Social Science

W eeks pass and the FOR SALE sign remains firmly in place. It probably will withstand the earth- quake. Mrs. Steiner keeps showing prospective buyers the house but can't decide who truly "deserves" it.

Dave Brinkley drops by often. He comes armed with questions about the wiring, the roof, the septic tank, and then hangs around for conversation. At first, these visits annoyed Henry, but gradually Dave Brinkley's persistence won out and Henry started talking to the psychologist about Marybeth, their marriage, and their subsequent divorce in the same quasi-professional way people came to Henry for help with their cover letters.

One night Dave Brinkley knocks at the front door. They shake hands as usual, the psychologist smiling, his facial muscles tensed to the twitching point. "I just want to take some measurements," he says with a giggle, pulling a tape rule from his pocket.

"Not tonight, Dave," Henry says. "It's late and I have papers to grade."

"Me, I have exams at home. But I am too excited. I think the house is mine."

Henry oR'ers his congratulations. He pumps Dave Brinkley's hand once, then abruptly extricates himself from the grip. He excuses himself and goes upstairs and mans his desk. He searches for Agnes's essay, in hopes the sensual 1oops of her script might relieve, at least temporarily, the uncomfortable pressure building beneath his scalp. But before he can test her penmanship's analgesic worth, Dave Brinkley bursts into the study. He says, "I have a date with her Friday night."

Henry turns in his seat. "With her?"

"Yes, yes, with Marybeth."

Henry jumps up from his chair. "Marybeth who?"

The psychologist sits on the couch and crosses his legs and drapes his arm across the backrest. "Marybeth," he says, "your wife, your ex-wife." His eyes fix upon Henry as if he were watching a stranger undress. "You are angry, of course," Dave Brinkley observes. "You are burning up inside, and that is only appropriate. Marybeth has betrayed you, and, to a lesser degree, so have I." He tweaks the tip of his nose. "Relax your fists, Henry, forget the macho stuff, it doesn't suit you. Let us talk. Let your unfiltered feelings out. Express yourself to me." He opens up his arms in an all-embracing gesture of peace.

Henry stalks to the door of the study. He looks across the hallway at the bedroom -- or, more precisely, at the spot in front of the mirror where Marybeth lifted her dumbbells in the morning and brushed her hair a hundred times at night. He remembers watching the hem of her nightshirt rise to mid-thigh with each upward sweep of her arm. He tries to visualize her there in front of the mirror but his imagination is weak. At best she is an erasure, barely perceptible, lacking definition. "How'd you find her?" he says to the hallway.

"I did nothing more devious than dial 4-1-1."

"And like that," Henry snaps his fingers, "she agreed to go out with you. You must have the wrong girl."

The psychologist chuckles. "Remember what I taught you? By calling her 'girl,' you reveal to the world a basic hostility toward her. Have I not established that as the root of your marital problems?"

"You're not going out with my Marybeth," Henry says, shaking his finger in a threatening way.

"Now that's better. Let your anger out."

Henry waves his hand in disgust.

"Look, I am not leaving until we talk." Dave Brinkley gets up from the couch and 1ooks around the room. "I just called her and said you and I were good friends. We are good friends." He goes to the center of the floor and says, looking up at the light fixture in the ceiling: "I am new in town. You tell me about this nice girl. What am I supposed to do?" He peeks in the closet. He sits on the edge of the desk, folding his tweedy arms over his chest. "Back in my apartment I already played this scene out. When I took your part, you said some hateful things about me. But now that I am here, you are all but silent. We must be adults and work on this." He claps his hands together. "You be me. and I will be you." He tweaks his nose again. The sight. of the gold band on Dave Brinkley's left hand revives Henry. Like Popeye after spinach, he can feel his inner resources galvanize. In the murky pools ofhis memory, a school of Christie Brinkleys, toothy and blow-dried, swim to his rescue. While the psychologist -- as Henry -- twists his face and prepares to deliver a diatribe against himself, the real Henry launches a preemptive strike: "What's become of your model-wife?"

"Good effort. I can hear that nastiness coming through."

Henry repeats the question, and after a few long seconds, the question finds its mark. Dave Brinkley stops talking and lowers his gaze, sweeping the floor with it. For the next few seconds he only exhales. He fidgets clumsily with the things on Henry's desk. The psychologist is sputtering; he's winged, and Henry knows it. But he lets him get away: when Dave Brinkley -- he does this innocently, biding his time, trying to catch his breath -- picks up the top essay from the stack on the blotter, Henry says, "Put her down."

"What pretty handwriting," the psychologist says as a grin brightens his face. "Do you want to tell me about Agnes? Come, Henry, out with it. How can we be friends otherwise?"