Let Me Whisper in Your Ear by Mary Jane Clark Page B

mental institutions.
    At first the Potenzas had tried the private hospitals, thinking that money could cure their son. Ricky, heavily sedated, would seem better for a while, but the psychiatrists all agreed that medication alone would never cure him. The young man refused to open up in talk-therapy sessions. Until he did, Ricky was not going to get well.
    The years passed and the hospital debts grew. The Potenzas sold their house in Cliffside Park and moved to a small bungalow over the state line in Rockland County, New York. There Mr. Potenza died. Three days after the funeral, Ricky was picked up by the police as he tried to jump into Lake Tappan.
    The police brought him straightaway to the nearby Rockland Psychiatric Center, a state-run facility. With little money and exhausted, Ricky’s mother had no choice but to leave him there. As time went on, she resigned herself to the fact that it made no difference where he was. Her son was not going to get well.
    So it went, a pattern developing. Ricky would stay at Rockland for months at a time. Then the staff would say he was well enough to come home. Another crisis sent him back. And on and on.
    Now he was on another of his home furloughs.
    His mother tried to make a normal life for them, tried to make Ricky appear as if he were normal. She did not want him to look like some sort of seedy, scary-looking crazy person. She made dental appointments, took long walks with him for exercise, made sure he got frequent haircuts. For Christmas, she saved from her modest secretary’s salary and bought him a camel hair overcoat, wanting her son to look the part of a handsome, well-dressed forty-two-year-old man.
    Now on Central Park West, no one looked askance at Ricky Potenza. He looked like he belonged there.
    Ricky watched as a half dozen men and women approached, and prayed that they would turn into the doorway of Gwyneth’s building. As they did, he fell inconspicuously behind them. One of the men told the uniformed doorman his name, said they were going to the Gilpatric party, and the doorman nodded.
    â€œGo right up, sir.”
    They all went up in the elevator together.
    Gwyneth had gone on and thrived. It wasn’t fair.

31
    O VER THE PARTY din, Joel Malcolm was explaining the concept of Casper’s Ghostland to his amused Hourglass producer Matthew Voigt.
    â€œAnd this is supposed to be a secret death pool?” asked Matthew.
    Joel grinned defiantly. “Yeah, it’s done anonymously, on the Internet. We all get a monthly bulletin that’s sent to our e-mail address, letting us know whose name we’re holding for the month. And if nobody in the pool dies over the next thirty days, we all ante up and Casper assigns us a new name. I’ve had Bryant Gumbel over at CBS three different times during the last two years. He’s still going strong, damn it!”
    â€œAnd it’s how much a month?”
    â€œA thousand bucks. But think how much you can win! The pot is really growing.”
    â€œToo rich for my blood.” Matthew laughed. “Besides, they wouldn’t let me in anyway—I’m not high enough on the media totem pole.”
    Joel shrugged and looked over Matthew’s shoulder, his keen eyes scanning the party. “There she is. The blonde in the dark blue dress.” He elbowed Matthew. “That’s Laura Walsh, the one I told you about.”
    Matthew Voigt caught sight of Laura as she stood across Gwyneth’s opulent living room. “Whoa. This is going to be a pleasure.”
    â€œHold on,” warned Joel. “This is work, remember?”
    â€œWho says work can’t be fun?” answered Matthew as he took off in Laura’s direction.
    He followed her over to the bar and listened as she ordered a Cosmopolitan. As Laura took a sip of the pale pink cocktail, he introduced himself.
    â€œI’m Matthew Voigt. I hear you’re coming to work with us.”
    Laura looked up