Loving Time

residents. My other associations include—”

“Thank you. You seem to be sufficiently well qualified, and unconnected to the administration of the Centre, to review the case and make inquiries where necessary. I suggest we set up an ad hoc Quality Assurance Committee headed by you to oversee our internal handling of this matter.” Hartley rubbed his hands together as if relieved to find a solution.

“You’ll write a report, of course, and keep us informed of your progress,” he added, almost smiling.

“Good work, Ben. Then we’ll be relying on Jason to give us a preliminary take on the case.” Clara glanced at her watch. Done and done, and she was free to go.

“All that leaves us is to agree on a date and time to meet again. Dr. Frank, what day and time next week would be good for you?”

For the first time that day, Clara flipped open the expensive burgundy leather folder with her name embossed in gold. Inside, a used and leaking condom was stuck to her datebook. She slapped the folder closed, but not before everyone around the table had a chance to see what was inside it.

For several seconds there was shocked silence. Clara felt the public humiliation as violently as if she had taken a direct hit from a heat-seeking missile. Her vision blurred with the impact, and she was afraid she was losing consciousness.

Just then, Hartley snickered, and her vision cleared. Her eyes locked ferociously on Dickey. “Harold, I need to see you before I leave,” Clara said. “Gentlemen—this meeting is adjourned.”

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.