Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  Robert reappeared in the kitchen. She heard the sounds of Vladimir Horowitz, her favorite pianist and Robert's favorite as well. He had remembered and played the CD for her. She was beginning to feel wonderful. She felt the tension drop from her body like a discarded garment.

  Robert smiled at her – a deep, caring, and sensual smile. She looked into his eyes. She knew the look, the sensitive eyes that smoldered and bespoke of countless pleasures to come. He said in his deep voice, "May I escort the lovely lady into dinner?" He was so gallant, so cultured, so … French. So sexy. She loved this.

  Alex laughed a little nervously and accepted his arm. "Of course … I'd be honored," she said, remembering her Virginia upbringing.

  He seated her to his right, and he sat at the head of the table. He deftly poured the wine and served her salad.

  For a moment, Alex had a flashback. This evening was so typical of the evenings she and Mitch had spent at her house. Only Mitch had been seated at her table. No other man had ever graced her dining room. She pushed the thought from her mind, not wanting to think about Mitch tonight. Mitch wasn't an option any longer.

  She had a fleeting thought of what her grandmother, Kathryn Rosseau Lee, would do in a similar situation. It was easy. Grand would tell her to go for it. Grand was such a pragmatist, a wise lady and so fair with people, their flaws, and relationships. Besides, hadn't Grand encouraged her in March to try and rekindle her love for Robert? Hadn't she urged her to consider reconciliation when they'd been in Virginia in the spring? Grand had suggested this and Alex had brushed it off, way too raw from the death of Mitch.

  Actually, Alex couldn't be hard on her grandmother, her mentor. Grand had suggested to her in her exacting, precise, and practical way, "Alex, my dear, real love comes only once. Robert was your first love, just as Adam was mine. People fall in and out of love with each other many times throughout a marriage. My generation, we put up with each other, but you younger folks run for divorce – an easy out which prevents people from trying to work things out—”

  Alex had interrupted her grandmother, angry and defensive at the conversation. She'd accused her grandmother of blaming her for ending her marriage. Boy, she had some raw nerves back then.

  Kathryn had denied this, saying only that she was sure Robert still loved and wanted her. Because the conversation had been painful for Alex and the loss of Mitch so recent, Alex had abruptly ended the conversation. Her grandmother had assured her that she understood and asked only that Alex keep an open mind with regard to Robert's intentions. She asked that Alex be honest with herself. Grand also mentioned she knew Alex had secrets locked in her heart, as Grand did herself. Alex had found this remark particularly perplexing. One day when she wasn't so emotional, she would ask Grand about her secrets.

  Robert interrupted her thoughts. "Alex, what are you thinking?” His dark eyes bored into hers.

  "I was just thinking about Grand. Something she said to me when we were home. It's nothing really. How's your salad, Robert?"

  "It's wonderful! Just as you are, Alex. I'm going to savor this evening – it's perfect!"

  Robert reached for Alex's hand and rubbed it gently, tracing the veins in her hands softly. Alex again remembered the passion of their marriage. She decided to let herself be romanced and lured. It felt so good.

  Robert continued, "You know, Alex. You're so fortunate to have had your grandparents. They are fine people. The very best actually. I admire them both."

  She laughed. "Even Granddad? You always said you never had a handle on how Adam felt about you. Has that changed?"

  Robert contemplated her remarks. "No, I guess not. But, I still admire Adam Patrick Lee. He's one of the most noble and ethical men I have ever met." He looked a little sheepish. "I don't think Adam Lee thinks any man is good enough for his Alex."

  Alex smiled at him.

  "And you know what," Robert continued, "He may be right."

  Alex smiled at Robert. Their eyes locked. He continued to stroke her hand. She looked at him, conscious that she was going to have to make a decision very soon – a decision that could possibly affect the relationship for a long time, maybe even forever.

  Alex said to Robert gently, "Robert, I don't have any dessert. Sorry." Alex pretended to ponder this impropriety.

  He finally said, "Well, I guess I'll accept a dance instead. Isn't that Richard Clayderman?"

  Alex nodded. Clayderman, a popular pianist, was playing a romantic medley of songs. They moved into the living room to dance. Alex was pleased that Robert had cut off the lamps and had lit the electric wall sconces. The room was romantic, the sconces casting a warm, mellow glow over the pastel furniture.

  Robert and Alex began dancing, each caught up in their own thoughts about the rest of the evening. It was a wonderful feeling for Alex. She felt like a teenager. It seemed so right. After all, Robert had been her husband. That made it feel especially right. Besides, it felt perfect in his arms. It was so familiar.

  Robert was thinking the same thing. He felt sure he was interpreting Alex correctly. He wanted her to want the same things as he did. He wasn't looking for a one-night stand. He was looking for the opportunity to reclaim his wife. He said to her softly, "Alex, I love you. I've always loved you. I want to be with you, but only if you really want me."

  She moved her head from his shoulder and looked at him directly. His eyes were smoldering with passion and love. She knew the delights they held.

  She said simply, "I want you, too, Robert. I can't promise anything forever, but I want you."

  He pulled her closer and kissed her. A long, lingering, passionate kiss.

  Alex felt her heart beat faster and her legs and arms become weak with anticipation. She was aware of the degree of Robert's passion, as he held her in his arms. She took his hand and led him into her bedroom. "Give me a moment, Robert, so I can brush my teeth."

  He laughed at her, remembering that this was Alex's prelude to love. He said, "I'll do the same."

  Alex went into her bathroom, stripped off her clothes, and changed into a satin gown. She reemerged and found Robert waiting for her in her bed. No, it was their antique walnut bed with the deeply carved rosewood ten-foot headboard.

  For a moment, Alex was infinitely glad she had Helene, her cleaning lady, continue to put satin sheets on her bed. Over the past couple of years, she'd laughed at herself for using them, but now, it was worth it.

  She smiled shyly at Robert and he pulled her into bed. She fell into his arms. Robert was naked and she felt his muscled, lean body press against her as they embraced. She breathed a sigh of contentment as he kissed her. It was beautiful. It was poignantly familiar, it seemed so right. It was right, Alex convinced herself. She loved the way he smelled, so fresh and masculine. She was giving herself up to a night of ecstasy, when the phone rang. Robert gave a little, sad moan. Alex giggled and picked it up. It was Monique. Alex felt guilty. She had forgotten all about Monique and Jack.

  "Alex, can you meet me? I have got to talk to you! I can't find Jack!" Monique's voice was strangely hollow and frightened.

  Alex looked at her alarm clock. It was almost 11:00 p.m. She said, "Of course, Monique. Are you okay? You sound frightened. Where are you?"

  "I am frightened and I'm at home. Would you like to come here?" Monique picked up on Alex's hesitation. "I could come there, but I'm not sure that someone …"

  "No, you stay there. I'll come over. I'll be there in about twenty minutes."

  "Thanks, Alex. I appreciate it." Monique sounded relieved.

  Alex looked at Robert, who smiled at her sheepishly. "Could I have a rain check," she asked demurely.

  He laughed. "You bet! You can have any kind of check you want. Monique okay?"

  "I think so. She said she was frightened and wanted to talk." Alex became apologetic. "If it was anything or anyone else, I would've said no, but …"

  "Alex. It's okay. Believe me, I understand. Want me to go?"

  "No. But if I need you, I
'll call. Deal?"

  "You bet. I'll drop you off."

  Robert and Alex looked at each other shyly. Robert finally said, "I won't look, if you won't look."

  "Okay … another deal. Shut your eyes!"

  "Okay." Robert pretended to shut his eyes as his beautiful former wife bounded naked from the bed, clutching only a sheet. She had the elegance of a gazelle. She turned around and smiled at him as she ran into the master bath.

  God, she's beautiful, he thought to himself. She looks like a goddess with her alabaster skin and perfect body. She hasn't changed at all. In fact, she looks better now than she did ten years ago. He was right. Alex's long legs and buttocks were perfectly formed. Her tiny waist was the same. If anything, she had improved. He sighed as he retreated into the guest bath to dress. Well, he thought to himself, it was almost a perfect night. It was certainly more perfect than he had ever dreamed of on his way over. Robert smiled to himself. I love her, he thought. I really love her. Please God, please make her want me back, he prayed to himself.

  28

  Lester Whitset was having a rough evening. He was furious about Dr. Desmonde breaking into his office. He also knew that Anthony Gavette had seen him come out of Rose's room. That had pissed him off, especially when Anthony started screaming rape while hurling obscenities and threats at him. Lester decided he really didn't give a damn about Anthony. Anthony was the least of his problems.

  The voices had been screaming at him all night, since he left the hospital and went home. He had tried to stop them, but couldn't. His head was hurting so badly, that Whitset decided on a chemical fix, something he rarely did. Sometimes it helped calm the voices down and send them away. The booze and pills made him feel mellow and he deserved it. It'd been a bad day. Then, when he was calm and could think better, he could decide what to do about that imposter shrink bitch.

  Lester went to his bar and poured himself a tumbler full of scotch whiskey. After gulping the golden liquid, he went into his tiny bathroom to look for his Xanax. Damn, the bottle was empty. He'd have to steal some tomorrow off the medication cart. He refilled his tumbler again and drank it all.

  Finally, the whiskey was helping. The voices were fading. He thought again about Rose. He knew she would be loyal to him. She had shared in his little game. He continued to think about her as he drank heavily. He suspected Rose had told Anthony about the little game they'd been playing. Whitset considered Anthony his closest equal on the unit. He also knew that Anthony coveted the little waiflike patient.

  Anthony had told Lester one night, over a week ago, that he had wanted Rose for his own. Whitset had laughed at Anthony, reminding him that he was, after all, only a patient and not the administrator, like Les, who had the pick of the female patient litter. Anthony had gotten mad, but Lester calmed him down, assuring him that he liked his women tall and lush, like Angela Richelieu – not like the skinny little waif, Rose. Eventually, Anthony had cooled off, feeling confident that Lester was telling the truth.

  Whitset had put on a real show for Anthony and had spent most of the evening watching the beautiful nurse as she worked on the unit. Anthony had watched his every move. Whitset had even followed Angie into the glassed medication room, making obscene gestures behind her back in an effort to prove his point to Anthony and the other patients watching from the day room. Anthony had seemed pretty convinced. Whitset had thought what a dumbass Gavette was. Just a stupid, ignoramus crazy.

  Whitset smiled as he remembered how he foiled Anthony. Yes, Anthony was close to his equal, but of course, Lester was the superior being. The two men had a lot in common, but Whitset was the leader. After all, he was the administrator and Anthony was a lowly patient without any power. Lester had all the power, except some that the shrink bitch thought she had. He mustn't think about that, he told himself. Tut, tut, for Anthony Gavette. He smiled as he relived the evening. As soon as Anthony had been medicated and hauled off to bed by the psych tech, Whitset had reentered Rose's room.

  As the evening wore on and Whitset continued to drink, he daydreamed about the night with Rose. It had been good, so good. Rose was exactly what he had needed. The two had played like children, naughty children of course, for over two hours. Lester had been able to be himself with her. He was so happy when he had learned that Rose likes the simple little games of house that he had made up. He became more excited when he learned that Rose hadn't minded when the big burglar came in, killed her husband, and then raped her in the special way that only Lester knew how to do. He had ignored Rose when she had cried for help. He knew she loved it.

  Whitset shook himself when he realized he had drooled all down the front of his shirt. He got up to get a towel and shuddered when he thought of Angela Richelieu. She was a big, gross, woman pig. He had hated her. Still did. She was trouble. She wasn't obedient. She never had been – like Rose. He felt grossed out at the thought of Angela. He knew he'd have to take care of her if she woke up. It kind of made him happy ... it would be a pleasant “chore”, he thought to himself.

  Whitset began to feel agitated again and poured himself another glass of whiskey, drinking it quickly. It was good. Booze really did help him. He felt better. He was calm. Whitset looked down at his pants. He had a huge hard on. He thought about Rose again and smiled to himself as he checked his watch. It was a little past nine. He knew that pretty soon it would be lights out at the Pavilion. He had just enough time to finish his drink and go to the Pavilion to sample a few more of Rose's favors. Maybe he'd get off this time! And, afterwards, maybe he'd go into Anthony's room and lord it over him. Tell him about the little game he and Rose played, about how she preferred him to the big, powerful Anthony. Lester smiled and clapped his hands in anticipation of his plans for the evening. He felt like such a naughty boy.

  His phone rang. It shrilled endlessly in the still apartment. At first, Whitset was disoriented. He had only gotten one or two phone calls in the six months he had lived in New Orleans. They had been from long distance telephone services trying to sell him cheaper long-distance rates. He picked it up. It was Don Montgomery.

  "Whitset, is that you?” Don Montgomery, demanded. “Say something to me, dammit!"

  Whitset recovered swiftly. "Don, what's up? Where are you?"

  "I'm in my car on the way home. Have you decided to hire the staff we talked about?" Don's voice was laced with static. The cell reception was terrible.

  Whitset was annoyed. He hated cell phones. He said clearly, "No, I'm not hiring anyone. I told you my decision today. We don't need all that staff. It costs too much and it's stupid."

  "Whitset," Don's voice was placating, "We have got to do something, or else Desmonde will go to the press. You heard her today. Whitset, just hire them temporarily. We can get rid of them when all this quiets down. Nobody will listen to her story in two weeks or a month. I think we should give her what she wants – at least for now." Don's voice ended in a whine.

  Whitset, hardly sober, reviewed his options. "Don't worry, Don. I'll take care of Desmonde. I'll talk to her again."

  "She's not going to back down. I know the woman. You have got to give her what she wants now. Do it, Whitset, it's worth it. I promise it will be a temporary fix."

  Lester felt himself losing control. The voices were back, telling him to get the shrink bitch. He could barely talk coherently. "I said I would take care of it, Don. Don't worry. See you tomorrow." Whitset hung up the phone.

  "Whitset, you sound funny. You sure you're okay?" Don repeated his question again before he realized the administrator had hung up. The CEO said out loud in his car, "You had better take care of it, you damned asshole! If you don't, I'm canceling your contract and I'll make sure you never get another job anywhere." Don floored his gold Porsche and drove recklessly down Canal Street towards his house.

  Whitset sat on the sofa. The voices had completely taken over his head. In his mind, he again saw Dr. Desmonde turn to plastic in front of him. He was going to have to do what the voices told him to do. Th
e imposter shrink had to be stopped. After all, wasn't that his mission? He was supposed to get rid of all the imposters. They told him so. Whitset grabbed his tie and left his French Quarter apartment.

  He wandered aimlessly for about an hour through the sultry New Orleans heat into the Vieux Carre, trying to decide what to do. He sat on a bench, holding his head, trying to argue with the voices. Nobody looked at him. After all, he was in the French Quarter of New Orleans with all kinds of people from all walks of life. He fit right into the crowd. He finally acquiesced to the voices and entered a phone booth to look for Monique's address. Phone booths were a bit of an anachronism in most cities, but New Orleans still had them. Phone booths were still around for the throngs of people who could not afford cell phones. He found no listing for Monique Desmonde.

  He was furious. Why didn't the shrink bitch have an address? Maybe imposters didn't really live in houses. They seem to appear only now and then. Perhaps they were already dead. Whitset batted this idea around in his head for a few minutes. It certainly seemed plausible to him. Finally, an idea dawned in his drunken head.

  Whitset reached for his cell phone and called CCMC information. He identified himself and the hospital operator bought his story and gave him Monique's phone number and address. He was in luck. She lived on Royal Street in the Quarter, only a few blocks away. He dialed the number and got a machine or voicemail. He was livid. He hated answering machines and voicemail. His calls were too important to be picked up by a piece of equipment. Machines represented more of the technology he hated. In frustration, he slammed the receiver down, chipping a large chunk of plastic out of his iPhone.