Loving Time

by Leslie Glass

  harold

  twenty-seven

  Harold Dickey left Clara’s office with a pain in his chest. If he hadn’t been a doctor, he might have believed he was having a heart attack. The blood had drained from his face, robbing his cheeks of their healthy pink appearance. His skin was clammy and cold, gray as a filleted sole. He could feel the soft jowls under his chin jiggling with the slight tremor of his head that moved from side to side just the tiniest bit, out of his control. His eyes, sunk deep in pouchy purplish bags, burned with humiliation and distress. It hurt to be alive, to breathe, to think. The worst was it hurt to think.

  Outside the executive suite, he stood leaning against the wall waiting for an elevator for a long time, for many minutes. No one passed by to ask him if he was all right. He wasn’t all right. He could feel the icy perspiration on his forehead, on his chest, under his arms. The tightness in his chest was an iron grip that wouldn’t let up. He punched the button for the elevator but nothing happened, punched it again. He was not having a heart attack, would not accept a heart attack. He’d always been careful about what he ate, walked four miles a day, and still played tennis with a few chosen residents. He could still beat many of them.

  This was simply an attack of impotent rage to which the unfortunate reaction was a somatical imitation of a heart losing its rhythm, failing to pump oxygen into his lungs and brain and creating an unbearable pressure, a drop in body temperature. Cold sweats. It was not a heart attack. He was sure it was not. It was anger blocked at its source, white-hot and inexpressible, with nowhere to go but deeper inside.

  How dare Clara blame him for humiliating her by putting a used condom in her appointment book? It was appalling, paranoid. Where would she get such a crazy idea? Why would he want to humiliate her—he loved her. All Harold wanted was to be loved by Clara Treadwell as he should be loved by her. That was all he wanted. He’d never humiliate her, never hurt her.

  How could she jump to such an appalling conclusion and tell him he was through at the Centre? He’d been at the Centre all his adult life, had been the lifeblood and inspiration of the place for over thirty years. He was not only her teacher, but her mentor. He was everybody’s mentor. But most particularly he was hers. Clara Treadwell would have been a nobody without him. She was him; even her hopes had sprung from his ambitions for her. He had taught her everything he knew. Harold felt sick. But it was betrayal, not a heart attack.

  He couldn’t get the image of her standing behind her desk in her office out of his mind. Now he would always see her like that, palms on the polished surface, leaning forward slightly, a look of utter conviction on her face. That expression of self-righteous hostility must be what judges, prosecutors, executioners wore. People who ended lives for the “public good.”

  “Harold, you’ve gone too far. It’s over” was how she had started on him.

  He was struck dumb. He didn’t get it. “What, my dear? What’s over?” They’d had a pleasant evening together Monday night They’d had several amicable communications since. Until the meeting this morning, Harold had thought things were improving between them. He was the one who should be hurt and angry. He’d been advising Clara on the Cowles matter. And today she had publicly cut him out and replaced him with Jason Frank without even telling him first. It was outrageous.

  Clara flipped open the folder. The condom still lay inside.

  In the sudden movement he saw for the first time the bandage on her hand. “What happened to your hand?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “What’s the meaning of this? What’s going on, Clara?” he demanded.

  She glared at him, the friendly old tic from her childhood leaping around in her cheek, signaling him that something was very wrong and that she blamed him for whatever it was.

  “Where did this come from? What’s it about?” Harold was confused, couldn’t guess the meaning of her stance, of the expression on her face. Frigid rage.

  “Don’t play the innocent with me, Harold.” Suddenly she began jabbing the air with her finger. “I know you too well.”

  He could smell her perfume, Paris. The odor exuded from the scarf around her neck, from the deep purple wool of her suit The pain began in his chest Clara seemed disturbed, out of control. He’d never seen her like this.

  “Don’t fuck around with me, Harold. I’ve been patient with you so far, extremely patient But I’ve had it. I can’t tolerate this anymore. You’ll have to leave, retire. You decide how you want to do it. You can’t stay any longer.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because you’ve been harassing me. You won’t let go.” She slapped shut the folder with its obscene contents. “You’re through, Harold.”

  “Clara, I can’t even begin to imagine what—”

  “I’m talking about what’s been going on up here. The vandalism, the thefts. The mysterious little things going wrong, things that only someone who knew this place very well could pull off. The threats on my life. The cut on my hand. And now—this! This is sick. What do you want to happen? Don’t you understand how dreadful this is? You’ll have to leave. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Sit down, Clara, and pull yourself together. You’re not making sense.”

  “No, I will not sit down. I’m not some insecure resident. I’m not under your thumb. I’m all grown up now. You can’t hurt me anymore.” Her face was distorted, cold with rage.

  “Clara, I would never hurt you. I care about you much too much. In fact I—love you. I’ve always loved you. You know that.” His hand went to his chest. The pain was intolerable.

  “I didn’t want to have to take any action, you understand that? I didn’t want to involve you or damage you in any way, Harold. You made me do this. It’s your fault. You wouldn’t stop.”

  “What is going on? Stop and tell me. What and when and how long?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. You’ve as much as told me you know everything that’s going on here.” She spoke bitterly now.

  “You said there have been other incidents. You’ve been stabbed in the hand, and you think I did that? Clara, I’m really worried about you. You think I stabbed you? How could I possibly have stabbed you? With what? When?”

  “Don’t patronize me,” she snapped.

  His eyes moved from the closed folder to the bandage. Either somebody was harassing Clara or she was setting him up for a very big fall. He shook his head, unsure of what to think. Would Clara do these terrible things to destroy him?

  Harold couldn’t imagine it. All their adult lives he and Clara had lived among the mentally ill, trying to understand and help them. Would Clara, this gifted, dedicated woman, this superb administrator—his darling of so many years—coldheartedly use their environment to ruin him?

  “This is very serious,” he said softly.

  “Yes.”

  No, not even Clara/Carmen could do this to him. Harold made a leap of faith and decided to believe Clara was innocent, that she was being harassed and was in real peril.

  “This is very dangerous, Clara. How long have these incidents been going on?”

  Clara took an impatient breath. “Harold, don’t play games with me. I know what you’ve been doing. And you haven’t hurt me. You haven’t scared me. You’ve only hurt yourself.”

  Again the wave of shock. “How could you suggest such a thing? I couldn’t do anything like this. Stab you, humiliate you? I’ve always been on your side—even when you’re wrong, I support you. I support you now.”

  Clara’s eyes flickered. “Wrong? When was I wrong?”

  “You’re often wrong. You’re wrong now. You’re delusional if you think I am capable of doing something like this—” He pointed to the closed folder, sputtering in his anger.

  “Don’t start that,” Clara warned.

  “For what possible reason would I want to hurt you?”

  “I don’t wish to get into it, Hal. Our relationship has changed. My position has changed. It’s time for you to
retire.”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “I don’t want to get into that I don’t want to point fingers. I don’t want to debate. I have to catch a plane.”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  She looked down at the folder. “I don’t want to hear this anymore. I’m having this … thing tested. Hal, I’m warning you. Don’t make me hang you.”

  His heart pounded, his head, too. Hang him? Hang him? For what? For loving her, for protecting her, for wanting to be close to her?

  His body felt broken, but his voice was firm when he spoke. “Clara, you’re in too much trouble to hang anybody right now. You’ve been threatened with a malpractice suit that will swallow you whole, muddy you so badly and suck you down so deep you won’t see sky for a long, long time. And it looks like you have someone else, someone right here in the Centre who can put anything he wants into your private spaces. That’s a pretty fearsome thought. If I were you I’d think about those things. I’d prepare for a legal battle. I’d want to find the right culprit.”

  “You’re threatening me. Everything you say makes it worse.”

  He shook his head, his face as gray as that of a dead man. “You’re making a big mistake here. Somebody wants you in trouble, honey, but it isn’t me.”

  “Who then? You tell me, who? Who has access to my office, my desk?—” She stopped talking. Her lips closed. She would tell him no more.

  “Give me that thing. I’ll find out who put it there. And when I do, you’ll have to apologize to me, Clara. This place is full of paranoid, psychotic, unstable people. Have you even bothered to question the staff? The night staff, the cleaning people, the security people? Have you checked them out? One of them has a grudge against you. You’ve been very, very bad to think it’s me. I don’t take this kind of abuse from anybody. I will not take abuse.” He repeated the last sentence, holding his hand over his heart as if reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.

  But Clara didn’t give the folder to him. She turned her back on him, stared out of the window at the Hudson River and stayed that way until he left. Somehow he got to his office, where the pain refused to ease. Instead it settled in, a steady agonizing pressure that began to alert him to the possibility of a real problem. He was a doctor, though, had to go about his business and shrug the pain off. He couldn’t afford a life-threatening event right now.

  Clara was stubborn and foolish; she was not dealing correctly with any of her problems. Her secrecy about the harassment incidents was particularly worrying. How could someone do these things without getting caught? Harold sat in his office, trying to pull himself together to form a plan of action. He could not allow himself to have a heart attack. Clara was surrounded by idiots—Ben Hartley, Max Goodrich, the entire board of directors. They would skin her alive to avoid controversy. Harold was overwhelmed with fear and anxiety, terrified that if he didn’t deal with Clara’s problems, if something happened to him, Clara would have no one to protect her. He went down to the third floor to see Gunn Tram.

  twenty-eight

  “Hi, Jason, it’s Friday around three-thirty. April Woo returning your call. Long time no see, huh? I’ll bet you called about the case at your shop, Cowles—or has something else come up? I’m here for a half an hour or so. Saturday I’m working four to one. Sunday I’m off.”

  That was your last message. Doodle oodle oo.

  Jason hung up and glanced at the brass bull with the clock on its back on the bottom shelf of the bookcase, between a glass paperweight in the shape of an apple and a stack of JAPA journals. Jason knew the clock was at least two minutes slow. That made it three-forty-seven. He’d had back-to-back patients since the meeting at the Centre that morning. At the best of times it was exhausting having to figure out what was going on with each patient every moment so he wouldn’t slip up and make a fatal mistake about what he or she might really be saying. At the worst of times—when he had more than the needs of his patients on his mind—he felt overwhelmed.

  Today, he had wanted to think only of his patients and getting some groceries in the house so that when Emma returned tomorrow from her six-month absence, she wouldn’t have to indict him for domestic incompetence. Instead, Clara Treadwell had cleverly maneuvered him into the seething cauldron of hospital politics where he’d never, ever wanted to go. He had to hand it to her. Two days ago Clara had gotten him to agree to review the Cowles case. Now, as a result of this morning’s highly unpleasant meeting, he was suddenly chair of an “ad hoc Quality Assurance Committee” with the responsibility of investigating the Director of the Centre, the person who claimed to want to be his mentor.

  Jason snorted at the thought He was supervisor, and maybe mentor, to several residents every year; but he’d never actually had a mentor himself. He hadn’t wanted to be constrained in his thinking and loyalties, so he’d trudged along, with no advice or support, his parents telling him he was crazy to go into psychiatry instead of becoming a heart or brain surgeon where the money was.

  Jason glanced at his watch. The second hand advanced painstakingly around its face, reminding him of himself, trudging along all those years, listening to his own counsel every step along the way, making his own choices and his own mistakes. He had to laugh at Clara Treadwell’s arrogance. It was too late to mold him. He was already formed; she could worry and disturb him, but she couldn’t influence his findings.

  The clocks ticked, and time was passing. Jason wanted to try April before his next patient arrived. He heard the door to his waiting room open and close. After a cooling-off period in his waiting room, his last patient was finally leaving. Jeannie had sobbed nonstop for forty-five minutes, apologizing the whole time. “I’m so sorry. I just can’t stop. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  Jason knew what was wrong. The poor woman’s husband was selfish and no longer loved her. He’d told her he needed time to relax and was insisting on the freedom to do his thing. Jeannie had long ago given up her career and earning power to care for the two tiny children her husband had wanted and now expected her to care for. She felt heavily burdened with the responsibility for everything since her husband was the kind of man who thought his time was too precious for any kind of domestic endeavor. She starved herself in her misery and apologized for her anguish as if only she were at fault for her loneliness and pain. Twice a week when Jason met with her, he appeared solid as a rock, unemotional and calm. She had no idea that every muscle in his body ached from the tension of restraining his impulse to hug her.

  Thinking of Jeannie’s tiny wrists and puffy eyes, Jason flipped open his address book to April Woo’s number. He didn’t really have to look it up. They’d worked two cases together: Emma’s kidnapping six months before and the Honiger-Stanton sisters case three months later. By now the precinct number was burned in his memory. He smiled grimly at the thought that his quiet analyst’s life had changed so dramatically that he was suddenly the Psychiatric Centre’s crime expert. And not only that, it seemed a New York cop thought a few weeks of their not seeing each other was a long time.

  As he reached for the phone, Jason heard the door of his waiting room open and close again. His next patient had arrived. That reminded him of the moment April had told him she was more scared of a closed door than a handgun with a cocked trigger aimed at her head.

  “Behind the door could be anything. With a nine-millimeter at least I know what I’m up against.” He remembered her smile. “Sometimes they jam.”

  April had also told Jason it took a pressure of between eight and twelve pounds to pull a trigger, depending on the gun. “But in the heat of the moment, all it really takes is a tiny little squeeze. If you have to shoot at somebody, afterwards your hand shakes for about a week.”

  Things like that Jason hadn’t known before meeting April Woo and probably would never have known. He may have been a streetwise kind of kid, growing up in the Bronx with a basketball never long out of his hands, but he’d never held a gun, never ha
d a cop on his side. Never been involved with the investigation of criminals, let alone his colleagues and peers. All this was new.

  Jason had always left the door to his waiting room unlocked so his patients could come in and out. The two doors to his office were closed. His patients came in and then waited for him to open the door to his inner sanctum. He used to take comfort in the fact that he knew who was out there, but they never knew who was inside with him or what he was doing when he was alone. Now he was more like April. He couldn’t be so confident anymore about anything he couldn’t see with his own eyes. He needed to urinate, needed to reach April before she went home.

  He considered taking his portable phone into the bathroom to talk to April while he was relieving himself, decided against it. He dialed her number. This time she picked up.

  “Hi, it’s Jason. I don’t mean to be abrupt, but I only have a minute. What can you tell me about Raymond Cowles?”

  She didn’t hesitate before replying. “The death report came in yesterday afternoon. The M.E. says there’s no indication of foul play. As far as he’s concerned, Cowles’s death is consistent with suicide. We closed the case.” April did not waste words in the telling.

  Jason let out a small groan. “Suicide” was not the word he’d wanted to hear. He said, “I’d like to chat with you about it.”

  “Fine. Tomorrow?”

  Emma was coming home tomorrow. “How about early next week?”

  “Okay by me.”

  They scheduled a time. Jason replaced the phone in its cradle, then took a moment to urinate before opening the door to his next patient.

  twenty-nine

  “Bobbie, what are you up to?” Gunn Tram scolded the ringing telephone in Bobbie’s apartment as if it could hear her and pick up. “Dr. Dickey was asking about you today. Bobbie, don’t you try to hide from me. If you’re in trouble, I got to know.”