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Intentional End
Chapter 12
Wednesday Early Evening
October 10
"Honey, let's go for a walk. We need to get out of here."
Gleason looked at him, sighed heavily and stood. They walked down the block and she let him hold her hand, which was something. Along the way, they passed a shopkeeper yelling at a short, plump woman in the doorway of his bodega.
"Look, lady, I don't got no idea what the fuck you want."
"Я хочу сыр. Сыр!" I want cheese. Cheese!
"I don't got nothing of what it is you want. Go somewheres else."
"Вы идиот. Вы тупоумный американский идиот!" YouidiotYou stupid American idiot!
Gleason heard the exchange and stopped. "Я говорю английскую язык. Вы хотите?" I speak English. What do you want?
The woman stopped and looked up at the tall thin beauty, "Я хочу сыр, справедливый сыр." I want cheese, just cheese.
Gleason looked at the shopkeeper and said, "She wants cheese. Show her where your cheese is. Be nice to this woman, she's a stranger here." Then to the old woman, Gleason said, "Он покажет вам где сыр. Внимательность взятия." He will show you where the cheese is. Take care.
The woman reached up her hand and touched Gleason's cheek with her palm, "Вы. Вы хорошая женщина." Thank you. Thank you, good woman.
Gleason turned, took Bobby's hand and began to walk. Bobby was stunned by the exchange, "Honey, when did you learn to speak Russian like that?"
She looked at him and said, "Bobby, I don't speak Russian."
"Honey, you do. You just did. With that woman back there," he studied her face. Gleason looked at him without expression.
"No, Bobby, I don't speak Russian. Can we get something to eat?"
Bobby looked at her and said, "Let's go to Nero's." They turned around and headed back.
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Bobby pulled open the door and Gleason entered and went straight to the table where she sat the night Bobby and she made up following the miscarriage. He hung her wrap and his coat, pulled out her chair and then he sat. "Do you know what you want?" he asked.
"I want a sandwich. And hot tea."
"What kind of sandwich?"
"I don't care. Yes, egg salad."
Bobby ordered and he reached for her hands resting on the table and Gleason flinched, but didn't pull away. He wanted to get her to talk about where she was, what she was doing and what had happened to her while she was gone; he was sure she had been raped. In addition, he wanted to tell her about his mother.
"Honey, talk to me. Do you know where you were? What you were doing?"
Immediately, Gleason began to shudder, she pulled her hands from his, they flew to her face and she began to mewl. Bobby took her wrist and gently pulled her hand from her face. She acquiesced and lowered her hands. "Ok, Sweetheart, ok. Let's talk about something else."
"No, no, I cannot talk about anything. Do not make me talk. I cannot talk. No, no, no."
Dear God, what happened to her? The server arrived with their tea and coffee. Gleason took her huge mug and wrapped her hands around it. "I'm so cold. So cold."
"Here, put my jacket around you." He stood and grabbed his jacket, wrapping it over her shoulders. Bobby put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed, and then returned to his seat.
Gleason stared into her mug and Bobby stared at her. Then, she pulled the lapel of his jacket to her nose and sniffed deeply, her eyes closing. "This smells like you." Her eyes opened and she looked at him, "I missed your scent while I was away. I missed you." They stared at each other and Bobby saw a flicker of light. She would be ok. She would be ok. He took her hand again.
"I missed you, too. I love you, Gleason. I love you forever," rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand.
Gleason watched his thumb, "That's what we say, isn't it, 'I love you forever'?" Bobby smiled and nodded. "How long was I gone?"
Bobby didn't understand, how could she not know? "Nearly six weeks."
"I thought so. I looked at the calendar in the kitchen."
They sat quietly, holding hands; Bobby wanted to tell her about his mother's death, but this was not the time. The server brought their sandwiches and Bobby watched as Gleason used her fork to scrape off the egg salad and then pull apart the bread before eating it. They both jumped when Bobby's cell phone rang. He took it from his pocket and flipped it open, not recognizing the number, "Goren."
"This is Dr. Fairchild returning your call."
Bobby's eyes shot to Gleason, and he stood and walked to the door, his back to her. "Doctor, thank you for getting back to me; I, I want to talk with you about my wife, Dr. Gleason Wintermantle. You spoke with her following her miscarriage last year.'
"I remember her."
"She's, she's, I, I think she's been raped or, or something else has happened. She was abducted, gone for nearly six weeks. She's not herself, she's speaking Russian and says she doesn't speak Russian, she's frightened, she won't let me touch her, she . . ."
"Detective, please, slow down, slow down."
"Sorry, sorry. I'm just so worried about her."
"Look, I cannot see her unless she wants to be seen. You cannot make an appointment for her unless she agrees to it. Is she a danger to herself or others? Do you think she needs to be hospitalised?"
"No, no, nothing like that." Bobby was at his wit's end. "Listen, what should I do? Tell me what to do."
"First, you need to speak with her about seeing someone. If she agrees, then you make an appointment. I will need to talk with her to determine what the problem is."
"Should I press her to talk about what happened?"
"No, don't insist in any way. See if she'll agree to an appointment and, if so, call the office."
Bobby wanted more, but said, "All right, Dr. Fairchild. Thank you. "
"Good luck, Detective. Goodbye."
"Thanks, bye." Bobby flipped shut his phone and turned to see Gleason staring at him, eyes wide, hands in her lap. He slipped the phone into his pocket and walked back to the table.
She didn't take her eyes from him, making him feel guilty. Neither spoke; Bobby sipped his coffee – it was cold, and bitter. Gleason continued to stare at him.
"Was that Alex?"
God, he did not want to lie to her, "No, not Alex."
Gleason waited and then whispered, "Was it one of them?"
Bobby stopped mid-sip, his eyes locked onto her, "Who?"
Gleason hesitated, almost spoke, hesitated again and then said, sitting back, "I'm done. Can we go home?"
"Gleason, who is 'them'?" He watched her stand and move to the coat tree behind him. He stood, pulled his money clip from his front pocket, dropped a few bills on the table and turned to take his jacket from her shoulders. He set his jacket on the back of his chair, took her wrap, held it for her and she slipped it on. He turned her to face him, held onto her shoulders and said, "Honey, who is 'them'?"
Her eyes slammed shut, she jerked out of his hands, turned and headed for the door, Bobby grabbed his coat rushed after her. She would not hold his hand on the way home.
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Bobby hung up her wrap and was removing his jacket when, suddenly, Gleason gagged and ran to the bathroom. He heard her vomiting.
"Honey, are you all right?" he asked, taking her arms as she exited the bathroom, bending to look into her face.
She wouldn't look at him and twisted out of his hands. "Leave me alone," she whispered walking to the sofa.
Bobby followed her and watched her sitting on the edge of the sofa, rocking. "Baby, what's wrong?" he asked softly.
Gleason continued to rock, ignoring him.
"Do you want anything?"
She just rocked.
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The time passed slowly. Gleason hadn't moved all evening, she just sat on the sofa and rocked. Bobby went down to the lobby, brought up the newspaper and sat reading when his cell rang, "Goren."
"Mr. Goren, this is Dr. Fairchild's office calling." It was late for a doctor's office to call. "Dr. Fairchild regrets to inform you that she is unable to see the woman – a . . . Gleason Wintermantle, you had called about. Dr. Fairchild asks that you seek another avenue of assistance. Thank you, goodbye."
"What? Wait!" but the line was dead. What the fu-? What is going on? Bobby flipped shut his phone and looked at Gleason.
She stared at him, "Who was that?"
"Uh, no, no one, Honey, it was a wrong number." Bobby stood and crossed to the sofa, sat beside her and saw that she was shivering. He grabbed her green throw from the other end of the sofa, "Here, put this around you. Gleason why are you so cold? Are you sick? Why did you throw up?"
Gleason let him wrap her green throw around her and she looked up at him, "I'm just cold, inside."
He looked at her wanted to put his arm around her, hold her. He wanted to kiss her, touch her breast, run his thumb over her nipple and feel it harden. He wanted to suck the place on her neck where her heart beats. He wanted her to kiss him, let him slide his tongue into her mouth. He wanted her to touch him through his jeans, rub him as she does. He wanted to harden in her hand, feel her stroke him. He wanted his mouth on her breast, suckle her, nibble her nipple. He wanted her to take his penis in her mouth and lick him, suck him. He wanted to feel the moist heat between her legs, smell the wet musk from her place. He wanted to rub her clit with his finger and then slide his finger up into her. He wanted to hear her moan and beg for more. He wanted to push his dick into her slit and pump and pump until she cried out. He wanted come inside her, release into her. This is what he wanted; but instead, he wiped his hands over his face and then stood up, returning to his seat and the paper.
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They sat quietly for another hour. "I have to go back to Evanston on Sunday." This came out of the blue. "I need to get back to teaching my classes on Wednesday. I have responsibilities. I need to get back and prepare." Gleason paused, obviously thinking. "I am the professor of record and need to get back to the job I was hired to do." She said all of this without looking at Bobby; again, it sounded as though she was reciting from memory. Bobby looked at her with worry.
He watched her look at her lap, close her eyes, and then say, "I teach Ancient Dialects on Monday and Wednesday nights, Meiserian Forms on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, with a second class on Wednesday and Friday mornings, and Enculturated Linguistics Tuesday and Thursday afternoons." She looked up at him and said, "It's a big load."
They looked at each other steadily, silently, and then Bobby asked, "Should we notify your department that you are back and will be teaching again next Wednesday?"
Gleason took a deep breath and said, not looking at him, "No, they told the department that I am back. We have nothing to be concerned about."
Bobby felt cold. He desperately wanted to ask who 'they' are.
She sat, looking at her hands and then said, "We should go see your mother early on Sunday."
Bobby looked at her sadly, set the paper beside his chair, moved to her side and said softly, "Honey, Mom died while you were gone."
Gleason turned fully to look at him and searched his face. He watched confusion and sorrow alternate across her face. Slowly, Gleason raised a hand and set it gently on his cheek, "She died?" she asked incredulously. He nodded. "She died?"
"Yes, four weeks ago."
He watched his wife struggle to understand. "What happened to her?"
"Her health continued to decline. You remember how poorly she looked each time we visited her."
Gleason looked away, hands in her lap again; she appeared to be straining to remember, her brow furrowed. He watched her put her hands to her face and then say, "I do remember." She turned to him again and said, "I do remember, Bobby. She was thin, very thin and her mind. . ." Gleason stopped and worked to remember again, then continued, ". . . her mind was going." She looked at him and he watched her eyes fill, she hitched a sob and pulled the ends of her throw to her face and then she wailed.
He wrapped his arms around her and together they sobbed.
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