Social Science

T hursday after class Henry drives to the state college. He arrives too early for Dave Brinkley's voice hours. As he waits, he reads the psych professor's door, covered not only by the kinds of cartoons and news clippings academics find amusing but a 200-question true/ false personality test, with such items as: (47) I sleep with my clothes off and the lights on. (89) I am as healthy as a blonde. (152) Fashion models adore the touch of tweed.

Henry tires of this excess and tries the door. It isn't locked. The place smells like a bottling plant for cologne. Henry is stunned by its overall neatness. Papers are in folders and meticulously stacked at the corner of the desk; pens are capped; pencils sharpened; the typewriter wears its dustcover. There's an impressive wall of baoks, clothbound and alphabetized, with stately brown spines. Henry peruses the titles until he uncovers, wedged between Boggs's Sexual Deviation in the Tropia and Rlumberg's Blondes: A Subject for Scientipc Analysis, an unusual tome with a wordless spine. It's not a book at all but a picture frame, and under the glass there's a collage of dozens of Christie Brinkleys in tennis togs. Spurred by this discovery, Henry searches the desk drawers and finds, beneath a pile of soiled running clothes, an 8 X 10 glossy of the model's broad lunar face, one rouged cheek adorned with a dedication executed in a loose, flamboyant script: Dear Dave, Hey, are we related? Thanx for the letters. Luv, Christie.

Henry's looking through a folder labeled "At the Beach with Christie B.," filled with cutout Christies in swimwear, when the phone rings. After some consideration, Henry decides to answer. A student in Dave Brinkley's Psych ror course is on the line pleading for an extension on her paper assignment. Henry grants it.

Once he cradles the phone, he suddenly feels uncomfortable with his body, as if he were clothed, from head to toe, in a new pair of Levi's, His hand trembles slightly as he turns the pages of the desk calendar. On each leaf C H R I S T I E ? has been scrawled in the time slots set aside for his office hours. Then the phone rings again. He picks up the receiver but doesn't say anything. "Hello?" a familiar voice says. "Hello ? Is this David Brinkley's line?" At first, Henry thinks it's the same student calling again. But as he slowly depresses the clear plastic nib on the cradle, he realizes the person on the other end had been Marybeth. With his finger still on the nib, he stares at the phone's black mantle, trying to see her: hip out, fingers raking her scalp, peeved Henry's friend has slipped her a wrong number. As he expected, the phone rings again, and this time he's prepared. Holding his nose, he pretends he's Dave Brinkley's answering machine: "Hi. l am not in the office at the moment --"

"I hate these stupid machines," says Marybeth. She speaks rapidly, trying to fit her message within the allotted time. "Listen, something's come up. Seven's out of the question. See you at the Dolphin around seven-thirty. And don't bring your answering machine." She slams the phone down, and it pops like a pistol shot in Henry's ear.

That same afternoon a short, bearded man in a white linen suit comes to the house. "I'd like to make you an offer for this property," he says. "I guarantee you won't get a penny more from anyone else."

Henry steps back from the door so the man can enter. "l'll have a look at the interior when we sit down to sign the contract," he says. "l'm well acquainted with this vintage." He hands Henry his business card. "I already own similar units in the neighborhood."