Chapter 14. Beyond the Mask
The next morning Fitz practically floats into the small kitchen, whistling. He feels alive! He tousles Jerry and Karen's hair on his way over to the coffeemaker. Mellie glances over at him as he fills his mug with coffee. She doesn't know the song that he's whistling. Actually, she can't remember the last time she heard him whistle.
"You're in a good mood this morning," Mellie says with a hint of awe in her voice. "You didn't toss once last night."
"Excuse me?" Fitz says, staring at his wife with the deer-in-the-headlights expression on his face.
"You're sleeping, Fitz. What did Dr. McMichaels give you?"
"I couldn't get an appointment with him," he says guardedly.
"Then who did you see?" Mellie says, gently whisking the eggs for his breakfast in the white ceramic bowl. Fitz' mind is racing, preparing for her next question. He's trying to choose words that are vague, without lying outright.
"I'm trying some breathing exercises to relax. I'm listening to music, too." Mellie glances over her left shoulder at him with a raised eyebrow.
"Really? That's so unlike you. Well, it's working. Keep it up." Mellie plates his eggs, bacon, and toast and then sets his breakfast on the table in front of him.
"What kind of music are you listening to, Dad?" Jerry asks, tearing slices of bacon into small squares and lining them on the plate the way he's done since he was a little boy.
"Right now, jazz and yacht rock," Fitz says.
"Yacht rock? That's so lame," Jerry snickers.
"Are you listening to rap, too, Dad?" Karen says, giggling like a little girl.
"I don't think your old man is ready for rap music," Fitz says, bringing the coffee mug to his mouth.
"I have some songs you might like," Jerry says.
"Send them to my phone. Do you know how to do that?"
"I think I can figure it out," Jerry says in a condescending tone. Karen pats her father's arm sympathetically. "You need to get AirPods, no more wires. Do you know about AirPods?"
"I may have heard about them," Fitz says, thinking, the arrogance of youth.
"I called you last night, Dad. You didn't pick up," Karen says.
"I'm working mandatory overtime for the next several months. Didn't your mother tell you guys?" He glances over at Mellie, who is packing her lunch. He looks back at Karen.
"Uh, I forgot," Karen says.
"What did you want?" Fitz says, forking scrambled eggs into his mouth.
"My play rehearsal is tonight. You're coming, right?" Karen looks like a panting puppy dog waiting for a treat.
"I'm not going," Jerry says. "It's bad enough I have to go to the stupid real play."
"You're stupid, nerd", Karen says, throwing her balled-up napkin at her brother.
"That's enough," Fitz says in a warning tone to the rivaling siblings.
"Dad, you're coming tonight?"
"I wouldn't miss it for anything." Fitz taps the tip of his daughter's nose with his index finger and Karen smiles at her father adoringly.
"You're the best dad ever," she says. With her back to her family, Mellie rolls her eyes at the father-daughter exchange.
"If anyone wants a ride to camp, they better be outside in five minutes. I mean five minutes," Fitz says, holding up a splayed hand.
Brother and sister quickly scuttle from the kitchen, leaving their breakfast dishes for their mother to clear from the table. Fitz pushes away from the table and takes his half-full plate over to the sink. He pecks Mellie on the cheek and then exits the kitchen, whistling.
As she washes the dishes, Mellie wonders why Fitz is so upbeat this morning. It can't just be about him getting a good night's sleep. Then she remembers, the third quarter of the year is right around the corner. She knows her husband. Fitz will expect her to submit to his rapacious sexual desires. She grips the edge of the sink, shaking her head from side to side as if trying to loosen the thought from her head. The idea of him on top of her, plunging and grunting like a farm animal makes her want to puke.
XXX
By early July, summer is in full bloom and Fitz and Olivia have comfortably settled into their sexual, not-romantic arrangement. They consistently adhere to the schedule, showing up for each other as agreed. They begin to share small parts of themselves with one another. Fitz wants to tell her that his children think he's an idiot. That they teensplain some of the most basics of life to him like he's the child. That he feels like his status has shifted from hero to useful idiot with a credit card. He knows Olivia doesn't want to hear anything about his family, so he tells her that he was an altar boy, from the ages of nine to eleven. Olivia laughs so hard, almost choking on her wine, imagining little Fitzgerald, the acolyte, dressed in his white alb, carrying the cross and ringing the altar bell. He says he became an altar boy because Matty was an altar server. Their parents were filled with joy and pride watching both sons reverently serve at the altar of God; helping the priests during the Sacrifice of the Mass and other liturgical events. So, it was unsurprising that they became furious when Matty suddenly stepped down from the role at age fifteen. Their father called his older son a quitter. They argued bitterly. Fitz says it was the only time he remembers Matty disobeying their father. When Fitz stepped down later, it wasn't such a big deal.
Olivia tells him about her home in Brooklyn. She describes all the renovations she tried to make while writing her second book, which proved to be a massive mistake. She couldn't renovate the huge Victorian brownstone house and focus on writing. Fitz laughs about how she and Abby spent weeks trying to sand layers of paint from all the woodwork in the house. The task was too much. She finally gave up and hired contractors to finish all of the renovations. Fitz schools her about the art of removing paint from wood. He says stripping paint from wood, especially from the complex shapes and delicate details in brownstones, is better than sanding. Olivia says she wishes she had known him back then.
XXX
With her back to the entrance of the BPD cafeteria, Olivia sits across the table from Mike, slowly nodding her head. This is their first interview since the protests ended.
"Keegan is pushing hard to get the gun violence under control before the November election. His opponent is painting him as being too gun-friendly. We have a lot of ground to make up since the protests. Lots of overtime," Mike says, rubbing his hands together.
"Are the numbers on the rise?" Olivia asks.
"Well, Fitz is the data guy. At our last meeting he said the numbers are flat."
"So, that's neither good nor bad?" Olivia crinkles her brow, wondering why the expression on Mike's face has suddenly changed; he looks like he's seen a ghost.
Leaning slightly to the left, Mike looks past Olivia, watching as Fitz and his brother enter the cafeteria. He hasn't seen Matty since the last party, that was months ago. The man is barely recognizable. Wan complexion and gaunt, Matty looks like a thing that doesn't know it's dead. The cancer has spread from his lungs to his brain. Mike has never liked Matty much—the way he talks about women and the racist language but seeing him now invokes a sense of pity. He will stop at Saint Gregory after work tonight and light a candle for him.
Mike calls out to the brothers, his beefy hand beckoning them over to the table. Olivia stiffens; she feels Fitz' presence. Fitz quickly scans the table: yellow legal pad, open laptop, and a paper cup with her lipstick prints. He doesn't look at Olivia and she doesn't look at him either.
"Matty," Mike says. He lets how are you doing? die on his lips and simply says, "It's been a while."
"Hey, Mikey. I wanted to surprise my little brother today— make him buy me lunch," says a slightly hunched-over Matty. His sunken eyes land on Olivia's placid face. He gives a questioning nod toward Mike.
"I don't think you've met Dr. Olivia Pope," Mike says cheerfully. "Olivia is from New York City. She's here doing research for her next book."
Olivia reluctantly looks up at Matty, unsmiling. Frail and slump-shouldered, Matty Grant is a shadow of the man he was as a detective, but that doesn't make him any less despicable in her eyes. Before Olivia can fold her hands on her lap, Matty takes one of her hands in both of his big hands. She wants to cringe. He licks his dry, cracked lips, thinking he sees what the fuss has been all about. Dr. Pope is an attractive woman: big brown bedroom eyes, high cheekbones, full lips.
"So, you're the famous Dr. Pope. I can see why Mikey raves about you all the time," he says with a hint of a grin on his now-ugly face. Mike's face blooms red.
Olivia subtly tries to slide her hand from his grasp, but the thing holds on tighter. She can feel his eyes traveling over her — estimating her, summing her up, wondering about her. She doesn't flinch. She hears her mother's voice in her head saying, 'Always look people in their eyes, Livvie. No matter how uncomfortable they make you feel.'
Matty starts to wheeze violently and Olivia pulls her hand away. Fitz places his hand lovingly on his brother's bony shoulder and says, "We better let them get back to their meeting. Take care Mike. Dr. Pope."
Careless Fitz lets his eyes linger on Olivia's face a fraction longer than he should, and Matty's dead fisheyes see it right away, the sparkle of familiarity. He can still spot the unseen. Matty glances at Olivia then back at Fitz. A broad, knowing grin spread over his face and he thinks, Fitzy is screwing her.
"Write only good things about our police department, Doc. Fitzy here might handcuff you if you don't," Matty says with an odious laugh.
When the brothers are out of earshot, Mike leans forward in his chair, his hairy forearms resting on the table. He says in a low voice, "It's a shame about Matty— having to drag around that oxygen bag. He was a good cop once."
"He was a corrupt and abusive cop," Olivia says sourly, pulling hand sanitizer from her tote bag. "Handing out a few turkeys at Thanksgiving doesn't outweigh the harm he's done."
Staring down in his coffee cup, Mike nods slowly. In a contemplative voice he says, "Death may end a life, legacy makes sure it lives on forever."
XXX
Later in the evening, Matty sits alone at the kitchen table alternating between sucking on a longneck bottle of beer and the oxygen mask. This has become his nightly ritual. Staring down at the fading yellow linoleum tile floor he thinks about his hijacked life. He thinks about all the people he hurt over the years as a cop and before he joined the police department. The heads he bashed to a bloody pulp, the women he made to do unspeakable things to him. Their tortured faces haunt him every day, but someone had to pay. Now, time is running out. Every Sunday at Mass he prays for his mind to be cleansed of the horrible images. Every night he prays from Psalm 51 for forgiveness and mercy: Oh loving and gracious God, have mercy. Have pity on me and take away the awful stain of my sin.
XXX
Olivia is in a foul mood. She's not up for entertaining tonight but she forgot to give Fitz the required two-hour cancellation notice. He texted; he is on his way. She quickly showers, slips into her white silk lounge set, and then turns on Lenny Kravitz' Always On The Run, full blast. She sips on her first glass of wine and reviews interview notes.
Fitz stops on the staircase landing outside of the apartment and frowns. Music pulsates through the door. He knocks hard. When Olivia opens the door she doesn't say one word, her face is tight. Fitz follows her into the apartment and closes the door behind him. The walls tremble from the sound waves of Lenny's Gibson's Flying V guitar. The tiny space can't tolerate that kind of vibration. Fitz turns down the volume on the speaker.
"How can you work with the music playing so loud?" he says, eyeing her sitting on the floor cushion at the coffee table.
"Music is music. The volume doesn't matter," she says dryly, not bothering to look at him.
"I've never heard you listen to this kind of music before. It's sounds… angry."
"I told you I have many playlists."
"What's this?" he says, lifting the glass jar with the straw-like sticks from the countertop.
"It's a diffuser," she says. He sniffs the reed sticks then sets the diffuser back on the countertop.
"What happened to the candle?"
"Candles are a fire hazard. Can you stop talking? I need to finish this."
Fitz walks over to the loveseat and makes himself at home. He'll wait for her to tell him why she is upset tonight. He unlaces his highly polished black leather shoes, toes them off, and then stretches out on the hard seat cushions. With a throw pillow tucked under his head and his feet hanging over the armrest opposite his head, Fitz pulls the phone from his shirt pocket. He is immediately captivated by something on the screen. Olivia cuts her eyes over at him when she hears the annoying sound of the buzzer.
"Fuck," he growls when the shot clock runs down again.
"What are you watching?" she says with a distinct edge to her voice.
"Last night's game. The Miami Heat crushed the Celtics. We've lost our last three games. We need a better roster."
"Hmmph," she says. He cranes his neck to look at her.
"What?" he says.
"Nothing. It's none of my business," she says with a slight wave of her hand.
"Don't say nothing. You obviously have something on your mind." Olivia gives him a sidelong glance.
"Don't you have work to do?"
"I put in my eight hours," he says nonchalantly, watching the basketball game again. Olivia waits a moment and then decides to poke the bear.
"So, as commissioner you plan to only work an eight-hour day. This city needs a serious police commissioner. Someone who wants to make a difference, not someone content to lie on my sofa watching old basketball games."
Fitz' eyebrow shoot up. "What did you say?"
Olivia shakes her head. "I cannot help but wonder what you could accomplish if you really put your mind to it."
Fitz sits up and stares at Olivia. "Are you upset with me?" he says carefully.
"Everything isn't about you," she says.
"Then what's wrong? You were upset from the moment I walked through the door."
"You just seem satisfied, content," her hand fluttering in the air. "Like you don't have any real purpose or goals for your life."
"Is there anything wrong with being content?"
Olivia shrugs one shoulder slightly. "I guess not if you don't want much out of life. Such wasted potential," she mumbles.
"What's going on? What's this all about?" he says. Olivia tilts her head slightly and stares at him through narrow, angry eyes.
"What did you tell your brother about us?" she says sharply.
"What does my brother have to do with any of this?"
"Answer the question," she snaps. "Did you tell him about our arrangement?"
"Of course not. Why would I do that?"
"The way he looked at me that day in the cafeteria. There was something in his voice that bothered me. It was as if he knew."
"He doesn't know anything," Fitz says dismissively.
"You need to make sure he doesn't know anything," she says bitterly.
"Trust me, there's nothing for you to worry about," he says. Olivia slowly nods, carefully calculating the trap for the guileless bear.
"Matty likes basketball, right?" she says.
"Of course. We went to lots of games together," Fitz answers innocently.
"Does Matty know how the Boston Celtics fanbase treated Bill Russell?"
"What?" Fitz says, baffled by the oddball question.
"How they yelled racial slurs at him while he played. The man earned the team eleven championships, more than anyone who has ever played the game. But, of course, eleven championship rings aren't enough when you're Black."
Fitz wonders why she's bringing up the great basketball legend Bill Russell. He's one of the best to play the game. He made the Boston Celtics relevant, but he hasn't played for the Celtics since 1969 or coached the team since 1988.
"Did you know fans broke into his home in Reading? Vandalized it. Wrote racial slurs on the walls. Defecated in the beds."
Fitz leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and asks, "Did something happen today?" He sees her throat swallow hard.
"Something happens every day," she says curtly. Fitz drags his hands down the sides of his face and shakes his head. He tries to shift to a safer topic.
"Cyrus is driving me crazy. He actually thinks I should visit a few Spanish Catholic churches. — me being Catholic. He said because Edison danced in the Latino Day parade, it could be a plus for me. I think it's ridiculous."
Olivia stays silent.
"Don't you have anything to say?"
"I didn't hear a question," she says blandly, still clacking on the keyboard.
"Do you think I should do it?
"Does Cyrus Beene advise the other superintendents or just you?" she says.
"I wouldn't know," Fitz says.
"It can't hurt to meet with people who don't look like you," she says.
"I don't want to appear disingenuous, like I'm pandering."
"Mhm."
"I don't think they like me very much. They don't like me at all, really," Fitz says.
"Mwah. Mwah." Olivia pretends to rub her balled fists to fake crying eyes. They don't like me at all, really. She mimics his whiny voice.
"Are you mocking me?" Fitz says with a look of surprise on his face.
"Stop being a baby. You're a grown man — act like one. When you have a legacy behind you, you either live up to it, build on it for the future, or create something new. They don't like your family because of their heinous, vicious treatment of Black people. They don't know you, so they think you're just like your family."
"You know that's not true."
"Just because you like screwing a Black woman doesn't mean you like Black people," she says bitterly. Immediately his eyes stretch wide and his mouth hangs open.
"Why would you say that? Can we just put all of that race stuff and the narrative about my family aside?" That's all Olivia needed to hear to unleash her tirade.
"It's not a narrative! What they did is a fact. And that race stuff as you say is what makes us us." Then she adds quickly, "Does your brother know the history of the Irish in this country?"
"What?" Fitz says. She's jumping from topic to topic; he can't keep up with her. He wonders if she's been drinking. He scans the room for the wine bottle.
"Maybe at Matty's next lynching party you should educate him about his true history in America. Tell him that after the potato famine of Ireland, dirt-poor, uneducated Irish immigrants crowded into cities where free Blacks were already living."
"Will you slow down?" he says, trying to weave together the threads of her diatribe.
"That many of those same poor, uneducated Irish immigrants became police officers. They flexed their newfound authority over those who had been emancipated and not empowered as full citizens.
"Tell Matty the one about plans to have Irishmen kill Blacks and then hang the Irishmen for the crime. That was called a two-fer— get rid of two undesirables at the same time."
Fitz rubs his forehead. He doesn't know how they got from him watching a basketball game to the potato famine and lynchings.
"A police chief during that time egged on mobs to kill and burn down the homes of Black people. Boston's police abused their power back then, they're doing it today."
Her wanton rant about his heritage is starting to grate on him. "I know my background, Olivia— the good and the bad. I don't need a history lesson."
Olivia doesn't relent. There's no stopping her when she goes on a rant. Again, she's had a bad day. She's tired of being profiled.
"Fast forward to the aughts. Enter predator Detective Matthew Grant. A proud Irish cop who gleefully repeated his forefathers' destruction. Actually, he exceeded their expectations. Every day the disgraced yet decorated detective strapped on his uniform and gun, crawled out from his pathetic life, itching to violate innocent Black people for sport.
"They feared him, and boy they should have. Matty was a real terror. He spared no one his abuse, men or women. No mercy. When the victims reported him to precinct captains, no one believed them or cared. And you wonder why they don't trust the police. You wonder why they don't trust you."
"What do you want from me, Olivia?" Fitz says, spreading his arms out theatrically. "Do you want to make me the symbol for everything that is wrong with BPD? Do you want me to say there are bad cops on the force who abuse their badge? That I come from a family of racist cops? That my brother was a predator and any other disgusting name you want to call him? Fine, I admit to all of it. I'll be your punching bag. Just let me know when you're done fighting."
"Acknowledging it is one thing, holding people accountable is another," she shoots back. "Cops like your brother, dirty cops, their definition of masculinity is predicated on barbarism and the subjugation of others. People like him are usually hiding some kind of past trauma. Perhaps they're uncertain about their own masculinity."
Face aflame, Fitz abruptly stands to his feet. "Okay, that's enough," he says. But Olivia isn't finished.
"I guess it's true what they say about karma. She really is a bitch. The abuser is now racked with cancer and popping Oxy like it's candy. He's getting exactly what he deserves. What goes around comes around."
"I said that's enough, dammit!" Olivia's head snaps back and she looks up at him with wide eyes. "Why are you doing this?" he says.
"Doing what?" she replies defiantly.
"Picking a fight with me tonight."
"I'm not," slightly rolling her neck.
"My brother did horrible things, and he certainly doesn't deserve your sympathy. But he is my brother, Olivia, and he's very sick. Probably dying. So, when you're trashing him, calling him names, try to remember he's still my brother and I love him, unconditionally."
Olivia stares at him for a long moment. She knows that her words were harsh; she meant them to be. She also knows she cannot talk about Matty Grant in any way that transcends the brother relationship. Her voice softens, somewhat.
"I'm sorry. I was insensitive. Of course, you love your brother, and you are not responsible for others' history."
"I don't know what's going on with you tonight, but please stop. I get to spend one night a week— four nights a month with you. I don't want to waste our time together arguing. I don't want to do this again."
"We can't be afraid to have tough conversations, Fitz."
"That wasn't a conversation, that was an attack. Can we agree not to talk about my brother, ever?"
"Fine," she says.
Fitz sighs heavily and then walks over to the small refrigerator. His stomach is churning, not from anxiety, but hunger. He hasn't eaten since lunch. It's now after seven o' clock. He opens the refrigerator door and frowns: yogurt and bottles of water.
"Do you ever eat?"
"What kind of question is that?" she says.
"I mean do you ever cook. Do you even know how to cook? I'm here every week and I've never seen you cook anything."
"Look at this place, it's not exactly designed for preparing gourmet meals. This is a temporary living arrangement. This whole thing is temporary." Fitz glares at her and she turns her face away from him. "Why all the questions about cooking?"
"I get hungry when I'm here. I would like for you to cook sometimes— not all the time, but sometimes." He looks over at the electric toaster oven on the counter by the sink.
"I'm not cooking for you," incredulity filling her voice.
"Why not?" he asks sincerely.
"The wife does the cooking," she says. Fitz closes his eyes thinking, she's driving me crazy. He glances down at his watch.
"Let's get out of here— go to dinner," he says.
"Have you lost your mind? I'm never going anywhere with you."
"We can go down to the Harborwalk, have a nice dinner then take in the light show."
"No." Olivia starts typing again.
"It'll be fun," he persists.
"It'll be professional suicide—for both of us."
"We're friends. Friends hang out together all the time."
"Not friends like us," she says, slowly shaking her head.
Fitz sighs in frustration. With lips pursed, he glances around the space thinking he's tired of them staying cooped up in the tiny apartment. The blue and white citation on the counter next to the speaker catches his eye. He picks it up and reads the violation, two violations. She was ticketed today for speeding and going through a red light. Now he knows why she is so combative tonight.
XXX
All week-long Olivia's stinging words reverberated in his ears: content, lazy. He remembers her using similar words the first night he went to her apartment: lazy, unimaginative. He doesn't want her to think he's like that. He knows if he wants to be with a woman like Olivia he has to work on himself. He has to be somebody. Sitting on the sidelines is no longer an option.
"Where to, sir?" Ferguson says, staring in the rearview mirror at the superintendent's pensive face.
"I need to stop at a couple of stores on Fulton Street," Fitz says. Ferguson nods and Fitz leans back against the seat and sticks the earbuds into his ears.
As Ferguson slowly and carefully drives in the bumper-to-bumper traffic, he quietly inhales through his nose and exhales out his mouth, trying to muster enough courage to say what he's been practicing for the past few weeks. The Fitzgerald Grant he has known for ten years has changed. He's an enigma. Something needs to be done.
"Sir, may I speak freely?" Ferguson says. Fitz stays silent. Ferguson glances in the mirror and grimaces. The man can't hear a damn thing wearing those earphones. "Sir!" Ferguson repeats louder, almost shouting. Fitz pulls an earbud from one ear, letting the wire dangle on his shirt.
"Yes, Ferguson?" Fitz answers in a calm tone.
"May I speak freely, Sir?" Ferguson says, his eyes shifting back and forth from the mirror to the traffic that's up ahead.
"Of course. What is it?" Fitz says.
Ferguson clears his throat and grips the steering wheel tight. "I have had the pleasure of working for you for ten years. During that time, I can say, without hesitation, that you have always been a careful man, a man of integrity. But lately ..."
Fitz' eyes meet his driver's eyes in the mirror. "Continue, Ferguson."
"Lately, you have been different— distracted, and dare I say—uncharacteristically giddy. Prying eyes might have noticed, too, and wonder…" Ferguson pauses a moment.
"Wonder what?" Fitz says.
"They may be curious about the source of your newfound joy. Rumors. It starts as talk over a cup of coffee. Just talk. Then someone adds more to it and it's no longer a rumor."
"Go on," Fitz says with unblinking eyes.
"Miss Pope — she's a problem, Sir— for obvious reasons." Fitz' eyes narrow. "I don't know if Miss Pope has changed you or if she has revealed what was already there, but you are changed. You're under the red-hot glare of the klieg lights. Everyone is watching you. Your rivals will look for anything to eliminate you from the contest. You deserve to be the next police commissioner. I implore you to reconsider your friendship with the woman."
"Are you done?"
"Yes, Sir," Ferguson says, slowly exhaling through his mouth.
Fitz twists his neck to the right and stares out the window. Slowly nodding his head up and down, he watches the people and buildings and buses pass by. After a long while, he turns his head and looks in the rearview mirror. He responds thoughtfully and tersely.
"Dr. Pope is very important to me. When she is with me — when we are together— you will treat her with the utmost respect."
"I'm just the gatekeeper, Sir. Watching out for your best interests."
"I don't need nor want a watchman. We won't discuss this again. Have I made myself clear?"
"Yes, Sir."
Fitz puts the earbud back into his ear, pulls the burner phone from his pants pocket, and sends Olivia a text.
On my way.
XXX
An hour later, Fitz walks into the apartment and a huge smile spread across his face. The tiny space feels calm and serene. Soft music is playing and the Pink Grapefruit diffuser perfumes the air. For the first time, he notices how the décor's color scheme flows from the living area to the bedroom. Without violating Mrs. Shoffener's decorating rules, Olivia has made the tiny space feel homey and warm. Iridescent throw pillows are carefully placed on the uncomfortable blue loveseat. A teal blue throw is draped over the left armrest. The complementary, turquoise-colored bedding is visible through the glass French doors. For some reason, the apartment doesn't feel cramped today.
"Hi," he says, looking over his shoulder at Olivia who is sitting at the coffee table on the plum-colored floor cushion.
"What's that?" she says.
"Hi," he says again, bending down and setting his briefcase on the floor next to the counter.
"Hello. What's that?" she says again, watching him unpack the bags.
"Food. Sustenance. Since you don't know how to cook, I bought us dinner. We need to eat."
Olivia springs to her feet and quickly scurries over to the counter. She tries to peek inside of the bags. Fitz playfully swats her hands away.
"Bringing food is not part of the agreement," she says, pulling the bottle of wine from one of the bags.
"I like to eat, Olivia," he says, watching her face light up as she reads the bottle label.
"You bought us wine."
"I bought you wine. I hate wine. I'm drinking Scotch." Fitz holds up the bottle of Scotch in the air, grinning openly. Olivia scrunches her face.
"You hate wine? Since when?"
"Since forever and always."
"You didn't say anything."
"Do you have plates? Silverware? Or do I have to buy those, too?" he says, opening and closing cabinet doors and drawers.
"Did you get the wine from Vino?"
"Yes."
"Did Dominick select it for you?"
"Dominick is a hack."
"No, he's not. Why would you say that? Dominick is very knowledgeable."
"Get the glasses," Fitz says.
They smile at each other as they stutter-step in the tiny kitchen area plating the food. After dinner they clear the dinnerware from the coffee table: plates, forks, and drinking glasses. Fitz washes the dishes while Olivia squeezes the leftovers into the small refrigerator between bottles of water and small containers of yogurt. When the kitchen area has been refreshed, Fitz grabs his briefcase from the floor and then sits down on the loveseat. He pulls his wallet from his back pants pocket and slides out what looks like a business card.
"Keep this in your wallet at all times," he says, tossing the card on the coffee table.
"What's that?" Olivia asks, eyeing the card suspiciously.
"If you're stopped by the police just show it to the officer. My personal phone number is on the back."
"I don't understand," she says, picking up the card. She carefully reads the text on the front.
"It's a get-out-of-jail-free card," he says half-jokingly. "The city's police unions issue them to members. We can give them to family and friends. It helps them to get out of minor infractions like speeding, not wearing a seat belt— that sort of thing."
The expression on her face doesn't hide her feelings. She shakes her head in disbelief.
"Isn't this selective enforcement— showing favoritism?" Fitz sighs heavily. He knows where this line of questioning is going.
"It's a perk of the job," he says flatly.
"So, citizens who don't have connections to law enforcement are less likely to get off with a warning," she says.
"Just put the damn card in your wallet," Fitz says wearily.
"What is wrong with you?" she says, watching him bend over and pull a yellow legal pad from his briefcase.
"I saw the citation on the counter last week. I took care of it."
Olivia is enraged. "You had no right to take care of it. I was going to request a hearing. I was going to fight that ticket. That cop stopped me for no reason."
"Everything doesn't have to be a battle, Olivia," he says, sliding an ink pen and eyeglasses from the briefcase side pockets.
Fitz stretches out on the loveseat and, for the next forty-five minutes, they both work in silence. They are transitioning from a transactional sexual arrangement to a kind of friendship without realizing it. Fitz' ink pen scratching on the paper sounds like a mouse clawing inside of a wall. Olivia looks over at him wondering what he's writing. She smiles at the eyeglasses perched down on his nose.
"I didn't know you wore eyeglasses," she says, thinking he looks kind of sexy in them.
"Just for reading, sometimes," he says, still writing.
"I'm almost done here. Tonight's your night," she says in a sing-song voice.
"About that, I'm gonna pass tonight," he says without looking up from the legal pad.
"You mean you want to skip?" she says, surprise filling her voice. He never wants to skip.
"Yep," he says and Olivia frowns. She doesn't want to skip. She was looking forward to being with him tonight. She walks over to the counter and picks up the bottle of Scotch. She waves the bottle in the air. Maybe she can entice him with more alcohol.
"Would you like another Scotch?" wriggling her shoulders playfully.
"Olivia, I really need to finish this tonight." She scowls at him. When temptation doesn't work then try shaming.
"You have terrible handwriting," she says. "You should get a tablet."
"I have a tablet," he says, holding up the yellow legal pad. Olivia rolls her eyes.
"Writing longhand is no longer practical. In fact, it's old-fashioned."
"I've seen you write in longhand many times," he retorts. Olivia huffs in frustration and then sets the bottle down on the countertop with a thud.
"I'm going to bed. Turn off the lights when you leave," she says, giving him a sidelong glance on her way to the bedroom.
"Sleep well." Fitz flips the page over and continues turns around and throws her arms up in the air in exasperation.
"Are you going to tell me what you're working on?"
"A speech," he says, still writing.
"A speech?" she shrieks. She hurries over to the loveseat and sits on the cushion by his arm. She tries to peek at his scribbling but he cocks his shoulder to hide the page from her.
"Who are you presenting to?" she asks.
"Reverend Norcross and his congregation," he says casually.
"What?" she shrieks again.
"I met with the reverend a few days ago. I shared with him some of my thinking on future policing policies. I asked if he would allow me to introduce myself to his congregation and engage them in discussions about improving relationships with the police department."
"What?"
"Are you going to say something other than what?"
"That's incredible," she says excitedly.
"He hasn't committed to anything yet. Do you want to hear it?" he says, sitting up on the loveseat.
"Do you want me to hear it?" Fitz stands and clears his throat. Olivia's eyes glaze over with boredom as he reads.
"What do you think?" he says when he's finished reading.
"What?" she says through a feigned yawn.
"Were you not listening to me?"
"I heard you but I wasn't necessarily listening. I stopped listening five minutes ago," she says flatly.
He looks at her open-mouthed. Most times he likes her frankness, but tonight she kind of hurt his feelings. He's been working on the speech for several days.
"Olivia," he says. The forlorn expression on his face says he's wounded. She carefully selects her response.
"Too many words. After working all day, people don't want to sit on hard pews listening to a speech that doesn't move them."
"I can't sound like Edison. He's an excellent speaker," Fitz says glumly.
"You surely can't speak like Edison— and please— never try. That would be disastrous. Edison knows homiletics."
"What should I do?"
"I'm not your advisor," she says.
"I'm asking for your opinion, Olivia."
She sighs. After a moment she says, "For starters, be yourself— speak from your heart. Cut out the impersonal passive sentences. Show the audience that you understand their issues — their pain. Touch their hearts. Tell them that your BPD won't be a museum to the past. That it will be a living, breathing place with policies that affect everybody on a daily basis and created by everyday people.
"Community policing?" he says.
"Yes. For a start," she says. "Let them know you mean to make big-big changes. The hell with your last name."
He nods with a smile.
"Throw in a few graphics and diagrams. Simple ones though, nobody wants to read eye charts. And speak faster— show some passion."
"Thank you. You're terrific," he says, pulling her onto his lap. He stares into her eyes. "When something has happened to upset you, I need you to tell me. I want us to discuss those sorts of things. Okay?"
"Okay," she says with a soft smile.
"Tonight's my night," he says, tickling her side.
"About that, we can skip tonight," Olivia laughs
When they are done, they lay cuddled together on the oversized bed: Fitz on his back and Olivia on his chest. He feels her breath on his cheek, and it's like the greatest feeling in the universe.
"Penny for your thoughts," she says, seeing the serene look on his face.
"I was just thinking how good things happen when you don't even expect them."
"Yeah. Life is just full of good surprises," Olivia says sarcastically.
XXX— Fitz and Cyrus
Three days later, Fitz stares out of his office window with arms folded. He watches a couple walking down the path in the park holding hands. The man stops abruptly in front of a row of stately oak trees, takes the woman's face between his hands, and kisses her deeply. Fitz turns away from the window and walks over to his desk. He sits down in the chair and thinks about what Ferguson said last week about rumors. Olivia wondered if Matty suspected something, maybe others do, too. He needs to be more careful. He takes a quick mental inventory of the people in his life, the people who think they know him. He can't risk arousing suspicion from any one of them. He has to act normal when he's around them. Stoic. He has to protect Olivia's reputation. He looks up at the knock on the door.
"Come in, Cyrus," he says.
"Sir, may I have a moment of your time?" Cyrus says, his eyes blinking rapidly.
"Have a seat," Fitz says, gesturing his hand toward the chairs in front of the desk.
"I've been trying to talk to you for over a month. You keep shutting me down."
"Get to it, Cyrus," Fitz says wearily.
"Will you turn off that blasted music? I can't hear myself think!"
Fitz' first reaction is to lash out at Cyrus, but he remembers, normal. He slides the mask over his face like a dog's muzzle and then turns off the music. He picks up the ink pen from the desk blotter and presses his thumb down hard on the pen's plunger. Cyrus looks pleased with himself.
"As I was saying, I've been trying to talk to you about this year's conference, but you've been distracted lately."
"I have a lot going on with work— family," Fitz says, trying to sound somber.
"I understand. I saw Matty here the other week— from afar, of course. He didn't— dare I say— look well." Cyrus almost sounds sympathetic.
"What about the conference?" Fitz says.
"We're getting down to the wire. You have to make a decision— whether you're going or not. Davis went last year and Shaughnessy went the year before that. I know you don't like being away from your family, especially now. But you can't keep dodging this event. Attending an international law enforcement conference will impress the mayor."
"Thank you, Cyrus. I'll think about it."
XXX
Mellie sits on their marital bed with her back pressed against the wooden headboard. She thinks about the homily Father Brennan delivered this morning at Mass: What It Means to Be a Faithful Wife. But all women aren't meant to be a wife, faithful or otherwise. All women aren't meant to be mothers. She thinks about the women who come to the center for help. She envies them on some level. They all had the courage to leave unsatisfying relationships with their husbands and boyfriends and start a new life elsewhere. She's never had that kind of courage and that gnaws at her every single day.
Mellie frowns when Fitz walks into the bedroom wearing a large yellow towel wrapped around his waist. She hears her mother's voice on her wedding day, saying: 'We all do what we have to do, Melody.' Mellie braces herself to submit to her husband's sexual desires as the Bible says a faithful wife must do.
"I have to be at the center early in the morning," she says tightly as Fitz digs in the dresser drawer for a pair of pajama pants and a T-shirt.
"Excuse me?" he says, looking over at his wife with a blank stare on his face.
"I'm not doing it tomorrow," she says nastily. "You'll have to wait until next quarter. You know the rules."
It finally dawns on Fitz what she's talking about. He shakes his head. He'd forgotten about his wife's schedule. About how she dispenses sex to him like a slot machine spitting out coins, rarely and infrequently. He looks at her lying stiffly on the bed with the covers pulled up to her chin, thinking he can't remember the last time he saw her naked. She always wears a nightgown to bed, even during sex. Mellie turns off the lamp on her nightstand and sighs heavily.
Fitz runs his fingers through his wet hair. He lets the towel drop to the floor and then slips on the mask, thinking normal. He crawls on top of the stiff board of a wife. He pushes up the cotton nightgown and slides her panties down her legs. He pries her legs apart with his knee and closes his eyes. He's soft and she's as dry as the desert dust. It's a sad sight.
"Relax," he whispers in her ear as he strokes his penis up and down her opening trying to get hard. Mellie shuts her eyes tight.
Fitz slowly pumps. He fantasizes about Olivia's legs wrapped around his waist. About how they move together as one. He thrusts faster and, surprisingly, the sensations take ahold of his wife. She rocks her wide hips back and forth. Her walls twitch and she yelps like a puppy. A few more thrusts and Fitz squirts inside her. The whole thing is over as fast as the simoom's desert wind.
Mellie pushes him off her and runs to the bathroom. She cannot believe he made her orgasm. She hates him for that, too. In the shower, she scrubs her skin almost raw, trying to erase any trace of him from her body. Fitz closes his eyes tight and listens to the water splashing against the shower's walls. He feels guilty. He feels like he just cheated on Olivia with his wife.
