He had found one of Barbara’s letters. Joyce was supposed to destroy them after reading. Instead, she had kept one in a “safe” place.
Barbara had received angry phone calls, but none like this. He was so damn righteous. Unlike the biblical woman caught in adultery, in Barbara’s case, there would be no defender to protect her. Harry Hunter had been betrayed and, by God, someone would pay for it. He was going to file for divorce and he damn well knew he would be granted custody of their teenage daughter. He called Barbara every foul name in his arsenal.
When he finally slammed down the phone she felt as if she’d been shot at close range with a shotgun. And that she’d never be able to pick out all the tiny fragments of pellets.
Her hands were shaking as she dialed Joyce’s office. An answering machine offered to take a message. Barbara hesitated, then decided against that. She tried Joyce’s home. No answer.
Barbara was close to panic. She desperately needed to talk to Joyce. But how to reach her? She didn’t want to chance encountering Harry in her efforts to contact Joyce.
She decided there was nothing she could do now. Literally. She was so shaken there was no possibility of working further this day. She pleaded a sudden migraine. Her concerned boss, who prized her work, told her to take as much time as she needed.
Barbara went to her apartment and tried the two numbers again.No response.
She tried a bath. Inexplicably, she became claustrophobic in the water.
She tried to read. But her mind refused to focus on the printed words. Again and again she returned to a panic state. She paced endlessly. She could neither stay seated nor lie down. She was frightened for herself, but far more concerned for Joyce. This could mean not only the end of Joyce’s marriage, but, quite possibly, her career as well.
Periodically, she dialed Joyce’s office, hoping against hope that Joyce would have returned-if she had gone out. As the phone rang, Barbara would mutter, “Pick up! Damn it, Joyce, pick up!” But after several rings, the familiar if professional voice of Dr. Hunter would invite the caller to leave a message at the tone.
If Joyce were free and able to call, why wasn’t she calling?
Was it because Joyce was angry with her? Maybe. After all, it was one of Barbara’s letters that was the proximate cause of this catastrophe. But dammit, Joyce was supposed to have destroyed those letters!
It was sweet but dumb of Joyce to save one. She must’ve thought she was keeping it in a “safe” place. She should have realized that as long as she kept even a single letter, it stood the chance of being found.
Certainly, both Barbara and Joyce were aware of the danger and the consequences if anyone-most of all Harry-learned of their affair. But it was possible that neither woman could have imagined just how cataclysmically Harry would react.
God, but she wanted a cigarette! Barbara hadn’t smoked in many years. But then, she hadn’t been hovering on the brink of a nervous breakdown either. Yet she dared not go out; at any moment Joyce might call.
It was almost 11 P.M. Barbara turned on the TV, convinced she would not pay attention to a word. If nothing else, she needed noise.
A local lawyer, himself a celebrity, had been found guilty of drunk driving as well as some legal improprieties, and disbarred. Barbara continued pacing. She paid no attention whatever to the story.
The Detroit Lions were in Miami to play the Dolphins. Some local teens had attempted to mug the Lions’ middle linebacker. Several of the teens were under arrest and recovering in a Miami hospital. The linebacker, none the worse for the attack, would play this Sunday.
Barbara paced heedlessly.
The local health care community was shocked to learn that one of their number had committed suicide. Dr. Joyce Hunter had apparently taken her own life. A colleague found the body late this afternoon. She had died instantly after a single shot to the head from a handgun. No suicide note had been found. An autopsy had been ordered. There were no funeral plans at this time. Neither her husband nor their daughter was available for comment.
Several therapists expressed astonishment at the news. None could think of any reason for her action.
More details would be reported as they were forthcoming.
Barbara shuddered as she shook her head and wept.
“I really do believe that the people of Detroit will remember Al Ulrich. He didn’t die for them. But he lived for them. In accepting his assignment, he placed himself in harm’s way in order to serve people unaccustomed to wholehearted service.”
Barbara Ulrich shuddered, shaking her head as one does when reliving a nightmare.
She had no idea how long Father Tully had been speaking nor what he had said. She was wrapped in her private memories.
She wondered if anyone at this wake service had noticed her brief spasm. If they had, she hoped her tremor would be ascribed to grief over her husband’s death.
Slowly, she sank back into the past.
The manager of the apartment complex found her the day after Joyce’s suicide. Her employer, concerned, had tried to contact her to ask how she was feeling. The last he’d seen of her she was complaining of a horrible headache. He wanted to assure her that she needn’t return to work until she felt better. When there was no answer to repeated phone calls, he called and asked the manager to look in on her.
She was curled in a fetal position and comatose.
She spent a brief period in the intensive care unit of St. John’s Hospital on Detroit’s east side. From there she was transferred to the psychiatric ward of the same hospital. For over a week she was fed intravenously and permitted no visitors. No one knew the cause of her anxiety reaction. It took some time before she was able to join in the battle to return her to normalcy.
Among those waiting during the doctor’s ban on visitors was Harriet Hunter, daughter of Harry and the late Joyce Hunter. When Harriet was finally allowed to visit, she had to introduce herself to her mother’s lover. Barbara had never met Harriet and knew only what Joyce had told her about her child.
At first Barbara was apprehensive. She was tempted to call the nurse to usher Harriet out. There could be little doubt that Harriet knew the truth. How many others knew the whole story Barbara could only guess. Since her breakdown, she hadn’t seen a newspaper, listened to or watched the news. The few visitors she’d had hadn’t mentioned anything concerning Joyce. And Barbara hadn’t asked.
But Harriet wore a genuine smile. It faded when she saw the fear in Barbara’s eyes. “How are you feeling?” Harriet pulled a chair close to Barbara’s bed and sat down.
“A little numb.” Barbara tried to smile. “My, you’re a pretty young lady. I can see Joyce, especially in your eyes.”
Harriet’s open smile returned. “And I’m glad to meet you at last.”
Barbara looked uneasy. “How long have you known … I mean, about your mother and me?”
Harriet seemed puzzled. “You mean because I said ‘at last’ I’m getting to meet you?”
Barbara nodded.
“I didn’t. I didn’t know. Not till Dad found your letter, and all hell broke loose. I wish I had known. But Mother didn’t want that. She was very discreet. Well … up until she kept your letter.”
“I’m sorry, Harriet. I’m so very sorry.”
Tears welled in Harriet’s eyes. She blinked them back. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“If I hadn’t entered into that relationship with your mother …”
“If you hadn’t, it might’ve been someone else. Someone not so caring. Or maybe Mother would’ve lived a dreary, loveless life with Dad. And no one besides her would have known.”
Tears spilled over as Barbara for the first time was able to express her sorrow and loss. Both women wept, embracing each other.
When the tears subsided, Harriet said, “Do you have any idea what’s happened since Mother … since Mother died?”
Barbara shook her head. “No. No idea at all. I’ve been … afraid to ask. Afraid to know.”
