“You know how many times I’ve told him there was nothing he could have done if he had stayed in that room talking to his dad?”
I sat there, suddenly not caring a damn about the election, the newspaper, or anything else. Except Frank.
“Where is he now, Pete?”
“Home, I guess. He won’t talk to me. Could you try?”
“Sure. I don’t know if it will do any good, but I’ll try. Thanks for telling me all of this.”
I found Lydia and asked her to call me at Frank’s if anybody needed me. Then I located Stacee.
“Something’s come up, Stacee, and I have to leave. Lydia knows how to get in touch with me.” I listed some of the things I had planned to do that morning; she was excited to take on the responsibility. I was a little afraid to give her so much, but that Monday night would be busier than the day, with the last of election eve to deal with. The next night would be endless.
I raced down to Frank’s house. He didn’t answer the doorbell, but his car was in the driveway, so I pulled out my key and let myself in. I called to him as I opened the door, but there was no response. I kept calling all the way through the house, then saw he was sitting out on the back patio. A bottle of scotch sat next to him.
“A little early in the day, isn’t it?” I said as I walked out into the backyard.
He didn’t answer me or look at me.
I moved around to where I could see his face. He looked like hell.
I sat down next to him.
“If you’re gong to defend my questionable honor with your bare knuckles, the least you can do is look me in the eye.”
“Pete has a goddamned big mouth,” he spat, but at least he looked at me.
“How long do you think this would have been a secret, anyway?”
“With that bunch of hens, not long.”
“Pete’s just worried about you. So am I.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sure you are.”
Silence.
“Look,” he said angrily, “I don’t need you to hold my hand every time I have a problem at work. Don’t you have an election to cover?”
“A problem at work? Is that what this is? Face it, Frank. Something’s really wrong and you know it.”
“It’s my problem.”
“Our problem.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Goddamn it, Irene, do you always have to have the last fucking word!?”
“When it matters, yes.”
More silence.
“Go back to work.”
“Talk to me.”
He threw his glass against the wall of the house. I jumped, but I wasn’t going to back down.
“Break every last piece of glass in the house if it makes you feel better. But talk to me, Frank.”
“I told you, I can’t.”
“Bullshit. You won’t.”
He got up and walked into the house. I followed.
“Give me my key back,” he shouted.
“No way.”
“I don’t want to be with you anymore, Irene. It’s not working. Go on, get out.”
“You are a lousy liar, Harriman. And I don’t take orders from you.”
“Goddamn it, get out of my house.”
“Like I said, I don’t take orders.”
He drew his hand back and took a step toward me, but the action seemed to startle even Frank. He backed down immediately and sank to the couch, as if defeated. I sat next to him.
I lowered my voice, trying to ease things down a notch. “Wednesday morning, when I saw Mrs. Fremont, I told her you had invited me to Thanksgiving.”
