revelations. He had personality problems but he was not a fag! At least that subconscious gnawing doubt had been removed. They discussed his father, an enormous virile-looking man who had ignored him during his childhood. Then he suddenly began going with him to the football games, and his father had cheered for Robin Stone until he was hoarse. “Now, that boy’s magnificent!” his father would shout. “That’s what I call a man!” He recalled one specific incident when Robin had whipped through an impossible wall of players to score a touchdown. His father had leaped to his feet. “What a boy—that’s it, son!”

Through Dr. Gold’s gentle probings he recalled other fragments
of ego-damaging evidence. When it was finally conceded that Jerry was not going to grow any taller than five feet nine, his father had snorted, “How could I have spawned such a shrimp? I’m six foot one. Christ, you take after your mother’s family. The Baldwins are all puny.”

O.K. At least he understood some things now. In trying to gain Robin’s friendship, he was still seeking his father’s approval. He was jubilant with this discovery. “I’m right in my diagnosis, aren’t I?” he asked Dr. Gold. The cool gray eyes merely smiled. “You must answer your own questions” was the reply.

“What the hell do I pay you for if you don’t give me the answers?” Jerry demanded.

“I’m not supposed to give answers,” Dr. Gold said quietly. “I’m here to prod you into working things out and coming up with your own answers.”

The week before the show opened he stepped up his visits to daily sessions. He gave up his lunch hour. Dr. Gold preferred to see him between five and six, but Jerry refused to give up the Lancer Bar. He insisted it was his only way of escaping tension-sitting with Robin, having a few drinks. But when he missed the train, he was torn with guilt for Mary and the dinner that was ruined.

On such occasions Jerry would be abrasive with Dr. Gold, demanding to know why he suffered such guilt. Why did he
have
to go to the Lancer Bar each day and sit with Robin, knowing he would suffer guilt toward Mary?

“I can’t go on like this—wanting to please Mary, wanting to please myself. Why can’t I be like Robin? Have no conscience, be free.”

“From what you say about Robin Stone, I’d hardly say he was free.”

“At least he’s his own man. Even Amanda feels she has no real hold on him.”

Then Jerry told Dr. Gold Amanda’s searing confession about carrying Robin’s towel; Dr. Gold lost his usually bland expression and shook his head. “She really needs help.”

“Oh come on! She’s just a highly sentimental girl in love!”

Dr. Gold frowned. “That’s not love, that’s an addiction.

If a girl seemingly has all the attributes you give her, her relationship with Robin Stone should give her a sense of fulfillment. Not this kind of fantasizing. If he ever turned her against him …” Dr. Gold shook his head.

“You can’t just sum up people this way. You don’t know them!”

“When will Robin Stone be back?” Dr. Gold asked.

“Tomorrow. Why?”

“Suppose I meet you at your Lancer Bar. Then you can introduce me to Robin and Amanda.”

Jerry stared at the ceiling. “But how would I explain you? I can’t very well say, ‘Hey, Robin, my shrink wants to case you.’”

Dr. Gold laughed. “It’s conceivable we could be friends. We
are
about the same age.”

“Could I say you’re just a doctor, not a shrink?”

“Some of my best friends are people,” Dr. Gold answered. “Couldn’t you have one friend who is a psychiatrist?”

Jerry was nervous when he saw Dr. Gold walk into the Lancer Bar. Robin was on his third martini and today of all days Amanda was working and meeting Robin later at the Italian place for dinner.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Jerry said as Dr. Gold approached. “An old school buddy of mine is dropping by.”

Jerry threw his arm around the doctor. “Archie”—the unfamiliar name almost stuck in his throat—“this is Robin Stone. Robin, Dr. Archie Gold.”

Robin looked at the man with little interest. Robin was in one of his silent moods. He concentrated on his drink. Dr. Gold wasn’t exactly loquacious either. His cool gray eyes calmly appraised Robin. Jerry began to babble nervously. Someone had to talk!

At one point Robin leaned across and said, “Are you a surgeon, Archie?”

“In a way,” Dr. Gold answered.

“He cuts out ids.” Jerry tried to make his voice light. “Would you believe it, Robin—Archie’s a shrink. We ran into one another at a party and renewed old acquaintance and he told me—”

“Freudian?” Robin cut in, ignoring Jerry.

Dr. Gold nodded.

“Are you a psychiatrist or a psychoanalyst?”

“Both.”

“You went through a hell of a long training—then you had to go through two years of personal analysis yourself, didn’t you?”

Dr. Gold nodded.

“You’re a good man,” Robin said. “It must have taken a lot of guts to go through school with a moniker like Archibald. You must be very secure.”

Dr. Gold laughed. “Insecure enough to shorten it to Archie.”

“Were you always interested in this gaff?” Robin asked.

“Originally I wanted to be a neurosurgeon. But a neurologist often comes face to face with incurable illnesses. He can only prescribe medicine to ease the symptoms. But with analysis”—Dr. Gold’s eyes suddenly became expressive—”he
can
cure the ill. The most gratifying thing in the world is to see a patient recover and begin to function, take his place in society and use his full potential. In analysis, there is always hope for a better tomorrow.”

Robin grinned. “I know your bag, Doctor.”

“My bag?”

Robin nodded. “You like people.” He slapped a bill on the bar. “Hey, Carmen.” The bartender came to him immediately. “This takes care of my tab. Give my friends another round and keep the rest for yourself.” Then he held out his hand to Dr. Gold. “Sorry I have to shove off, but I have a date with my girl.” He walked out of the bar.

Jerry stared after him. The bartender placed fresh drinks before them. “Compliments of Mr. Stone. Quite a guy, isn’t he!”

Jerry turned to Dr. Gold. “Well?”

Dr. Gold smiled. “Like the bartender said, he’s quite a guy.”

Jerry couldn’t conceal his pride. “What did I tell you? He got to you too, huh?”

“Of course. I wanted him to. I was more than receptive.”

“You think he has any hangups—or bags?”

“I can’t tell. On the surface, he’s in complete control, and he seems to genuinely care for Amanda.”

“How did you get that? He never even talked about her.”

“When he left he said, ‘I have a date with
my
girl’ —possessive. He didn’t say, ‘I have a date with a girl,’ which would be negating her importance, making her one of many.”

“Do you think he likes me?” Jerry asked.

“No.”

“No?”
Jerry’s voice held panic. “You mean he dislikes me?”

Dr. Gold shook his head. “He doesn’t know you exist.”

The control room was crowded. Jerry found a seat in the corner. In fifteen minutes
The Christie Lane Show
would go on the air—live! The entire day had been bedlam. Even Amanda had caught some of the tension. At the last rehearsal she had held the hairspray in the wrong hand and hidden the Alwayso label.

Christie Lane and his “gofors” seemed to be the only people unaffected with pre-show hysteria. They joked together, Christie mugged for the crew, the “gofors” went for sandwiches. They actually seemed to be enjoying the frenetic rehearsals.

The audience had already filed in. Amanda had said Robin was going to watch the show at home. Funny, Robin had never said a word, one way or another, about Amanda doing the commercial. Several times he had been tempted to ask her about Robin’s reaction, but he couldn’t without losing face.

Danton Miller entered, impeccable as ever in a black suit. Harvey Phillips, the agency director, rushed in. “Everything is shipshape, Mr. Moss. Amanda is upstairs having her makeup retouched. I told her to stick with the blue dress for the hair spray, and change to the green for the lipstick.”

Jerry nodded. There was nothing to do but wait.

Dan told the director to click on the audio switch. The announcer had come onstage to do the usual corny warm-up. “Anyone here from New Jersey?” he asked. Several hands went up. “Well, the bus is waiting outside.” The audience laughed good-naturedly. Jerry looked at his watch. Five minutes to air time.