“Frontiers of human sexuality,” I said.

He shook his head. “Sad thing is, it could have been valuable. Look at all the clinical data Masters and Johnson came up with. But Kruse wasn’t serious about collecting data. It was as if he was going through the motions.”

“Didn’t the granting agency care?”

“No agency. These were private suckers- rich porn freaks. He promised to make them respectable, put the academic imprimatur on their hobby.”

I turned and looked at Kruse. The blonde in the black dress was teetering on spiked heels.

“Who’s the woman with him?”

“Mrs. K. You don’t remember? Suzanne?”

I shook my head.

“Suzy Straddle? The talk of the department?”

“I must have slept through it.”

“You must have been comatose, D. She was a campus celebrity. Former porn actress, got her nickname for being… limber. Kruse met her at some Hollywood party while doing ‘research.’ She couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen. He left his second wife for her… or maybe it was the third- who keeps track? Got her enrolled in the university as an English major. I think she lasted three weeks. Ring a bell yet?”

I shook my head. “When was this?”

“’74.”

“In ’74 I was up in San Francisco- at Langley Porter.”

“Oh, yeah, you double-shifted- internship and dissertation same year. Well, D., your precociousness may have dumped you in the job market one year sooner than the rest of us, but you missed out on Suzy. She was really supposed to be something. I actually worked with her- for a week. Kruse assigned her to the study, doing secretarial work. She couldn’t type, screwed up the files. Sweet kid, actually. But somewhat basic.”

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.”