Social Science

T he Golden Dolphin is one of those seafood stops along Route i specializing in redwood decks, sea gulls, Cinzano umbrellas, and food served on mango halves. Marybeth was particularly fond of it whea she and Henry first came to town. The place is packed with the usual Friday-night crowd of faculty members, students, tourists, and third-rank Hollywood types. Sever, o'clock. Henry's sitting at the end of the restaurant bar, near the hostess's station, waiting for Dave Brinkley. He orders beer and nibbles goldfish crackers. Ten after seven. As he had been for his oEice hours, Dave Brinkley is late again.. Perhaos he won't even show up. The mere thought of Marybeth being stood up by tke likes of Dave Brinkley upsets him almost as much as the thought of the two of them actually meeting. Perhaps she got her message through to him after all. Perhaps they suspect Henry and have changed their plans accordingly.

Henry goes to see the hostess, a pretty coed he believes he has seen on campus. "Don't you go to the university?"

"Biz Admin," she says, smiling big. Her hair is a shade lighter than her teeth. "You go there too?"

"I... I work at Student Services," he says. "I counsel kids on academic probation."

"Guess I'll see you there someday," she says with professional good cheer. "Will you be dining with us tonight?"

"I have a reservation for two."

"NameP" She scans the date book on the hostess stand.

"Brinkley. At seven."

"The Brinkley party. Wow, lucky you showed up. We almost gave your table away." She picks up two menus. "We all here?"

"Not yet, but I'11 wait at the table."

She tosses her hair and leads Henry out to the deck. "Voil…, just as you requested, one of our most romantic tables." She hands Henry a menu. "Mr. Brinkley, everything's special tonight."

The cocktail waitress, a starlet in an oversized T-shirt with dolphins riding the silk-screened waves over her breasts, takes his order. After his beer arrives, he sees the hostess winding her way through the crowded dining room, followed closely by Dave Brinkley, who's gesticulating wildly and saying such things at her that diners turn around in their seats to stare. When they finally arrive at tableside, Henry springs to his feet and reaches for the other's hand. "Dave, old pal." The psychologist's hand is puffy and extremely warm.

"Wow, so you two do know each other," the hostess says, relieved. "Gawd, I thought I really blew this one. I mean, you both said Brinkley; okay? So I figured, hey, brothers; okay? But he" -- she nods at Dave Brinkley -- "he said he's expecting a lady friend, so I thought, Wow, Lisa, what a major screwup." She drops her hands on both men's shoulders and exhales dramatically.

"That will be all, miss." The psychologist tries to shoo her away with a flick of his wrist.

"But are you or aren't you expecting a third?" she asks.

The men answer simultaneously. One yes, the other no.

"Now that's really... wow!" she exclaims. "Incredible. Like twins." She stares at the two as if they were talking fish.

"By my watch you're twenty-two minutes late, Henry says the instant the hostess leaves.

"Your watch doesn't count here." Dave Brinkley is ready to leap at Henry. A plumb line dropped from his chin would strike the center of the table. The surf tumbles behind him. Smog or clouds obscure the moon. A storm candle casts a rare light that reduces Dave Brinkley's face to a series of simple planes; he has the look of a portrait executed with a paint knife.

"Marybeth can't make it," Henry says. "She called me and said something's come up. Those were her exact words."

"This is delusional fantasy. Why didn't she call me?"

"You're the expert, you figure it out." He peeks at his watch. Seven-thirty. Soon Marybeth will make her appearance. "Dave," he says, "let's go somewhere and talk."

His face buried in his ringless hands, the psychologist appears deep in thought. Perhaps he is paging through the textbooks in his mind for advice in resolving the present conflict. When the waitress comes to the table, he abruptly drops his hands from his face and fixes Henry with a strange look. "I see no reason to go hunt for another restaurant. We are here. And we have our table."

Henry says, "I know a better place for seafood." He glances at the waitress, then down at his watch. He scans the interior dining room for Marybeth. "We used to eat here a lot. The food's mediocre. She probably chose this place for sentimental reasons."

The waitress leaves them to make their decision. As she recedes into the dining room, Henry thinks he spots Marybeth framed in the crook of the waitress's arm and the curve of her waist; he's almost certain it's her.

"No, this was my idea. Their Louies are simply --"

"Dave," Henry interrupts, "did I ever show you a picture of Marybeth?"

"No. Nor do I recall hearing you describe her. Which is odd," he says, reverting to his clinical voice, "because most people start with a physical description of their ex."

Marybeth wades through the busy dining room, squeezing past chairs, ducking trays, avoiding busboys darting in her lane.

"Excuse me," Henry says. "Back in a sec. I see a former student who owes me work on an incomplete from last quarter. I've been trying to get hold of her."

"Ask the young lady to join us," the psychologist calls as Henry enters the dining room.

He intercepts her before she can set foot on the deck. She looks different from his memory of her; her metamorphosis is utterly disconcerting. Not only has she picked up several well-placed pounds, she's tinted her hair a silvery blond and wears it short so her facial bones are more prominent, attenuating the shape ofher face. And her eyes, could she have had them tinted too? And her skin, is she tanned or is this Mediterranean complexion hers? "I'm late," she says, her equanimity incompatible with the surprise of Henry's presence. "Let me pass, Hank." Had she always called him Hank? She steps away in her simple black dress, cinched at the waist with a red patent-leather belt, and a pair of ankle boots. Then she stops, turns, and says, "What are you doing here?"

"Brinkley can't make it. He tried to reach you but you weren't home. So he called me."

"And like a pup you came running." She sweeps her fingers through her new short curls. "Hank, don't be an ass. What are you after?"

"Seafood," he says. "I know a new place not far from here. Come on, the bum stiffed you. Aren't I at least second best?"

"Drop it. The girl said Brinkley's back on the deck. In fact, she said two Brinkleys are out there." She goes out mt.o the salt air. Once there, she appears lost; she must be looking for a table occupied by two men.

The instant Henry catches up to her, Dave Brinkley stands and waves and grins and mouths "Hi." She moves toward him. Although Henry can't see it, he can feel the heat of her smile. "So you are a former student of Henry's," Dave Brinkley says, holding out his hand to Marybeth.