For Love of Audrey Rose Page 4

  At 10:30, two reporters came with questions, but Janice excused herself and closed the door. She instructed Dominick not to send up any reporters. Dominick apologized, saying they had passed themselves off as members of the family.

  By 11:30, Bill fell asleep on the couch. Exhaustion showed plainly on his face. Janice worried about him. Even in his sleep his face twitched, grimaced. Janice took two Valium and slept alone. Beyond the wall was Ivy’s room, and a dark silence, as though waiting.

  Five days after the cremation, Janice went to Ivy’s room and cleared away most of the clothes. These and the toys she sent to a relief agency in India. Many of the small mementos she kept: the aquarium with its fantailed Mexican shells, the picture albums, the panda bear, pages of her artwork, and the crude vase she had fashioned in a summer’s course of pottery in Central Park, things that were still alive with her creative spirit. The rest she hoped would find their use among children who also had but a brief time on the earth for happiness before the responsibilities of adulthood or poverty or death claimed them.

  With the removal of each box of Ivy’s possessions, Bill sank deeper into guilt-ridden gloom, until he could no longer speak, but hung about the living room like a scarecrow, devoid of soul.

  One afternoon, the young Buddhists appeared at Des Artistes but Janice asked them not to come up. Instead, she went down and they talked in the lobby. They told her that Hoover, after being acquitted, had stopped by to offer his prayers. They had a letter for her.

  Janice opened a small yellow note and read the even, small handwriting that filled the page to the margins.

  Dear Janice—My thoughts are with you and Bill now as they have been ever since the trial began. I pray that understanding has come, and with it the serenity to accept and bless what the divine universe has created. For destruction is but the beginning of further creation, as the falling seed is but the preparation for the growth of the milk pod. Please accept my prayers for you and for Ivy. I think I speak for Ivy in saying that the great struggle is at last over, and that her soul is now free to continue on its long, never-ending journey to perfection. Janice, may you find favor in life, and wisdom in your search for happiness, for love has spread its canopy over you and will bless you with profound peace, if you but let it.

  I shall be returning to India, where I have friends, and where I can pray, and work, and find the solitude necessary to my meditations. But know that even in India I shall continue to pray for you and Ivy, and that my thoughts are ever with you. Yours in eternal prayer, Elliot Hoover.

  Janice wiped away a tear, went back to the apartment and drafted a letter to the mausoleum. Ivy’s ashes would be sent to India, scattered there, and serenity would fill the emptiness the way that sunlight fills a rose garden, lending color to everything, filling the warm air with subtle perfume.

  Several requests from magazines and newspapers came in the mail for articles and information. Janice threw them all away.

  The steady flow of people into the apartment gradually diminished. Pel Simmons, the founder of the advertising agency in which Bill worked, made a discreet call. When he saw Bill seated, hollow-eyed, on the couch, he asked Janice if Bill needed medical attention.

  “He needs a few more weeks, Mr. Simmons.”

  “Of course, Janice. It’s not that. It’s just that he looks like death over there.”

  “I’ll speak to Dr. Kaplan.”

  Dr. Kaplan prescribed an antidepressant stronger than Valium. Janice slipped it into his lunch. She also hid the alcohol, even though Bill was not drinking. Just in case, because it would mix into a lethal combination with the drugs.

  With the antidepressants, Bill became numbed, his limbs relaxed, and he grew rubbery, dazed, and incoherent. But he could not override the paralysis of grief and guilt.

  “If I hadn’t left for Hawaii,” he mumbled. “That was the moment. When he came up here. Why did I go to Hawaii? I don’t remember anymore….”

  By the second week, Bill had still not shaven. Janice changed his clothes, shaved him as best she could, combed his hair. But when Don Goetz, Bill’s assistant, called from Simmons Advertising, she had to plead for another few days. No hurry, Goetz replied. They were just expressing their support.

  In the third week, Jack Belaver, senior partner to Simmons Advertising, came to visit. Shocked at the sight of Bill, he maintained his composure.

  “Look, Bill,” he said softly, “I know what it’s like. When I lost Marianne, I thought the world had ended. Well, nobody’s blaming you. Nothing can ever change what’s happened, but—”

  “Who’s blaming me?” Bill shot at him.

  “Nobody. Bill, listen to me. You’ve got to march ahead. The grief will pass away, but it needs something to supplant it. It needs life, work, joy. You can’t cut yourself off from society.”

  “You said somebody was blaming me.”

  “I mean for staying inside, Bill. Look, it’s natural to want to be alone. Anyone would. But it’s time to come out of the cocoon. We’ll help you, Bill. We’re all pulling for you. Don Goetz has arranged the files and even set up two meetings for Monday. I’ll be there if it gets difficult. You’ve got to reenter, Bill.”

  But Bill had retracted behind his wall of silent brooding.

  Belaver sighed. “All right, Bill. Have it your way.”

  At the door, he suggested to Janice that Bill see a psychiatrist.

  “I’ve tried, Jack, but he won’t listen to me anymore. I can’t break through the barrier.”

  Belaver nodded sympathetically.

  “Simmons can wait a few more weeks,” he said. “Six weeks, eight. But sooner or later—we’re all very fond of Bill, but— It’s so damn competitive out there.”

  “I understand, Jack.”

  “That’s unofficial, Janice.”

  “Yes. Thank you. I’ll try to get him to a psychiatrist.”

  “Oh, by the way, is money a problem?”

  “Not yet,” Janice said cautiously.

  “Well, not to worry. Between Bill’s stock options and pension fund there’ll be plenty for a good long time.”

  Dr. Manny Gleicher had read about the Templeton case. It had sparked his interest and now he was surprised to find the affair walking into his office. Mrs. Templeton was much younger and better educated than he had guessed from the newspapers.

  It was a small, cluttered office, and Dr. Gleicher was a thin, nervous man in his early fifties, balding, with rapid, awkward gestures. He studied her quickly as she sat down.

  “How long has it been, Mrs. Templeton?” he asked.

  “Two months.”

  “And in all that time, he has not left the apartment?”

  “No.”

  “Does he have friends over, speak on the telephone?”

  “No.”

  “Does he talk to you?”

  “Rarely. Not at all in the last four days.”

  “What kind of things did he say?”

  “It’s always about Ivy. He blames himself for arranging the test. Nothing can shake it from him.”

  Dr. Gleicher stroked his mustache and looked at Janice. She waited for his response, at his mercy.

  “It would be natural for Bill to feel responsible,” Dr. Gleicher said. “But after a point, he should realize that the court was also responsible. The court and the hospital.”

  There was a silence. Dr. Gleicher understood from Janice’s expression that logic and argument had ceased to penetrate Bill’s grief. He took out a small cigar, asked if Janice minded, then lit it, exhaling luxuriously over his head.

  “I read,” he said slowly, “that there was a kind of meditation service. Did Bill go?”

  “No.”

  “Did he attend the cremation?”

  “No.”

  Dr. Gleicher’s eyes narrowed.

  “Do you mind if I ask you about your relationship with this other man, this Mr. Hoover?”

  “There was no relationship.”

  “Yes, but acc
ording to the papers, you testified—”

  “Dr. Gleicher, I felt, and still feel, that he was the only one who could have saved her. That was why I testified.”

  “Your acceptance of Mr. Hoover’s, er, ideas, must have seemed a bitter betrayal to your husband.”

  Janice looked down at her hands, folded in her lap.

  “I’m sure he thought of it in that way,” she said softly. “I only meant to save Ivy. There was nothing between Mr. Hoover and myself.”

  “Did Bill think there was?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think he would have put it so— so directly. He just felt that I had deserted him by testifying. By not trusting in him.”

  “Perfectly natural.”

  Dr. Gleicher paused, thought for a moment, then relit his cigar. All the while, his eyes scanned Janice’s face and body for hidden gestures, nonverbal clues to her emotions behind the words.

  “Do you think Bill is still angry at you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think he’s withdrawing as a way to punish you? To force you to attend to him?”

  “No. I think he blames himself for Ivy’s death. I don’t think he knows I even exist anymore.”

  Dr. Gleicher nodded sympathetically and then, satisfied with Janice’s answers, stubbed out his cigar and sat on a leather chair next to Janice.

  “I don’t suppose you could convince your husband to come and see me?”

  “No, Doctor.”

  Dr. Gleicher sighed and simply smiled, a professional but warm smile.

  “All right, I’ll go to him then.”

  Dr. Gleicher stepped out of the elevator. Ernie watched him walk softly down the corridor and ring the Templetons’ bell.

  Janice opened the door, smiled wanly, and Dr. Gleicher entered the apartment.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Templeton. Hello, Bill.”

  Bill looked up from where he sat opposite the couch. The way his collar was askew suggested that he had not dressed himself. The dark, hopeless eyes followed Dr. Gleicher into the room, and Bill looked frightened and withdrew into the chair.

  Dr. Gleicher sat on the couch, affecting geniality, but in reality studying Bill’s every move.

  “What a lovely apartment,” Dr. Gleicher said. “This place is rather famous, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Janice agreed. “Some well-known artists had lived here. They built it around huge studios and when the artists left, most of the suites were converted to duplex apartments.”

  “Those ceilings. Italian, aren’t they?”

  “Ersatz Fragonard.”

  On the coffee table was a pewter pitcher of lemonade. Janice offered a little rum to mix with it, but Dr. Gleicher shook his head. He sipped for a while, relishing the cool air in the room, then sucked on the slice of lime perched on the edge of his glass.

  “Bill,” he said gently, “do you know who I am?”

  Bill said nothing, but his eyes showed that he appraised the stranger with apprehension.

  “My name is Manny Gleicher. I am a practicing psychiatrist at the John C. Schreyer Clinic. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? On Thirty-fourth Street.”

  Bill shook his head, an almost imperceptible gesture. A kind of deep weariness showed on his face, as though there were something intolerably oppressive about Dr. Gleicher, Janice, and every other intrusion into his solitude.

  “Your wife has discussed with me your last two months here. Has she told you that?”

  Bill’s eyes narrowed in suspicious hostility. He darted a glance at Janice.

  “I explained everything,” Janice said softly.

  “Well, in any case, I should like to speak privately with Bill.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Janice removed herself upstairs to the bedroom, closing the door. She tried to listen but could hear nothing. She opened the door a crack and saw Gleicher lean forward and touch Bill on the knee to get his attention. Bill started, as though awakened from a light sleep.

  “Bill,” Dr. Gleicher asked. “Can you tell me who I am?”

  Bill’s arm twitched, but he did not speak.

  “I just told you my name and profession. Do you remember?”

  “Haul ass.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Get out.”

  “Now, Bill, one does not play games—”

  Suddenly, Bill lurched forward, grabbed the pewter pitcher, and threw the contents into Dr. Gleicher’s face. The pitcher bounced off the surprised man’s chin with a loud and painful crack.

  “I said, get out!”

  “Please listen to me, Bill. I am a doctor of psychiatry.”

  Bill rose unsteadily to his feet. The effort of heaving the heavy pitcher—or rage—seemed to have exhausted him. His arms trembled, but his eyes narrowed in hatred.

  “You can’t come here,” Bill stammered.

  Dr. Gleicher instinctively rose to face Bill. He loosened his collar and gently daubed at the sticky lemonade running down his shirt.

  “I can. Your wife invited me.”

  Bill turned slowly to face the upstairs bedroom door. A cruel, ironic smile twisted his lips.

  “It’s not the first time, Hoover!” he roared.

  “Bill,” persisted Dr. Gleicher, “it is very important that we talk—”

  “Wasn’t once enough?”

  Janice, shaking, came from the bedroom and stood gazing down over the top of the banister.

  “Bill,” she whispered, “I beg you. Listen to Dr. Gleicher.”

  Bill tried to laugh crudely, but it came out a choked, hoarse crying sound. He stared upward at Janice as though trying to see through a pouring rain. He angrily wiped the sweat from his face.

  “Get out!” he yelled, turning to Dr. Gleicher.

  Dr. Gleicher stepped backward, feeling his way from the couch into the main part of the living room.

  “No, Bill. I am going to talk to you.”

  “Both of you! Get out!”

  “Calm down, Bill!” Janice begged. “For God’s sake!”

  Bill stared at Dr. Gleicher, who positioned himself at the end table like a French statuette, chest out and legs firm. Bill reached down and took up a heavy stone mask from Africa in the shape of a double monkey, with sharp ears coming to a point. Dr. Gleicher paled but did not retreat.

  “I’m warning you,” Bill hissed.

  “There’s no need for gestures, Bill.”

  Bill advanced a step, saw no reaction, then raised the stone mask higher over his shoulder. Tears rolled from his eyes and he furiously brushed them away.

  Janice came halfway down the stairs. She hardly recognized him now. Even the shape of his face had altered. His eyes rolled and the pupils were abnormally tiny.

  Bill took another step, knocking over a lamp. Suddenly harsh shadows crossed over Dr. Gleicher. Janice gasped and came down into the living room.

  “She was fine until you came here,” Bill whispered.

  “Who was fine?” Dr. Gleicher shot in.

  “Ivy, you bastard!”

  “Who do you think I am, Bill?”

  “I should have killed you,” Bill said softly. “That first night I saw you!”

  “Put down that mask, Bill.”

  Bill’s eyes suddenly bulged. The veins in his neck strained, and he threw himself forward with all his might. Dr. Gleicher gasped, fell, and ran toward the door. He opened it and threw himself into the corridor. Behind him, the stone mask smashed into the doorjamb, showering painted splinters in an arc over him.

  “YOU BASTARD! YOU KILLED HER!”

  Janice, in that instant, saw all the shadows reverse. Bill had caught his foot on a second lamp and had sent it crashing ahead of him. She fled, slamming the door behind her.

  “YOU AND YOUR CASTRATED GOONS! YOU KILLED HER!”

  Janice locked the door from the outside. There were violent sounds inside as Bill went into a frenzy, smashing ceramics, hurling ashtrays through the stained-glass windows, and heaving the desk off its legs, int
o the front door.

  “IVY!!!”

  Bill’s cry came in a long, drawn-out bellow. It was a cry of deep and obliterating pain, loneliness, and confusion. It became silent. Dr. Gleicher and Janice stepped nervously to the door and put their ears against the wood.

  Inside, Janice heard a hoarse, labored breathing. It sounded drugged, coarse, unnatural. At the top of each breath, there was a tiny extra intake, as though Bill gasped for breath.

  “Open the door,” Dr. Gleicher whispered to Janice.

  Janice stared at him, took courage from his pointed gesture at the lock, and turned the key. Dr. Gleicher eased his way inside. It was nearly dark. Only the light from the landing fell onto the living room, a broad spotlight on the shambles below.

  Glass and ceramic shards covered the floor and the fabrics. A wooden leg from the desk had lodged its way into the china cabinet. Warm, sultry night air came in through jagged holes in the long windows.

  Against the couch, his right leg twisted up under him as he lay partially on the floor, his head on the couch itself, Bill knelt as though in a mockery of prayer. Dr. Gleicher gently eased his leg straight and moved Bill onto his back so he could breathe more easily. His forehead, furrowed in doubt and rage, glistened from sweat.

  “He’s going to be very depressed when he wakes up,” Dr. Gleicher whispered. “The violence will turn inward.”

  “You mean—”

  “That’s what suicide is. Rage that turns inward.”

  Janice knelt down at Bill’s side. She touched his forehead with a wet napkin. At her touch, his forehead trembled, and he moaned, as though fire roared through his nerves.

  “Mrs. Templeton, you know that your husband needs intensive help.”

  “Yes.”

  “He needs to be removed from this apartment. From you.” She turned, startled. “He needs to go away, where he can recover at a guided pace.”

  “I—I won’t allow it.”

  “You have no choice, Mrs. Templeton. You’re not professionally trained.”

  “No—”

  “Mrs. Templeton,” Dr. Gleicher repeated, patiently, crouching down with her over Bill’s tormented face, “there’s a good clinic at Ossining. It’s up the Hudson, a bit east. A very good clinic.”

  “No. I won’t do it. I can’t.”