fearful. He was afraid her pity might be the reason she married him. He didn’t want that. He wanted her to love him, not pity him.
“You told my father you didn’t love me,” he said. “Do you love me now?”
Christine stared at him for a moment. Then she arose and stood in front of him. She took off her clothes, put her hands on her hips, and looked down at him, her big brown eyes shining. She leaned forward, placed her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him long and hard. She sat on his lap and put her arms around his neck. “Well, I certainly like you. At least I like some things about you.”
“What do you like about me?” he said, feeling a lot better.
She squirmed in his lap. He was aroused. “Well, you’re . . . tall.” She kissed him deep and probing.
“Let’s go to bed,” Nate said.
“Let’s stay here.”
He clicked off the lamp. The soft glow from the fire flickered on her bare shoulders. She undressed him and sat on his lap again. She kissed him and touched him and teased him and held him off until he felt he would explode. At the end of it, she straddled him as he sat in the chair. Her hands clasped behind his neck, she leaned back until her arms were straight. She tilted her head back as far as she could. When he burst inside her, she said through clenched teeth, “I love you. Oh, yes. I love you. I love you.”
Lost in his memories, Nate sat on the bench in Beauregard Park beside the lion-head fountain until Michie’s Place cut off its lights and locked its doors. He went to his apartment where there was no whiskey and went to bed, but sleep didn’t come. He wanted a drink. He needed a drink. He arose before dawn, walked to the courthouse, and sat on the courthouse steps. Judge Blackwell was always the first to arrive, and so it was that morning. His old Cadillac pulled into the parking lot. The judge got out of his car, crossed the lot, and stopped at the steps to look at Nate. Nate was pale and covered with sweat. No words passed between them. The judge unlocked the courthouse door, and Nate followed him to his chambers. Nate sat in the chair across from the judge’s desk. The judge made a pot of coffee and gave Nate a cup. Nate’s hands trembled so badly he couldn’t bring it to his mouth.
“Fold your hands, place them on the desk, and press them together. Breathe deeply.”
Nate did as he was told.
“Think about something you care about. What do you most want to gain by remaining sober?”
Nate’s tongue was dry, his voice hoarse. “I want Christine to take me back.”
The judge was quiet for a long time. “All right. Think about Christine.”
Nate closed his eyes. Through an alcoholic blur, he could see her face and hear her voice:
I hate you.
“So do I,” Nate said. He covered his face and sobbed.
“Let it out, son.”
After a long time, Nate calmed. He wiped away the sweat and tears, leaned back in the chair, and sipped coffee from the cup.
“Do you want me to talk with Doctor Davis about readmitting you to the hospital?”
“For what?”
“You can’t drink there.”
Nate shook his head. “I can’t hide from the whiskey forever.”
The judge and Nate sat together for a long time without saying anything. Nate finished the coffee. “Thanks,” he said. He stood to leave.
“Are you all right?”
“I don’t know.” He headed toward the door.
“She’ll probably never take you back, Nathan, but if there’s any chance at all, whiskey will kill it for you.”
Nate paused at the door. As always, the judge had done the right things to fortify him, and he had said the only words that could give Nate the strength to resist for a while longer. He turned and looked at the judge. A question had rolled around in his mind for a long time. “Why do you protect me, Harry?”
“What?”
“You convinced the sheriff and the commonwealth’s attorney not to indict me for the crimes I committed as a prosecutor. You recused yourself from our divorce
“You told my father you didn’t love me,” he said. “Do you love me now?”
Christine stared at him for a moment. Then she arose and stood in front of him. She took off her clothes, put her hands on her hips, and looked down at him, her big brown eyes shining. She leaned forward, placed her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him long and hard. She sat on his lap and put her arms around his neck. “Well, I certainly like you. At least I like some things about you.”
“What do you like about me?” he said, feeling a lot better.
She squirmed in his lap. He was aroused. “Well, you’re . . . tall.” She kissed him deep and probing.
“Let’s go to bed,” Nate said.
“Let’s stay here.”
He clicked off the lamp. The soft glow from the fire flickered on her bare shoulders. She undressed him and sat on his lap again. She kissed him and touched him and teased him and held him off until he felt he would explode. At the end of it, she straddled him as he sat in the chair. Her hands clasped behind his neck, she leaned back until her arms were straight. She tilted her head back as far as she could. When he burst inside her, she said through clenched teeth, “I love you. Oh, yes. I love you. I love you.”
Lost in his memories, Nate sat on the bench in Beauregard Park beside the lion-head fountain until Michie’s Place cut off its lights and locked its doors. He went to his apartment where there was no whiskey and went to bed, but sleep didn’t come. He wanted a drink. He needed a drink. He arose before dawn, walked to the courthouse, and sat on the courthouse steps. Judge Blackwell was always the first to arrive, and so it was that morning. His old Cadillac pulled into the parking lot. The judge got out of his car, crossed the lot, and stopped at the steps to look at Nate. Nate was pale and covered with sweat. No words passed between them. The judge unlocked the courthouse door, and Nate followed him to his chambers. Nate sat in the chair across from the judge’s desk. The judge made a pot of coffee and gave Nate a cup. Nate’s hands trembled so badly he couldn’t bring it to his mouth.
“Fold your hands, place them on the desk, and press them together. Breathe deeply.”
Nate did as he was told.
“Think about something you care about. What do you most want to gain by remaining sober?”
Nate’s tongue was dry, his voice hoarse. “I want Christine to take me back.”
The judge was quiet for a long time. “All right. Think about Christine.”
Nate closed his eyes. Through an alcoholic blur, he could see her face and hear her voice:
I hate you.
“So do I,” Nate said. He covered his face and sobbed.
“Let it out, son.”
After a long time, Nate calmed. He wiped away the sweat and tears, leaned back in the chair, and sipped coffee from the cup.
“Do you want me to talk with Doctor Davis about readmitting you to the hospital?”
“For what?”
“You can’t drink there.”
Nate shook his head. “I can’t hide from the whiskey forever.”
The judge and Nate sat together for a long time without saying anything. Nate finished the coffee. “Thanks,” he said. He stood to leave.
“Are you all right?”
“I don’t know.” He headed toward the door.
“She’ll probably never take you back, Nathan, but if there’s any chance at all, whiskey will kill it for you.”
Nate paused at the door. As always, the judge had done the right things to fortify him, and he had said the only words that could give Nate the strength to resist for a while longer. He turned and looked at the judge. A question had rolled around in his mind for a long time. “Why do you protect me, Harry?”
“What?”
“You convinced the sheriff and the commonwealth’s attorney not to indict me for the crimes I committed as a prosecutor. You recused yourself from our divorce
Similar Books
