Loving Time

twenty-six

At eight-forty-five on Friday morning, Clara Treadwell entered the executive conference room next door to her office. She was as prepared as she would ever be for the meeting Ben Hartley had called to discuss the Raymond Cowles death. She set her leather folder with its datebook and notepad at her place at the head of the table. As she sat, she curled the tips of her fingers into a half-fist to test the cut in her palm.

The point of the sharp surgical knife had dug deep, and the wound still ached, but the real damage of the incident had gone much deeper. Clara was sure the scalpel and the condom—those profoundly symbolic objects, one slashed through the other—related directly to her intimate relationship years ago with Harold Dickey. Like most men of his generation, Harold had hated condoms, couldn’t stand having his manhood sheathed and had said so often. As for the scalpel, Harold liked to tell his students their most sacred duty was to scrape away the patient’s carefully built-up defenses with the lightest possible touch of the scalpel.

Now, this insane act of his seemed to be a direct accusation that Clara had wielded her doctor’s scalpel like a dagger and was personally responsible for a patient’s death. After all the opposition and difficulty Clara had experienced over the years as a chief executive, and as a beautiful and desirable woman endlessly bothered by lovers and husbands who wanted too much, never had anyone physically hurt her. And never had anyone made her so deeply furious. She could hardly bear to be in the same room with him.

And just on this Friday morning, when Clara was scheduled to get out of there, to leave for a Commission meeting in Washington and then have a quiet weekend in Sarasota with the Senator, Ben Hartley had to call this idiotic meeting. Clara pulled her tiny tape recorder out of her purse and fiddled with it. She carried it with her everywhere and always took it out at the beginning of meetings. It amused her that no one knew when the recorder was on and when it was off, and no one ever dared to ask.

Ready, she glanced around the table at the three useless men whose jobs were to advise her. Max Goodrich, Vice Chairman of the Centre, who had been lurking outside her office when the police called on her and who now seemed dazed and unsure which way to blow in the wind; Ben Hartley, General Counsel, an inflated, elegantly dressed, silver-haired gentleman who looked as if he belonged in the State Department; and Harold Dickey, extravagantly pompous in his lack of importance, who had somehow invited himself. The fourth man at the table was the only one she had invited. Jason Frank had something to gain, so Clara felt he was the one she could count on.

Seething, Hartley stared at her, waiting for her nod to begin. She smiled at him.

“Calm down, Ben. Whatever’s bugging you can be dealt with,” she said soothingly.

“I don’t like surprises, Clara. You’ve thrown me some curves before, but this is a doozy.”

“Oh, come now, Ben. When has life at the Centre ever been anything but fat sizzling in the fire?”

“Clara, when a man I went to Harvard with thirty years ago calls me to tell me the chief administrator of my organization is being hounded by the police for a possible suicide in which she seems to be implicated—and this old friend’s company is about to sue the Centre, and you, for malpractice—and I don’t know a single thing about it … Well, I’d say that’s more than fat in the fire.”

“Now just a minute, Ben. I wasn’t hounded. The police came here to inform me of a death, and there’s absolutely no evidence at this time it was a suicide. It could have been accidental, it could have been a homicide. But whatever it was, I’m not in any way implicated. So let’s get the facts straight.”

“If you’re not implicated, what was your number doing in the memory of the dead man’s telephone?”

Clara frowned. “What are you talking about, Ben?”

“Didn’t the police tell you the last call made from Raymond Cowles’s apartment was to your home number?”

No, they hadn’t told her that. She didn’t know that, so how could he? Clara felt Harold’s accusing eyes burn her cheeks. She felt Ben was bluffing about the telephone thing and refused to let it intimidate her. “No. No one told me that. But there’s another false note right there. I never heard any such thing. It’s just not true.”

Max Goodrich looked appalled. “Let’s fix an agenda here. What are we here to talk—”

Hartley interrupted him. “Look, my job is to protect the hospital—and to protect Clara insofar as she is acting in the lawful course of her employment as an officer.”

Clara stared at him. “We’re aware of that, Ben. What’s your point?”

“Well, let’s put it this way. First scenario: The director of a hospital, driving a hospital-owned car on hospital business, hits a pedestrian. Second scenario: Clara Treadwell, who is the director of the hospital, drives her own car to the country for a weekend tryst with her lover and hits a pedestrian. In scenario one, the pedestrian may sue and recover from the hospital. In scenario two, the director is on her own.”

Clara touched her nails to her top lip. It was amazing how no matter how high a person climbed, and how big the support system for her seemed, none of it counted when there was a problem. She dropped her hand.

“I take your point, Counselor,” she said coldly.

“Now let me make this very plain. This is not a meeting of the Quality Assurance Committee.”

“Why not?” Max asked. “I thought that’s what we’re here for.”

“Because if there are complaints concerning the members of this committee or officers of the Centre, we have to consider very carefully questions of conflict of interest as well as the rule, which I believe even psychiatrists accept, that investigators may not investigate themselves.”

“Look, there’s nothing here that deserves any attention out of the ordinary,” Clara interjected smoothly. “Raymond Cowles was a patient of mine when I was a resident here eighteen years ago. Harold Dickey was my supervisor. The patient’s treatment lasted for a period of nearly four years, was terminated in the normal way, and was successful in every respect.”

“Except the patient died.” Hartley said it coldly.

“That was uncalled for,” Dickey snapped angrily.

“Harold’s right,” Max chimed in. “Let’s keep our cool.”

“I’m sorry,” Ben Hartley said softly. “But I’m concerned.”

“We don’t know what happened to Raymond,” Clara said firmly. “We probably never will. Several months ago, he called me and said he was having trouble sleeping. I spoke with him once or twice. I prescribed a mild tranquilizer and told him I would refer him to another psychiatrist if he wanted to return to treatment. That’s all there is to it.”

Harold Dickey shifted in his seat, coughing for attention. Clara ignored him. “I would be happy to investigate,” he said suddenly.

Hartley jammed his fists into his eyes. “Harold, you amaze me. If you are being investigated, you cannot be the investigator. If we are sued—and I sincerely hope we aren’t—you and Clara will be the subjects of more than one investigation. It’s that simple. Now that leaves this committee with only two functional members.”

“Hold on, Ben,” Clara broke in. “Of course the subject of an investigation cannot be the investigator. That’s precisely why I’ve asked Dr. Frank to become involved and to review the matter for us. I’ve already turned the file in this matter over to him.” She did not glance in Harold Dickey’s direction, but the heat of his rage spread around the room. Only Hartley seemed unaware of it.

Hartley turned to Jason for the first time. Clara bent toward him, smiling encouragingly. Jason said nothing.

“Dr. Frank, what is your connection to the Centre?” Hartley asked.

“I did my training here. I’m an attending. My teaching title is lecturer at the medical school. I supervise residents. My other associations include—”

“Thank you. You seem to be sufficiently well qualified, and unconnected to the administration of the Centre, to review the case and make inquiries where necessary. I suggest we set up an ad hoc Quality Assurance Committee headed by you to oversee our internal handling of this matter.” Hartley rubbed his hands together as if relieved to find a solution.

“You’ll write a report, of course, and keep us informed of your progress,” he added, almost smiling.

“Good work, Ben. Then we’ll be relying on Jason to give us a preliminary take on the case.” Clara glanced at her watch. Done and done, and she was free to go.

“All that leaves us is to agree on a date and time to meet again. Dr. Frank, what day and time next week would be good for you?”

For the first time that day, Clara flipped open the expensive burgundy leather folder with her name embossed in gold. Inside, a used and leaking condom was stuck to her datebook. She slapped the folder closed, but not before everyone around the table had a chance to see what was inside it.

For several seconds there was shocked silence. Clara felt the public humiliation as violently as if she had taken a direct hit from a heat-seeking missile. Her vision blurred with the impact, and she was afraid she was losing consciousness.

Just then, Hartley snickered, and her vision cleared. Her eyes locked ferociously on Dickey. “Harold, I need to see you before I leave,” Clara said. “Gentlemen—this meeting is adjourned.”