Frank De Felitta: For Love of Audrey Rose

“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, into 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.”