150

Aligned Design

Ch 28

"Robert Goren. I have an eight o'clock appointment with Dr. Stephens," Bobby said to the receptionist. He was nearly twenty minutes early. He hadn't been able to sleep last night. He felt antsy. He kept thinking of Gleason. He didn't know how she'd be. He wanted everything to be perfect.

He had gone through his closet and gotten rid of things he hadn't worn in a long time. That made more room for her things. He reorganized his dresser drawers and the drawers in the chest, getting rid of more things. He filled two large trash bags with clothing. He set them by the door to take with him in the morning. He'd drop them off at St. Michael's Men's Shelter. He moved and discarded enough so the entire chest was empty. She could put all of her things in there. It would be hers. That's good, right?

He had cleaned the bathroom and put his best towels on the rack. He ran the sweeper in the living room and down the hall, into his bedroom. He cleaned off the chair in the bedroom and put away his shoes. He refilled his gym bag and set it by the door with the bags of discarded clothing. He looked around the living room.

He grabbed an old pair of briefs from a bag of discarded clothing and dragged it over surfaces. He straightened up his CDs and restacked his DVDs. He gathered up the newspapers from beside his chair and the kitchen table and set them in a grocery bag for recycling.

What else? He removed the crocheted throw from the back of the sofa, shook it out and refolded it, replacing it over the sofa back. His mum had made that throw, when she was well, when he was just a boy. He needed to go see her. He'd seen her frequently whilst he was off recovering and being suspended. She was having a good run. She was lucid, almost normal if you didn't know how sick she was. He wanted her to meet Gleason, when the time was right.

He went back into the kitchen. It looked clean – no dishes in the sink. He wiped off the counter, moving the coffee pot and the breadbox. He wiped out the microwave. He changed the tea towels. He looked in the fridge, he had all the good things for her to eat, things she liked. Everything would be perfect.

"Yes, Mr. Goren, she'll be right with you. Please have a seat."

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Gleason woke up with a start. Her interview! She looked at the clock, five-ten. Oh, thank goodness. The alarm was set for six. She reached and turned off the alarm and sat on the edge of the bed. Oh, here we go. She was seriously nauseous. Do not get sick, she told herself. Do not! She realized she was clutching the edge of the bed, fighting the urge to throw up. No use!

Afterward she sat on the toilet lid and thought about this throwing up every morning. She did eat late last night, and had eaten all that bread. That has to be it. She had eaten too much. Bread is especially heavy. Her stomach is still adjusting to eating real meals and she has this craving for bread lately.

Craving? She would not allow the thought to take form in her mind. Sick . . . each morning? She shut out everything. No, no, no, no! she said to herself. No, not!

Gleason stood in the shower, thinking. Oh, God. Please, no.

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Bobby was the only person in the waiting room. He sat and leaned back. She's coming home tonight. She's coming home tonight. When he got to the office, he would call the security office at LaGuardia and have them search for Gleason's name on manifests for Metro Air evening flights from O'Hare to LaGuardia. He knew she wouldn't call him to pick her up. She was probably still angry, or frightened, after his shit-head behavior on the phone the other night. Jesus, he would need to talk with Dr. Stephens about that, and everything else.

"Detective," Dr. Stephens said, stepping through the door to her office.

Bobby stood up and extended his hand to his psychiatrist. "Hello, again," he said with a rye smile.

"Come on in," she said, returning the smile.

They settled themselves, she in one leather captain's chair with arms and he in the other. They sat facing each other. Bobby sat back and crossed his right ankle over his left knee. He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and tented his fingers in front of his mouth. He didn't look directly at the doctor.

She noticed his posture – leaning back, retreating within the chair; putting up his leg as a defense; arms in front of his body, protecting himself; hands in front of his mouth, not wanting to say anything; not making eye contact. She knew he was waiting for her to start. She busied herself with her notebook; she put off speaking. She wanted him to start. She saw him stealing looks at her. She smiled to herself.

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Gleason dressed in her linen suit with the cornflower blue shell. It was her best outfit. She rolled her hair in a ring from temple to temple. She owned no jewelry; well, the necklace Bobby had given her, but she'd left that behind when she'd left him. Enough of that, she told herself. She needed to get some breakfast. She took her leather bag and headed for the lobby.

"Good morning, Dr. Wintermantle," Paul called from the desk. "How are you today?"

Gleason walked over to the desk and said, "I'm good, Paul. How are you?"

"I am good, too. I am sad, however, you are checking out today. We will miss you."

"Oh, Paul, you are so sweet. I am certain I will be back. Don't you worry about that." She turned and crossed to the restaurant. Everything had just been set out, as they had just opened not ten minutes ago. She was the first customer.

She took a plate and made her choices. She was so hungry. I need to eat well, she thought; I want to go to the airport straight from the interview. I'll try to stand by on an early flight; her ticket had an open return. Friday, though, she thought, flights from Chicago to New York will probably be full. You never know.

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"You're waiting for me to begin, aren't you?" he asked.

"If you like," she replied.

Jesus Christ, she's playing games with me! I do not have ti--, stop! Stop it right now, he silently shouted to himself. Do not go nuts in here. Of all places, not here. He tilted his head to the left, shut his eyes, twisted his head slightly, and took a quick, deep breath.

Dr. Stephens observed the episode. "What just happened, Detective?"

He glanced at her and sat up, unfolding his leg. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"What happened when I said, 'If you like'?"

Bobby looked at her. He shook his head slowly. "I had an incredible flare of anger at you."

"What did you think, what did you say to yourself?"

Bobby was silent for a moment. He couldn't remember. "I don't remember."

"What do you remember?"

He closed his eyes and squeezed them with the fingers of his left hand. He took a deep breath. "I, I remember this incredible flare of anger. Hot, my head was hot. I saw red and orange. I wanted to smash something."

"But you didn't."

"No, I didn't."

"Why not, do you think?"

Bobby laughed slightly, ruefully, "I do remember hearing myself say, 'not here, of all places not here.' Those exact words."

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"Edward, stop it," Eames pushed his hand away. Jesus, every morning, the same thing. He persisted, sliding his hand south. "God damn it! Leave me alone. Will you?" She pushed him away and rolled out of bed, nearly stomping across the bedroom to the hallway.

"What? Alex, come on. Ok, ok. Christ." Edward flopped onto his back, waiting for his minor stiffy to ease. What's wrong with her, he wondered. She was a nympho last night. Probably going to be a stay-away week again. Back to my place for a few days, I guess. At least she's not pregnant.

Alex turned on the shower. She was crampy and cranky. Her breasts were tender and her back ached. And, Christ, what's this . . . a zit? Great. Just great. She hated this time of the month. I am ready for this to be over, she thought. Screw the biological clock. Let's unplug it.

This current missing paintings case was frustrating her. She and Bobby seemed to be going nowhere fast. Bobby was being weird, letting things slip in addition to this temper thing he had going. He seemed preoccupied. Gleason's leaving probably precipitated this whole mess. Alex wondered what had happened between them.

She liked Gleason. After being initially intimidated, Alex found the professor to be just a regular person. Granted, she was brilliant, tall, beautiful and sleeping with Bobby, but other than that, Gleason Wintermantle was one of the girls. Or could be, Alex thought. She'd like to get to know her better.

Alex had no real girlfriends. Who had time? She did not socialize with anyone from work. Except Edward. Hell, she thought, sleeping with a colleague can hardly be considered socializing in the mundane sense of the word. She and Bobby used to go for a drink or a sandwich after work sometimes. Not in a while, though. Certainly not since Gleason entered the picture. They used to stop and get lunch occasionally. She missed those times. She missed Bobby.

In all their years working together, he had never indicated any interest in her. He was the consummate professional. Bobby Goren was the most polite man at One Police Plaza. Silly little things like opening the door, letting her go first, getting her coffee or tea, paying when they did get something to eat. Little things that really don't mean anything in the big picture but mean everything to a woman. She wished Bobby gave lessons. Edward could use a few.

She thought Bobby considered her a friend. No, she was sure they were friends. He had called her when his dad died and she'd gone over to his place. She'd even offered to help clean out his dad's flat, but Bobby declined the offer. They traded gifts at Christmas. And birthday cards, although she was better at it than he was. Bobby usually ended up giving her belated cards.

Now there was Edward.

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"Since we met at your office, how many times have you had those anger episodes?"

He thought back. He couldn't remember. Probably several. Oh, there was the phone call with Gleason.

"Probably more than a few."

"Does any one in particular stand out?"

"One that I remember, besides this one."

"Tell me about it."

Oh, gee whiz. Here we go. Gleason. Phone sex! "Uh, I was on the phone and lost it."

Dr. Stephens looked at him. Boy, he's good, she thought. He's skilled at saying nothing whilst saying something.

"Detective, come on. Whom were you talking with? Where were you talking? What were you talking about? What did the person say that upset you? Come on." She looked at him with a knowing smile.

Bobby sat back again and took a deep breath.

"Ok. I was talking with a friend. At home. We were discussing, uh, we were talking about . . ." Bobby shifted in the chair, straightening. He broke eye contact. "We, we, oh gee whiz." He cleared his throat. "Ok. Uhm, she, she wouldn't say she loved me. And I guess I lost it." He said it all softly, sadly.

Excellent, thought Dr. Stephens, excellent. She waited, letting Bobby adjust to having said it aloud. Then, "Who is 'she'?"

Bobby could not get comfortable in the chair. It was getting hot. He felt anxious. "Uh, do I have to sit the whole time? I, I need to stand up. Is that ok?"

"Are you ok?" she asked, watching him carefully.

"Yes, I just can't get comfortable." He stood and rolled his head. He took a few breaths. "Oh, there. Better."

"How do you feel?" still watching him.

"I really needed to move, that's all."

"If you had to label how you felt, what would you name it?"

Bobby thought a minute. "Anxious. Antsy. I feel better standing up. What did you ask me before?"

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Gleason stepped out of the cab and walked into Harris Hall on Sheridan. It was a large old house converted to office and classroom spaces. She left her carpetbag against the wall in the entry hall and spoke to the receptionist, "Good morning, I'm Gleason Wintermantle. Dr. Manlowe is expecting me."

"Yes, Dr. Wintermantle, several people are expecting you. I'll let them know you are here," the young man answered. He spoke into a phone, "Dr. Manlowe, Dr. Wintermantle is here. Yes, I will." He hung up and looked at Gleason, "He'll be right with you. Can I get you -?"

"Dr. Wintermantle, good morning." Dr. Milton Manlowe came through a pair of pocket doors across the entry hall. He crossed to her with hand extended. "We are very glad you are here, dear." He took her hand and squeezed both her hand and his eyes; he appeared excited. "Come; let's go into the conference room."

The elderly man took her arm and led her back across the front hall. She stepped through the pocket doors and was surprised to see four individuals sitting around what looked like an antique dining room table. The two gentlemen stood as she entered. "Everyone, this is our Dr. Gleason Wintermantle."

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"You were describing the phone call. You said, 'she'. I asked who 'she' is."

"Oh, yeah. Gleason. I was talking with Gleason." He stuffed his hands in his pockets and crossed to the bookcase, looking at the titles, his back to her.

"Who is Gleason?" Dr. Stephens noted the distancing. Bobby was physically removing himself from her, the source of his anxiety. He was turned away, further separating himself. This is not easy for him, she realized.

He stopped still. She watched his head tilt left. His shoulders sagged. He didn't say anything. The seconds passed. A minute.

"Detective?"

He took a deep breath and said softly, "I love her."

Dr. Stephens waited again, allowing that to settle. "Tell me about her."

Bobby turned to face the doctor. "She's wonderful." He returned to the chair. "She's smart, kind, beautiful. She's everything to me. I've never known anyone like her. I love her."

Based on what she had heard him say earlier, Dr. Stephens knew this next question was going to be tough. "Does she love you?"