Page 40 - WTP Vol.X #8

The Ideal Audience (continued from preceding page) have the gift of misdirection, but we’re going to run
out of time. Livy, please continue.”
Before his daughter could speak, he said, “Don’t be in such a rush, doctor. Of course Livy will ask me anything she wants, and I’ll answer, but even a wise woman like you needs a bit of magic. A sip from
the waters of Lethe to forget life’s bitter sting, your patients’ suffering, your personal sorrows. You must have some of those, don’t you, Doctor? We all do. Even those wily psychoanalysts who put so much trust in theories that are made to be disproven.”
Nini felt a nervous blip in her chest. What did he know about her personal sorrows? Had Livy somehow heard about Jack and told her father? What a fool Nini had been to imagine that Jack’s affair was a secret. Professors were as hungry as paparazzis
for lurid gossip, especially about their colleagues. By now, she must be the laughing stock of the history department, not to mention her own students. And worse, her patients, since half of them were Harvard or MIT graduate students or professors.
Pay attention, she told herself, digging her nails into her palm. Anger at Mr. Weinberg for usurping her power churned in the pit of her stomach. She was about to speak when he reached out and plucked something from the strap of Livy’s dress, something tiny—a thread, perhaps, or a speck of dirt—and passed it to his other hand. He moved with such speed and skill that all she saw was the wine-red rose that appeared in the palm of his right hand, vanished and reappeared a second later. Her mouth fell open. Embarrassed, she snapped it shut, whatever she was about to say forgotten.
Livy laughed. Heat rushed up Nini’s neck. Mortified, she adjusted her scarf. She had a crazy urge to laugh.
Mr. Weinberg stepped forward and handed her a perfect rose with silky red petals. Afraid that a refusal might send him off on another dizzying diatribe, she took it.
“For the modern-day witch doctor and her therapeutic magic,” he said and bowed. “A deeply felt thank you.”
Thrown by his sudden closeness and the smell of his after-shave, the same pine-scented lotion Jack wore, she bent her head to sniff the flower and closed her eyes. The sweetness of the rose spread through her. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Mr. Weinberg’s loafer, a soft black calf leather that Jack
would have loved. God, how she missed him. Just the week before, she’d seen him rushing up the stairs to Widener Library, his coattails flapping, his briefcase banging against his leg. She shook her head and placed the rose on the end table beside her glass of water. “Please sit,” she said. “Livy, we’re running out of time.”
Livy rolled her eyes. “I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Ah, but you enjoyed that little trick. I could see it on your face,” Mr. Weinberg said, ignoring her request to sit. “I might even go so far as to say that for one unguarded instant, you were transfixed. That, good doctor, is the power of magic.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“By the way, before we turn the session over to Livy, one last question: How do you expect my daughter, a struggling medical illustrator who makes pennies, to afford your rate? Even by L.A. standards you’re expensive, though she promises me you’re worth every cent.”
“Dear God. Now we’re discussing my fee? Will you do whatever you can to avoid letting your daughter speak? And where are you, Livy? You wanted this session.” And before she could stop herself, she blurted her response to Livy’s father, still on his feet. “Given how much you love your daughter, I’m sure you can afford it.”
“I can and I will.” He stepped to Nini’s side. “But, remember, Doctor, I’m just a poor schmuck who writes for TV. A good one, true, but I’m no Woody Allen.”
Telling comparison, Nini noted, but before she could conjure up a comeback, he was doing something near her right ear. She heard the sound of coins, cha-ching,
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