Intentional End
Chapter 19
Saturday Afternoon
October 13
Bobby debated whether to call home before he left OPP, he didn't want to wake Gleason if she was sleeping.
"I'll be back tomorrow about at about ten. I'll, I'll call if that changes," he said to his partner as they closed up for the day. They had gotten a tremendous amount of work done.
"Ok, give my best to Gleason. I'll see you tomorrow."
He nodded and headed to the elevator. Bobby decided to call Gleason as he pulled from the underground parking. He listened to the phone ring. And ring. And ring. Bobby was tempted to pull down the passenger side visor and turn on the blue and reds; but he didn't.
Thirty minutes later, he was pounding up the steps to the fourth floor of his building. He hurried down the hall with his key at the ready, himself in and strode to the bedroom.
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In an apartment in the building behind the Goren's, a monitor lit up as the motion-activated camera in the living room across the alley sprang to life. A second monitor lit up as the camera in the bedroom came on. Drumiester sat up and set aside his magazine.
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Bobby stood watching her sleep, curled on her right side, facing his side of the bed. Slowly his breathing and heart slowed as he stood, watching her. He decided to let her sleep and returned to the kitchen to begin dinner. Honestly, he was leery of waking her, unsure of how she would be.
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After ten minutes of inactivity in the bedroom, the second monitor across the alley blinked off. The camera for the first one, however, recorded every movement in the kitchen. Wonder what he's cooking, the agent wondered and sat forward to watch.
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Bobby prepared pasta with vegetables and a white sauce; he was afraid to prepare a red sauce as it seemed to make Gleason queasy the last time she was throwing up so often, the last time she was – he wouldn't let himself think any further. The kettle just started to sound when he felt her eyes upon him. He turned and looked at her, unsure.
"Are you going to get the kettle," she asked, still in panties and vest.
"Yeah, yeah," he replied and turned to it.
Gleason crossed to him and wrapped her arms around him, leaning against his broad back. "You're so warm," she said with eyes closed.
Bobby poured the water into the tea pot, returned the kettle to the cooker and turned to face her. "Honey?" He didn't mean to make it sound like an inquiry, but that's just what it was. She didn't look up, just held onto him, so he took her head in his hands. "Glea-?"
"Kiss me."
Bobby looked deeply into her eyes and then kissed her, softly at first and then he felt her tongue, making its way into his mouth. Her hand moved to his bulge and caressed gently. It was Bobby's turn to pull away, "Wait, Gleason."
"What? Don't you like that?"
He still wasn't sure who this was, his loving wife or the nasty aggressor. "Yes, Honey, I like it, but –," he hesitated, not knowing what to say.
"What's wrong?" she asked, stepping back. Bobby let go and stepped away as well, unable to look at her. "Bobby?"
He was at a loss, so he did what he did with suspects and reluctant witnesses, he redirected, "Honey, you must be cold. Why don't you get some clothes on and we'll have dinner. Ok?"
She stood and looked at him. Again he watched the string of emotions play subtly over her face – confusion, disappointment, anger, and a strange, fleeting blank look he didn't like at all. "All right," she said simply and went back to the bedroom.
Bobby exhaled, not realising he had been holding his breath. What is going on, he wondered. He filled their plates and was getting a beer for himself and a glass of wine for her when she returned.
"Is this ok?" she asked timidly.
He turned and saw her dressed in jeans and long-sleeved tee shirt, both hung on her. "Honey, that's fine; anything is fine," he answered, looking at her questioningly. Bobby poured her a glass of Silver Birch and opened his bottle, then pulled out her chair, "Come, sit down."
Gleason sat with her hands in her lap and looked at the plate of food. "I'm so hungry. Do we have any bread?" She looked at him expectantly.
"There are a few rolls left from the other night. Do you want those?"
"Yes! And butter." Bobby rose and retrieved both items and Gleason took them eagerly. She dug into the bag, snagged a roll, tore it and spread a thick layer of butter. Bobby watched her devour it. "Oh, this is so good," she said with a full mouth.
"Try some pasta. I think you'll like it."
She nodded, finished the roll and went for another.
"Honey, eat some pasta, you can't just eat bread."
Gleason's hand froze and she slowly pulled it to her chest. Her demeanor changed, and she became timid. "I'm sorry." She took up her fork and began to eat, steadily and fast; she inhaled it.
Bobby reached for her hand and said, "Gleason, slow down. Honey?"
She dropped the fork, swung her head to him, swallowed and then yelled, "What do you want from me! Tell me what you want! I don't know what you want! You keep changing your mind!" She shot up, knocking over the chair and went to the sofa, huddling, rocking. But she didn't cry. Bobby was stunned.
He sat for a minute and then went to her, crouching down, in front of her. "Honey? Gleason, what's wrong?" He reached for her hand and she whipped it away, scrambling up onto the sofa.
"No, don't touch me! Get away!" she screamed and kicked at him; he dodged the blow and moved to his chair, watching her watching him. He needed to get her help now. He went into the bedroom and called information, asked for the number of Dr. George Huang, Manhattan, and had it ring through. It went to voice mail and Bobby left his name and a short message explaining that he had a personal matter that needed the doctor's expertise; he left his number and flipped shut his phone. Bobby shuddered a huge sigh and returned to the living room.
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Across the alley, Drumiester called Wycoff and relayed the phone call he had just witnessed.
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Gleason hadn't moved, she still cowered on her haunches, feet still on the cushion. Bobby went into the kitchen and buttered a roll, then he returned, crouching in front of her and offered it with, "Honey, here, eat this."
She ignored him, rocking. So he continued, "Baby, I know you are hungry. This is a good roll with lots of butter. See?" He felt as though he was trying to coax a toddler or an animal. He moved from his crouch to the sofa's edge so he could look at her directly; and, he wanted her to be able to smell the roll. He sat with it held out to her; but she didn't look at it or him, she had that scary blank look. Slowly Bobby reached for her arm and gently touched her; when she didn't flinch or jerk away, he began to rub up and down, softly, slowly.
"Glea-, here, take this roll so I can go get the other one. Honey? Here, hold this one for me. I need to but butter on the other one." He watched her face – nothing. So, he took her hand and folded her fingers around the roll. She held it. After a few minutes, Gleason slowly closed and opened her eyes, sighed and looked at the roll. She unfolded herself and sat with one leg under her as she ate it.
"Good?" he asked softly. She nodded in response. "Let me get you the other half," and he went to butter the rest of it. He returned to his place beside her and she took it from him, taking a bite and closing her eyes in pleasure.
"Do you want some pasta and vegetables?"
"Huh uh," she said and then added, "Are there more rolls?"
"One more." He prepared it and brought it to her. "Do you want a cup of tea?" She nodded. He got her tea, set it beside her on the end table and went to put away their dinner.
Gleason finished the second roll and the tea. She looked at Bobby as he returned from cleaning up the kitchen. "Can we get ice cream?" she asked.
Bobby wanted to smile, but couldn't. He was beginning to see a pattern in her behaviours – normal, then confusion, then anger, then fear, then catatonia, then normalcy. Her last two incidents had happened in nearly that order. She was back to normalcy right now. He wanted to make it last; and he figured he could now that he recognized the pattern. He would watch for the confusion that would be next and work to return her to normal.
"Of course," he answered and stood, reaching for her.
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They sat quietly at Nero's, each with a sundae. Bobby wanted to bring up postponing her return to Evanston. "Honey, how about if you stay home for a few more days. Let's go back to Evanston next weekend," he said casually, glancing at her in that way.
Gleason stopped short, spoon to lips, and looked at him, "No. No, Bobby, I must go back tomorrow and prepare for my classes." Slowly she lowered the spoon and seemed to be thinking, her brow furrowed, looking at the tabletop. "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." Again, it was as if she was reciting, word-for-word as she did two days ago.
Bobby knew that if he tried to dissuade her here, she would devolve into anger. So, he just nodded and said nothing.
They finished and headed back to the apartment. She reached for his hand and he looked at her with surprise. He gave her hand a squeeze and she glanced up at him. And smiled.
"Can we stop and get some rolls or something? Some kind of bread or something? I'm still hungry," she asked.
"Certainly, Sweetheart," he replied. "Let's go to Irwin's, they have a bakery."
They walked the few blocks and Bobby spent nearly thirty dollars on different kinds of rolls, bagels, various types of bread and wonderful spreads. Gleason was excited and took a roll to nibble on the way home. She seemed so happy, normal. Bobby was on pins and needles.
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Once back at the apartment, Gleason ate slices of bread, rolls and a bagel and drank tea while Bobby ate a warmed up plate of pasta. She seemed so happy, so normal. Bobby was shocked at how much Gleason ate. "Good?" he asked.
"Oh," she said, sitting back in the chair, "I am stuffed."
He smiled at her contentment and thought: well, this will put weight back on her bones. Gleason set the lids on the tubs of spread and butter and closed up the bags holding the bread and rolls, then stood and put the items away. She turned and stood behind Bobby and put her hands on his shoulders, and ran them around to his neck. Her thumbs rubbed the back of his neck and Bobby actually tensed, he thought she was going to strangle him. But she didn't.
Instead, she leaned down and kissed his cheek. Her hands moved down onto his chest and she leaned on his shoulders. "I love you," she whispered next to his ear.
Bobby's hands moved to her forearms and he rubbed gently. "I love you, too, Sweetheart." Gleason licked softly at his ear. Normally, Bobby's penis would have started to stiffen, but not his time. This time, he was fearful, he wasn't sure who was seducing him; and he was exhausted.
"Let's go to bed," she whispered, still at his ear, "I want to make love to you. I want to eat you. Then you eat me and make me come, over and over and over."
He felt nothing, not a tingle, not a twitch. "Honey, I'm, I'm beat. Let's go to bed and get a good night's sleep" He moved forward, letting go of her forearms, feeling her hands drag up and over his chest, shoulders. He stood up and turned to face her.
She stood, arms at her sides, looking at him. "You don't find me attractive anymore?" she asked quietly, sadly.
"No, no! Dear God, Gleason, I love you. You are beautiful, Sweetheart." He stepped t o her and took her arms, looking into her eyes and told her honestly, "Honey, I love you so much."
And he watched her change.
"But not enough to fuck, huh?" She jerked out of his hands, crossed her arms and strode to the bedroom.
The flare of anger was so great, Bobby was tempted to grab her by the arm and yank her back. But he didn't; instead, he shouted, "Gleason! Goddamn it, come back here!"
She ignored him and slammed the bedroom door. Bobby started after her, but stopped in the hallway, a hand on each wall. He couldn't do it, just couldn't do it. He went into the bathroom, finished, and then went back to the kitchen, got the scotch and a glass and stretched out on the sofa.
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Ted was returning from fixing a plugged toilet on the second floor and heard Bobby yell at Gleason. He stopped and listened, but heard nothing more. He shook his head and walked to his own apartment.
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Across the alley, Drumiester sat forward and watched the action on the monitor as though watching a boxing match. You're gonna drink yourself to death, pretty boy, he said to himself.