101

Intentional End

Chapter 17

Very Early Saturday Morning

October 13

He watched her sleep as he undressed. Bobby had worked until two and was exhausted. Gleason sighed and shifted as though she felt his eyes upon her. He dropped his shirt onto the chair in the corner and unbuckled his belt. Gleason opened her eyes and found his face.

"Are you all right?" she asked, as she did every time he came in late.

"I'm tired."

"Come to bed," she answered and held up the covers.

He stepped out of his trousers and removed his boxers, tossing both onto the pile on the chair. The bed dipped as he took his place beside her. "God, I love you," he whispered as his right hand took her head, pulling her toward him, kissing her fully.

Gleason responded completely. She wrapped herself around him, tongue slipping into his mouth, seeking his tongue. Her passion escalated and she became the aggressor. She pushed him onto his back and stretched across his trunk, her left knee crossing his left thigh, resting between his legs.

Bobby lay spread-eagle under her, his hands on the pillow beside his ears. He raised his right hand to touch her and she pushed it back down. "Don't," she said simply and sealed her mouth over his. He moaned softly.

Gleason lay up on her right arm as Bobby had done so often. He watched her examine him, sliding her hand over his chest, a finger circling his nipple. Her hand slid to his belly and below, fingers raking through the coarse hairs, stroking around his manhood, but touching nothing important.

Bobby's right leg moved away and he shifted his hips, wanting more; his penis began to fill. Gleason looked at his face and saw him staring at her, his mouth open, breathing fast and deep. His left arm moved and she dropped her mouth onto his chest, above his left breast, and bit him just hard enough, then said, "I said don't."

Bobby's hand fell to the pillow, "Glea –?" he whispered. He wasn't sure he liked this. It was good, and sexy, but he didn't know she had this in her. He wasn't sure this was the same woman.

"Shut up," she said and kissed him hard again, her tongue licking his. Her mouth moved to his neck and she licked a spot; salty, rough, she thought. Her tongue rubbed the spot, pressing hard and then she sucked it, hard, drawing flesh between her teeth. She moved to his ear and breathed hotly next to it, her tongue lightly darting. Then she whispered, "Do you love me?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah, I love you, Honey, I love you," he moaned, his bottom rubbing on the sheet, his penis erect.

"Why?" she whispered.

"Huh?"

"Why do you love me?" she whispered against his ear, her hand on his breast, thumb dragging back and forth over his nipple, just like he does.

Bobby didn't know what to think and he certainly didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. Gleason took his nipple between her thumb and index finger and rolled it like a stone, "Answer me. Why do you love me?" she whispered hotly.

Again, he didn't know what to say, "I, I love you, Baby, I love you," he answered.

That wasn't what she wanted to hear so she squeezed and twisted his nipple and he yelped, "Gleason! Stop!" In a flash, he grabbed her wrist and flipped her onto her back, pinning her hands, straddling her. "What's wrong with you?"

She gazed up at him and grinned, "Get off me." They stared at each other. "I said, get-off-me." He didn't move. She stared into him and said, "Please, get off me." Bobby looked at her and then moved aside, sitting up in the bed. "Thank you," she said.

"Gleason –," he didn't know what else to say.

"What?"

"Honey, I, what were . . .," he struggled to find the words.

"You didn't like that. You didn't like me taking charge, did you? You have to be in control. It's always when you want to, the way you want it."

"Gleason, I did like it, but. . ."

"But what? You had to take over; you can't not be in control, Bobby. It's all about you."

"No, no. Honey, you've never been like that before; I, I didn't know you . . . Honey, I didn't know you were like that."

Gleason sat up at this, "Like what?"

"I didn't know you could be mean like that."

She looked at him and then said, "I thought you would like it. I'm sorry if I hurt you." She swung her legs off the bed, pulled her green throw around her and headed around the foot of the bed.

He watched her, "Where are you going?"

She stopped and said, "I'm going to pee, is that all right with you?" and she left the room.

Bobby's hands went to his face and he turned in the bed and put his feet on the floor. He pulled his jeans from the chair and stepped into them then headed for the bathroom.

The door opened and he was waiting for her, "We need to talk."

"I'm going to bed."

"No, we're going to talk, Gleason."

"Fuck you! I'm going back to bed. Sleep out there." Her head indicated the living room and she turned into the bedroom and slammed the door.

Bobby leaned against the wall across from the bathroom and didn't know what to think. That woman was not the woman he had married. Gleason had never been the aggressor in sex, she had never sworn at him like that, had never been mean like that. What had happened this evening? They had had a quiet afternoon after the morning turmoil. Then he was called out and she was alone here but they had spoken nearly every hour until she went to bed at eleven.

He wandered to the end of the hall and entered the kitchen, getting a glass of orange juice, moving to the living room. Bobby dropped into his chair, sipped his juice and then set the glass on the bookcase beside him.

He set his left heel on the edge of his seat, leaned his left elbow on his knee, and chewed on his thumb, thinking. Something happened while he was at work. Did they come back and do something to her again? Were they still watching? Bobby had swept the rest of the apartment and found nothing; the only camera was in the bedroom and the sweeper picked up no other mikes. They must be watching his comings and goings. Their apartment was on the backside of the building, facing the alley and the building behind.

Bobby was lost in thought when he heard Gleason cry out. He jumped up and ran to their bedroom. Gleason was thrashing, crying.

"Gleason, wake up!" He went around the foot of the bed and sat beside her, trying to take her arms. "Honey, wake up! Gleason, Gleason, wake up!" He caught her arms and shook her.

She stopped struggling, opened her eyes and stared at him, eyes wide, gasping for breath. "Glea-?" He didn't like the way she was looking at him. "Honey?" She looked like she didn't know who he was.

"I tried, I did; but, I cannot read it. I'm sorry. It has no recognizable roots. The graphic forms are unlike any I've seen. I'm sorry."

"Gleason, Honey, wake up," he said softly – she was still asleep.

"I'm not lying! I'm not!" she began to struggle again. "Let go of me! Let me go! Stop!" Her struggling increased and then she screamed. Loud. And she didn't stop.

"Gleason, Gleason stop! Honey! Shush, Glea-!" and then he hit her.

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Ted felt for the phone, found it and grunted, "Yeah," into it. He listened with his eyes shut, said, "Bobby's apartment?" and then opened his eyes. "Yeah, I'll check it out. Thanks Mrs. Ziegler. Yeah, good night."

"What is it?" Becky asked.

Ted and Becky Olewine were, respectively, the building super and manager. They lived across the hall from Bobby and Gleason and the couples were friends. Ted stepped into a pair of jeans and said, "Mrs. Ziegler said she thought she heard a woman screaming in Bobby's apartment." Mrs. Ziegler's apartment was next door to the Goren's. "I'm going to see what's up. I'll be right back."

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Gleason stopped screaming, wrenched out of his hands and scuttled away, off his side of the bed, onto the floor. She scrambled behind the chair in the corner, crying aloud, wailing. Bobby crawled over the bed to her, pulled away the chair, and reached for her.

Gleason screamed again and shouted, "No, don't hurt me! Don't hit me! NO!" She kept screaming, "No!"

Then, someone was pounding on the front door, "Bobby? Bobby! Open the door!"

Fuck!

He didn't know what to do. He tried to shush Gleason, but she huddled further and further into the corner, kicking at him, flailing at him, hysterical.

"Bobby! Open up or I'm calling 9-1-1!"

Goddamn it! "I'm coming, I'm coming," he hollered and stood up, moving to the living room and the front door.

"Christ, Bobby, what's going on? Is everything all right?" Ted asked. He looked at his friend and saw an exhausted, miserable man. He tried to see past Bobby.

Bobby couldn't look at Ted and stood with one hand on the door and the other on the jamb, blocking Ted from looking in. "Yeah, yeah it's good. Look, I'm sorry. Gleason, uh, she's not been herself for awhile and she, she's just having a bad time right now." Bobby knew his friend knew he was lying – a boy scout could see that.

Ted said nothing and watched Bobby struggle. Bobby gave Ted brief, sidelong glances, like he does when he's uncertain, ashamed, and afraid. "I'm, I'm sorry Ted. She'll quiet down. I'll get her quiet."

"Ok. Can I do anything? You want Becky to talk with her?" Ted asked.

Bobby squeezed his eyes with his right hand and sighed, then said, "Uh, no, no, thanks. I'll, I'll take care of it." He stood, not knowing what to do, what to say next.

Ted nodded and then turned to leave then stopped, "Ok. G'night."

Bobby shut the door and leaned against it. Gleason had stopped screaming and sobbing. He walked slowly back down the hall.

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"Is everything all right over there?" Becky asked her husband when he returned.

"No. Something is going on. He was acting strangely; he wouldn't look at me, wouldn't let me see past the door. I could hear her crying in the bedroom."

"You don't think she's having a breakdown, do you?"

"I don't know. She was gone for all those weeks." Ted slipped out of his jeans and got into bed. "She wasn't even here when his mother died."

"I thought they had separated."

"I did, too. But, maybe, she was hospitalised. Who knows?"

Ted and Becky were quiet for a long minute and then Ted leaned down and kissed his wife, then he turned off the light."

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Bobby stood and looked at the woman huddled in the corner – Gleason had vomited and urinated. She huddled against the wall, shivering; she looked like a junkie.

"Baby," he said so softly, sadly. "Come here, stand up." He stepped to her slowly, reaching for her. Gleason was breathing heavily, staring at nothing. "Honey, give me your hand. Come on." He squatted in front of her and spoke as if to a frightened child, "Gleason, look at me. Look at me."

She appeared catatonic. Carefully, carefully, he took her hand from where it lay on her left thigh. She jolted at the touch and looked at him. He held onto her hand and watched as she struggled to recognise him.

"Come on, Sweetheart, stand up," he spoke softly, his eyes not leaving hers. "Come on." He reached for her other hand, she raised it to his, and she struggled to stand; she was impossibly thin. Bobby guided her to the bathroom, set the plug in the tub drain and turned on the water for a bath. He took a length of toilet paper and wiped the vomit from her right breast and arm; he took another length and finished, tossed it into the toilet and flushed. Her shivering seemed to increase and he wrapped a bath sheet around her. He waited for the tub to fill and looked at her, pushing the hair from her face.

He bent and tested the water, increased the hot and got a fresh washer cloth and towel. Gleason stood dumbly, staring at the tub as it filled. He felt the water again and twisted both knobs to slow the flow. "Here, get in, Honey, get in the tub." He took her hands and held them as she stepped over the edge and sat, leaning back. Gleason sighed and slid down in the tub, the water just above her breasts, her shoulders and knees high and dry. Bobby sat on the edge and looked at her. He turned and shut off the water and watched her. She stopped shivering and slowly moved her arms under the water.

"Honey, I'm going into the bedroom, I'll be right back. Ok?"

It was as if she didn't hear him. Bobby stood, left the bathroom door open and went to the kitchen. He got the pail from under the sink, sloshed in a bit of cleaning liquid and filled it with hot, soapy water; he took the roll of paper towels and grabbed a plastic carrier bag from the batch in the hall closet and headed back to the bedroom. He glanced in on Gleason as he passed the bathroom – she rested with her eyes closed.

Bobby used to the paper towels to wipe up the vomit and urine, tossing them into the plastic bag. Then he returned to the kitchen for the big sponge and scrub brush. He scrubbed the floor and the rug. He finished and tied up the plastic bag, dumped the bucket into the toilet – Gleason never moved – and washed and put away the cleaning items.

He walked into the bathroom and Gleason looked as if she was asleep. He sat on the edge and felt the water. Bobby dipped the wasther cloth and lathered it, then wiped her neck and down her left arm.

Gleason sighed and roused, startled and began to panic, thrashing, sliding. "Gleason, no, no, Honey, it's me. Glea –," he dropped the cloth and took her arms. "Gleason, stop! Honey, it's me, Bobby."

She looked up at him and seemed to recognise him, "Bobby?"

"Yes, Sweetheart, it's me. You're home, with me."

Gleason stared at him, looked toward the hallway and whispered. "Are they still here? Are they!"

"No, no one is here, just us." They stared at each other and then he said, "Let me wash you." He took up the cloth, lathered it again and took her arm, dragging the cloth over it.

She watched him and sighed. Bobby washed under her arm and over her chest, he hesitated touching her breasts, but did and she made no move. He rewet the cloth, lathered it and began at her foot, moved up her calf and shin to her thigh; then he did the other leg.

Bobby dipped the cloth, and moved slowly toward the place between her legs. Gleason slammed her knees together and grabbed his wrist, "No, no! Don't! Don't touch me." She tried to skid away from him, splashing and sliding.

"Ok! Ok, Honey, ok. Here, you wash yourself. It's ok. Here," he dropped the cloth and put up both hands, palms out. He stood and backed out of the bathroom, "I'll wait for you in the bedroom." Bobby left and pulled shut the door.

A few minutes later, he heard the tub draining and then Gleason came around the corner wrapped in a bath sheet. "Here, put on your nightgown," he said, holding her green gown. Gleason crossed to him and removed the towel, setting it on the bed, waiting for him to dress her and he did.

She went to her side of the bed and climbed in. "Are you coming?" she asked.

Bobby stood at the foot of the bed and wiped his hands over his face. He was dead tired, physically and emotionally. "Yeah, yeah, Honey. I'll be right back. You go to sleep, I'll, I'll be right back."

Gleason slid down in the bed and covered up and Bobby walked into the living room to check the door and turn off the light in the kitchen. But he didn't return to the bedroom. He sat on the edge of his chair in the dark, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. He had to get up in an hour and a half. He leaned back in the chair and stared into the darkness.