with her. He glanced at the phone, willing it to ring. His life was a steady stream of students and patients and teaching. Why didn’t the phone ring? Okay, there had beenchanges in his field, big changes. But he’d always had his teaching and his residents and his patients and his role in keeping the hospital on track. He’d always had that. It was Clara no longer treating him with respect—no longer loving him the way he should be loved—that made him feel diminished, hurt. Since her coronation as Queen of the Centre, he’d wanted to stop the hurt, but he couldn’t find a way.
Every day he’d promised himself he wouldn’t think about it, wouldn’t feel lonely and betrayed by her. And every day when he saw her confident, glowing face, the pain hit him anew like a deep and anguished grieving that had no end. Her gifts were there in his office, in his closet at home, on his wrist. Before, they’d held the honored place in his life, trophies proving her great love for him, her gratitude for all he had given her. But now that she’d taken Lawrence’s place upstairs and was squeezing the love from his heart like water from a sponge, her gifts to him had become painful symbols of her ownership of him. Now when he saw the awards given him for his work so many years ago and the gifts from Clara now identified as his only true and enduring love, all Harold Dickey felt was the unbearable loss.
Brilliant clinician that he was, he could not find a way out of his own case.
He checked his watch again: 6:16. He couldn’t wait any longer. He reached for the phone and tried the Director’s office. No answer at reception. Harold tried her private line. No answer there either. He was stunned. He couldn’t believe that Clara had left without him. It wasn’t possible. Once again anger flooded the calm stream where he tried so hard to live in peace. Clara knew he hated to be ruffled. She
knew
he didn’t like to be challenged. Why did she deliberately humiliate him? No, surely it was an accident, a misunderstanding. It had to be.
He twisted on the hook, searching for an excuse. Maybe it wasn’t Clara’s fault. Maybe she was in a meeting with the lawyers about Ray’s death. He remembered that MaxGoodrich had stopped him in the hall earlier and told him the police had been to see Clara.
“We have to protect Clara,” Max had told him, as if Harold might not be on the team of those deeply committed to protecting Clara.
“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” Harold had replied. But the truth was, an investigation into the ancient history of the Ray Cowles case would be very worrying indeed.
For the last three years, Harold had been convinced that Clara would come back to him if her troubles with the Centre ever got big enough. Now the trouble was big enough, but where was she? All afternoon he had tried not to think of her living up there in the ether, way, way above him, where the power was. At 6:20 he decided it was time to go looking for her.
eighteen
C lara Treadwell did not instantly engage the Psychiatric Centre’s legal machinery. She detested the hospital’s general counsel, Ben Hartley, and decided she would not worry, or take any steps about the Cowles situation until there was an autopsy report determining his cause of death. By her last meeting of the day, however, she was too impatient to endure any more aimless debate about trivial matters. She walked out.
Recently, her span of attention had begun to vary quite a bit. In Washington, where the issues were big ones and the players big-league players, she was alert and fully engaged every second. But in the smaller arena of hospital and university life, the endless round of meetings about hospital departmental problems made her New York life seem routine, almost small-time. The petty politics of the individuals involved, each clinging so desperately to his own little sliver of the power pie, took up a lot of time. The system was an old one,
Every day he’d promised himself he wouldn’t think about it, wouldn’t feel lonely and betrayed by her. And every day when he saw her confident, glowing face, the pain hit him anew like a deep and anguished grieving that had no end. Her gifts were there in his office, in his closet at home, on his wrist. Before, they’d held the honored place in his life, trophies proving her great love for him, her gratitude for all he had given her. But now that she’d taken Lawrence’s place upstairs and was squeezing the love from his heart like water from a sponge, her gifts to him had become painful symbols of her ownership of him. Now when he saw the awards given him for his work so many years ago and the gifts from Clara now identified as his only true and enduring love, all Harold Dickey felt was the unbearable loss.
Brilliant clinician that he was, he could not find a way out of his own case.
He checked his watch again: 6:16. He couldn’t wait any longer. He reached for the phone and tried the Director’s office. No answer at reception. Harold tried her private line. No answer there either. He was stunned. He couldn’t believe that Clara had left without him. It wasn’t possible. Once again anger flooded the calm stream where he tried so hard to live in peace. Clara knew he hated to be ruffled. She
knew
he didn’t like to be challenged. Why did she deliberately humiliate him? No, surely it was an accident, a misunderstanding. It had to be.
He twisted on the hook, searching for an excuse. Maybe it wasn’t Clara’s fault. Maybe she was in a meeting with the lawyers about Ray’s death. He remembered that MaxGoodrich had stopped him in the hall earlier and told him the police had been to see Clara.
“We have to protect Clara,” Max had told him, as if Harold might not be on the team of those deeply committed to protecting Clara.
“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” Harold had replied. But the truth was, an investigation into the ancient history of the Ray Cowles case would be very worrying indeed.
For the last three years, Harold had been convinced that Clara would come back to him if her troubles with the Centre ever got big enough. Now the trouble was big enough, but where was she? All afternoon he had tried not to think of her living up there in the ether, way, way above him, where the power was. At 6:20 he decided it was time to go looking for her.
eighteen
C lara Treadwell did not instantly engage the Psychiatric Centre’s legal machinery. She detested the hospital’s general counsel, Ben Hartley, and decided she would not worry, or take any steps about the Cowles situation until there was an autopsy report determining his cause of death. By her last meeting of the day, however, she was too impatient to endure any more aimless debate about trivial matters. She walked out.
Recently, her span of attention had begun to vary quite a bit. In Washington, where the issues were big ones and the players big-league players, she was alert and fully engaged every second. But in the smaller arena of hospital and university life, the endless round of meetings about hospital departmental problems made her New York life seem routine, almost small-time. The petty politics of the individuals involved, each clinging so desperately to his own little sliver of the power pie, took up a lot of time. The system was an old one,
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