After Peter finished telephoning Tom with information regarding Dr. Russo, he began to stir. Memories of Tom raced through his head, from their first meeting at the opera to their ferry trip, right up until earlier that day. He couldn't help but shake the feeling that his desire to think the best of everyone made him naive. Had he picked up on the warning signs earlier, he might have had avoided his near-death experience.
Peter played a few bars of Vivaldi's "Sabet Mater" before recalling Tom doing just the same thing not too long ago, when Tom first showed signs of opening up about his past. He stopped with a jerk and wandered over to the window. The weather was overcast, threatening but refusing to deliver on the promise of rain. He lit a cigarette and sighed deeply. This was the kind of depression he'd not felt for some time. This was the kind of depression that he was sure would keep him up several days. He would have to remind himself to eat. He would find himself staring into the void at nothing in particular, diving into music to escape the gnawing feeling deep in his core.
Peter knew he was attracted to Tom the moment they set eyes on each other, perhaps because of his shy, awkward manner. There was nothing at all pretentious or stagey about Tom; he was a right mess, and he wore his mess on his sleeve, which Peter found refreshing. He knew that he could help Tom in some small way and wanted to make what little contribution he could. He found himself feeling like a prize idiot for having fallen for what could had very well been an act all along. While he never wanted to think ill of anyone, Tom showed signs of instability, and that instability was so quickly swept under the rug.
Peter deliberated for several minutes what to do in his predicament. He couldn't very well be left alone, not in the state he was in. He needed some company, but it very well couldn't be the company he had kept to and from Athens. After staring at his telephone, he finally called Marge.
"Marge? Hello, it's Peter."
Marge answered the phone in a hushed voice.
"Hello, Peter. It's good to hear your voice."
"Listen, love, I've run into a bit of a situation and I might need your help. Could you come over?"
"Of course. I'll be right there."
While Peter waited for Marge, he paced back and forth. He wandered to the liquor cabinet, opened the whiskey decanter, and poured himself a glass as well as one for Marge for when she arrived. He ran his fingers through his hair anxiously until he heard a knock at the door. He answered it in haste.
"Marge, thank God," he said, and swept her up in a hug. She hugged back, immediately noticing that Peter wasn't quite himself. "Fancy a glass?" he asked, pointing to the whiskey. She accepted reluctantly and perched on his sofa, her legs tucked under her. She studied him for a second. Peter was usually cool as a cucumber, and yet in that instance he seemed to be coming unglued and trying everything he could to hold on.
"Peter, what is it?" she asked.
"What's what, Marge?"
"Why are you acting so strange?"
Peter laughed, but his laughter stopped when he saw the worry in Marge's eyes. Marge was many things, but she wasn't stupid, and she wouldn't be duped easily.
"Marge, darling, I have to confess...I'm in hell right now."
"Tom?" Marge asked.
"Tom," Peter answered solemnly.
"Do you know?"
"Yes. He told me everything."
Marge sat up.
"Well, what are we waiting for? Let's go to the police! They won't think I'm crazy if you're there too!"
Peter shook his head.
"What do you mean, no?"
"Tom needs help. He won't get the kind of help he needs behind bars. I gave him Dr. Russo's number."
"You've got to be kidding me, Peter."
Peter shook his head again.
"Please be patient, Marge. If Dr. Russo sees Tom as a threat to himself or others, he can break the doctor/patient confidentiality clause and the authorities can take it from there. I don't want to incriminate him myself. I'd never be able to live with myself if I did."
It was Marge's turn to laugh.
"You're still in love with him, aren't you?"
Peter smiled guiltily.
"Besotted."