by Stash (v5)
But that wasn’t the story Brian started to tell.
“I was interviewed by a Times reporter today,” Brian told her. “I should have passed her on to the PR department but I got talking to her. That was probably a mistake.”
“About what?” She wanted to ask about Roger, but held off. If Brian was ready to tell her what was happening at work, she was ready to listen. At least he was opening up to her about what was going on.
He backed up and told her about another call he’d received recently, from Dr. Marta Everson, a publicity hound Brian knew from conferences and whom he had arranged a consulting agreement with to host educational seminars. Everson had been prescribing Zuprone for a dozen patients for weight loss and claimed three were exhibiting symptoms of anorexia. She had called Brian demanding that Caladon do something about it.
“After she called, I spoke to Stephen and he promised to deal with her,” Brian said. “Evidently he didn’t because she went to the Times where she has some chummy relationship with the health beat reporter.”
The reporter’s name was Tina Soriello. She asked Brian if Caladon promoted the anxiety drug Zuprone for weight loss.
He started by telling her that all media inquiries went through the media relations department and he could transfer her.
But it was after business hours. Ms. Soriello would be dumped in voice mail. Could she ask a few questions? Her deadline was less than an hour away.
So does Caladon promote Zuprone as a weight-loss drug? she asked again.
No, that would entail illegal marketing practices.
Was he aware of any research studies of Zuprone used for weight loss?
He told her that like any other pharmaceutical company, Caladon conducted or sponsored studies for all of its drugs and for almost all uses they were prescribed for, whether FDA approved or not.
What about studies of Zuprone for weight loss?
We have them, but they would only be available to prescribing physicians who ask for them, since Zuprone is an anxiety drug not approved for weight loss.
Brian wasn’t entirely sure where the reporter was heading, because the line of questioning seemed rudimentary.
But then she asked if he was aware of a study conducted by Dr. Marta Everson who found that 25 percent of the patients she prescribed Zuprone to for weight loss were experiencing symptoms of anorexia.
So that was it. Brian said he was familiar with Dr. Everson’s situation. He explained to the reporter that Dr. Everson was prescribing Zuprone for only twelve patients—all of whom were prescribed higher than recommended dosages and her “study” had no control group, did not account for other medications or health conditions. It was not a study at all. Even Dr. Everson didn’t call it a study. You could call it an observation.
So you’re disputing her claims.
No. I didn’t say that.
Did you warn Dr. Everson that she shouldn’t publicize her findings?
No, we discussed the implications of publishing health-care outcome observations that did not follow scientific protocol.
She said you threatened her.
That’s absurd.
At this point, Brian realized he’d said too much. Too late. The reporter thanked him and hung up.
“What happens now?” Gwen asked.
“I wait for the Times to get delivered in the morning and see what’s in it. Hopefully nothing. Reporters write a ton of stories that never make it into the paper—maybe she doesn’t have enough of an angle for this one. If she does, then I’ll have to deal with the fallout.”
“But what about Zuprone? Are there serious problems with it?”
“There are problems with any drug if it’s not used appropriately. And when it’s off-label, you have to rely on anecdotal evidence, peer reviews, recommendations, and even the manufacturer for guidelines. It’s surprisingly chaotic.”
“You once said you thought Teresa was taking Zuprone. Has she lost weight?”
“Twenty-five pounds.”
“You know the exact number?”
“She told me.”
Gwen had met Teresa only once, at the company holiday party just after she and Brian started working together. Gwen remembered the pretty face and beautiful skin as well as the extra weight. Big boobs and butt, several chins, a dress that highlighted her flabby arms and rounded shoulders.
“How does she look?” Gwen asked.
“Better than she did.”
“Does she look good?”
Brian hesitated. “She needs to lose a few more.”
“But she looks better?”
“She’s lost a bunch of weight.”
“Did she keep her boobs?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said she lost a bunch of weight and I’m wondering if her boobs shrank.”
“I’ll have to ask her.”
“Does she know you’re a married man?”
“You have nothing to be concerned about.”
She shouldn’t be pursuing this. It was just her own guilt over that kiss from Jude. She let it go and changed the subject. “So what did Roger say?”
Brian stiffened like the kid who’d forgotten to do his homework assignment.
Gwen said, “That’s okay, it sounds like you had a tough day.” Cutting her husband slack.
“No, no excuse,” Brian said. “What time is it? I’ll call him now.”
“It can wait until morning.”
“I’m sorry, Gwen. I got so wrapped up at work. I’m probably assuming they’ll drop the charges when they get around to it and this will just go away.”
“Detective Keller acted like he didn’t know about any deal. I never should have said anything.”
“Keller knew about it. It was probably his idea. Roger wouldn’t have presented the deal if he hadn’t been in discussions with the DA and the police.”
“People get stopped every day with a bag of pot and they pay their fine and that’s it.”
“I guess that guy Anderson dying really complicates it,” Brian said. He moved closer and held her.
“Now I have to see that detective at every school function. His wife thinks I’m some dangerous addict—a threat to her son. The way she looked at me. I think she’s been spreading the word.”
“People will stand by you,” Brian reassured her.
She fought the urge to cry. “You could have at least called Roger.”
“It’s not too late.” But the machine picked up at the Fitzgerald household. Brian left a message asking Roger to call him at work the next morning.
The Task at Hand
Past midnight and sleep seemed like an appointment hours away, with nothing for Gwen to do while waiting. She envied Brian’s quiet, regular breathing, his body stretched the length of the bed. He never missed out on his sleep, even when tense or worried. He said he couldn’t afford to, as if that statement alone allowed him to overcome insomnia. Not Gwen. Tonight would stretch on, no relief until she followed through on the thing eating at her. There was no point wrestling the sheets for two more hours.
She got out of bed and checked on the kids. Both asleep, curled in their blankets. They slept completely, solidly, through the night. Never woke from nightmares. Little Brians in their sleep habits.
She went back to her room and dressed by moonlight. She used the downstairs bathroom to brush her teeth, rinse her face.
Her car was parked in the garage so she took Brian’s to avoid the motorized chug of the garage door opener. She drove downtown.
Gull was quiet on a late Tuesday night, the dining room nearly empty, a few patrons staked out at the bar. The cocktail waitress, now off-duty, drink in hand, sat chatting with the bartender. Gwen recognized her, one of the women filling out applications the day she picked up the bag from Jude. The others in the bar—two men with beers, a couple at one of the tables—glanced in her direction and went back to their conversations. She hadn’t registered. No one recognized her. No one looked like law enfo
rcement. That was one of the reasons she hesitated coming here: What if the police were watching Jude and saw her come in? They would think she was desperate to have come here to buy more, or foolish for the reason she’d actually come. She’d end up in more trouble than she already was.
She sat and ordered a glass of cabernet. “Is Jude here tonight?” she asked the bartender.
“He’s around. You want me to find him?”
“That’s okay.” She put her money on the bar. She looked around again. There was the table by the window where she’d had lunch with Jude in the winter.
“What time do you close?”
“When everyone leaves or two o’clock, whichever comes first.”
Every minute was an exercise in working up her nerve. She’d gotten this far. She left the house while her family slept. She drove and parked the car. She walked into Gull. She ordered a glass of wine and quickly finished half of it. She had considered calling Marlene to come with her, the one person she could phone at midnight, and construct the ruse of two women out for a drink to catch up, which would make it easier for Gwen to explain to anyone who wanted to know why she was out. Anyone except Marlene, that is. For her, Gwen would have to lay out the story. She’d have to reveal Jude’s identity, admit her purpose for visiting him. Marlene would object. Anyone would object.
She took another sip of her wine. A better idea than this was to get your priorities in order, return to your life, and let others deal with the consequences of their own choices.
She swiveled on her stool intending to get up and leave, but there he was. He’d come up behind her while she was talking herself into making an exit.
He said, “I thought you said you were in bed every night by eleven.”
He smiled, like he knew something she didn’t. Then it vanished. “What happened to your eye?”
There was a pink line above her eyebrow from the healed gash and the first prickly sprouts of her eyebrow growing back in. The bruise lingered greenish yellow. During the day she hid the jaundice with makeup, but it didn’t seem right tonight, putting anything on her face that might make her look better, the way she had last time, as if she were trying to make an impression or get noticed or be kissed. That was not the task at hand.
“That’s okay, you don’t have to tell me.”
“No, I’m fine, I was in a car accident, that’s all.”
“Sorry to hear that.” He slid onto the stool next to her. “I hope everyone is okay.”
She’d been given the perfect opening: Jude asking about her eye, her responding about the car accident. Now tell him the rest of the story. Get it over with and get out of here.
She busied herself sipping wine.
He leaned closer to her and lowered his voice. There was his cologne. “Don’t tell me you’ve run out already?”
“No, no of course not.” Although she had run out—the police had confiscated her bag.
He waited her out.
“I couldn’t sleep and wanted to get out for a drink.”
“You don’t have to be so nervous about it.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“If you clench the stem of that glass any harder it might break. I’d have to charge you for it.”
Gwen looked at her hand, white from her grip. She moved her hand away.
Jude motioned the bartender, who started to pour Gwen another glass of wine.
“I have to drive,” Gwen said. “I shouldn’t drink another.”
Jude waved the bartender away. “I’m not trying to get you in any trouble.” He asked how her trip up north had been.
“We had to postpone it,” Gwen said. “Things got hectic with our schedules, but maybe this weekend we’ll go.”
“Does your husband know you’re here?”
She didn’t respond.
He placed a hand on her knee. She held her breath, aware of her mistake now: a kiss like that is never just a kiss. It’s always, always something more, and Gwen knew it the instant he had kissed her, but she wouldn’t admit it.
She moved her leg and his hand slipped off, as if he didn’t care one way or the other, or maybe hadn’t even noticed that his hand had been touching her in the first place.
“That’s not why I’m here,” she said.
He shrugged, but his eyes locked to hers. “No, you told me. You couldn’t sleep.”
She tried again, but instead she said, “You must think I lead a pretty dull life.”
“Actually, I’d say your life has a little excitement to it if you’re slipping out at night to see me. Because I think that’s what you’re doing.”
“I did come to see you, but not for the reason you think.”
“Well, you didn’t come to ask me to get you another bag.”
“Is that what most people come to you for?”
He frowned, as if he didn’t understand her question. “Most people come here for a drink or to eat. And there are plenty of other places for that closer to your home. So I’m presuming you have a different reason for coming here tonight.” He was smiling at her again, thinking this was a game of sorts.
“Excuse me, Jude?” A waiter in a white waist apron stood next to them. “The deuce at fourteen is insisting on seeing you. I opened a bottle of Cristal and they said it’s sour.”
Jude shook his head. Gwen let out her breath.
“Tell them I’ll be over,” he said to the waiter. He turned to Gwen.
“Maybe I will take that glass of wine,” she said.
“Excellent idea. I’ll be right back.”
The bartender returned and filled her glass. Jude excused himself and went into the dining room and beyond a row of booths and half wall. As soon as he was out of Gwen’s view, she got up and made for the door.
When Jude returned, he asked the bartender what happened to the woman sitting there.
The bartender shrugged. “I didn’t see her leave.” She’d left the change from her twenty. “Maybe she’s in the restroom.”
She wasn’t.
Jude couldn’t get an accurate reading on her, which troubled him. What had she come here for if not to start something? Why else would she have been so anxious? It puzzled him how Gwen’s comment about her “boring” life excited him, drove him to want her even more.
He looked up her number on his phone and called. After five rings, the phone was answered by a groggy male voice. Hullo?
He disconnected. There was nothing he could do now, except keep the date he’d already arranged for tonight, the one he’d been ready to abandon for Gwen when he saw her at the bar.
He went upstairs to his office and got the manila envelope he’d prepared earlier. He told Simon to close up tonight and left Gull and drove across the bridge over Oneska Creek, slowing as he entered Morrissey’s residential neighborhoods. A cop often waited just over the bridge to catch people coming back from the bars, and, sure enough, Jude passed the cruiser lurking behind the roadside landscaping in front of the dentist’s office, lights off, radar gun pointing out the open window.
He turned at the signal on Delaware, then at Brighton, and finally on Van Buren, a long dead end that circled back toward Oneska Creek. Leni’s house was the last one on the right, an old farmhouse with several newer gables, a pool and hot tub in the backyard and a fireplace in the master bedroom. He was surprised to see other cars parked out front and in the driveway. Lights flooded the back of the house and music played.
He turned off his engine and sat in the dark for a few minutes, listening to voices and laughter and splashing. Then he called the house. An unfamiliar voice answered, “Party Palace, can I help you?”
He asked for Leni. When she got on the line, he said he was out in front.
“Come in, come in, you’re late, I’ve been dying for you to get here.”
“I can’t,” Jude said. You can’t be the guest that arrives ten minutes before the hostess puts out an assortment of drugs on a serving tray.
“Baby, did you bring me
what I asked for?”
“I expected you’d be alone.”
“It’s just a few friends. It came about all of a sudden. Rick and Leslie called …”
“Come out and get it if you want it.”
“Don’t be mad, Judy.” She hesitated. “I’ll be right out.”
A few moments later she appeared from around the side of the house, her sandals snapping with each step. She wore an open cover-up over her bathing suit. She opened the door and got in beside him. He reached across and shut the door. She was wet and smelled of chlorine and alcohol. All smiles and smooches but he knew she’d tumble soon if that blow didn’t get up her nose.
“You’re pretty hammered,” he said.
“You used to find that attractive.”
“You used to handle it better.”
He handed her the sealed envelope. She didn’t open it.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You probably think I’m a complete twit.”
This was the type of woman he’d been hanging with. A fading beauty, a homecoming queen, but you’d have to perform an archaeological dig to uncover that now. Today she was an alcoholic, drug hungry, divorced. Lost custody of the two kids who now lived with the former husband and his new wife. Dana had been right: he didn’t bring the women he dated around to the house, but not only because she might grow attached to them. Maybe when Dana was younger, yes, attachment might be the issue, but now that she was older she’d be repulsed by some of these women. Imagine telling Dana this was her new mother. Leni was starting to remind Jude of Claire, always jonesing, falling under the spell, too weak to maintain a semblance of control. Maybe that’s why he’d been thinking more and more of Gwen, had felt a deep thrill when he saw her in the bar tonight. She was the type of woman, or perhaps the woman, he should have been with all along. He wasn’t paying close enough attention years ago, and now it was probably too late. But maybe not. Things happen for a reason. She hadn’t worked up the nerve yet to take the next step, but by visiting him tonight she showed she was on the path, and it meant more to him than he would have guessed.
Leni shivered in the cool night air. She leaned closer and placed her damp face against his chest, an arm around his waist.
