Kaleidoscope ~ The Circle "What's the matter, Radcliffe? Can't handle a weekend off?"
by Cynthia Hatch
Part 9
"What?" she squinted up at him.
"You look like you might have partied just a little too hardy?"
"Thanks, Joe. Just what a girl wants to hear on a Monday morning. I'm fine. I have a headache, that's all."
"Guess again. You've got two of 'em. The boss wants you on the Bassano case. He's gonna be running you ragged. I'd take a couple of aspirins, if were you.
Joe was right. After an hour's meeting, she found herself racing from one end of town to the other. There was so much background to gather, so many people to talk to. It was often like this at the beginning of a case, but this one promised to cover a lot of territory. She was glad for the diversion, glad for the weariness that claimed her when at last she stumbled into bed.
Tuesday and Wednesday were equally hectic. When she found herself faced with a mountain of paper, she tried to foist if off on the other assistants, offering to do their legwork in exchange. It was too easy to lose the thread of some tedious testimony and find her mind wandering to other things. Away from the sterile cubicles of the office, she felt closer to that other world and to him. The steam grates, the gutters, the subway entrances she passed were all like windows to that hidden place, unnoticed by anyone but her. When the trains rattled underneath the sidewalk, she could imagine that he was hearing them too. The racket they made might jangle the nerves of tourists and be ignored by veteran New Yorkers, but to her it was soothing music, connecting her to him.
By Thursday there was no way to avoid the office. All the information that she'd gathered had to be committed to paper, brought into some semblance of order that others could understand, but it was hard. The empty place inside her grew bigger with passing time. It seemed to swallow up any attempt at concentration. Each night she had come home and rushed to the terrace, searching the shadows, knowing already that he wasn't there. Still, the disappointment that washed over her in those moments was a relief from the numbness she'd used to avoid thinking and remembering, activities that would shatter her resolve to be patient.
On Thursday she entered the apartment to find a white square of paper on the carpet near the front door, She snatched it up to see that the hand-writing was unfamiliar, but the message was from Pascal. Only two words - “He's okay". It was absurdly little, but her heart lifted. Vincent might be worrying, even suffering, but to those who loved him, the simple words spoke volumes: he hadn't become lost in that darkness that lurked somewhere inside him, waiting for a chance to take the upper hand.
She sent a silent prayer of thanks to Pascal, who'd cared enough to let her know, at the same time envying him. While she had gone about her business, alone in the crowds of the city, Pascal had been with Vincent, seen him, talked to him. Maybe they'd walked along the Whispering Gallery together, catching the odd bits and pieces of peoples lives that hovered there in phantom conversations. Perhaps, they’d sat side by side at a council meeting, where Vincent’s words would cut through the tangled arguments with quiet clarity, soothing heated tempers, guiding them to a solution, perhaps without their noticing.
She’d give anything to change places with Pascal or anyone else who knew those simple pleasures. To sit and listen to him reading stories to the children, or watch him move across some chamber with unconscious power and grace. The five days that stretched between them suddenly showed itself in a wave of agony she had tried hard to suppress. She began to search every inch of the balcony, irrationally hoping she’d missed some crucial communication: a note, a book, a rose, but there was nothing, and she sank into a chair. The night was humid, and she’d left the door open, so that the air conditioning was wasted on the heavy atmosphere, but she couldn’t bring herself to get up and close it.
There were too many questions buzzing around her brain, though her heart never faltered. Was it true that she would be content just to be with him, watching, listening, together, but always apart? Maybe she was kidding herself. Could she ever again stroll with him through the tunnels or stand beside him here without wanting to be in his arms? She’d managed before, but after Saturday night, she wasn’t sure she had the strength.
She looked down and fingered the crystal that burned at her breast. Her mind told her that any time spent with him was better than this loneliness, that she could master her passion for the sake of regaining what they’d always shared, but a part of her rebelled at the injustice of it. She knew with absolute certainty that what had happened to them was not only inevitable but right. Why should she have to deny herself the memory of it, or pretend that she didn’t long to complete the sensual journey they had begun? What perverse fate could require that great a sacrifice from lovers?
She moved restlessly from the chair to the balcony wall, hoping to avoid the one issue she hadn’t wanted to confront. It was no use. In that question could lie the answer to everything, the key that would unlock their separate prisons - or keep them there forever. She took a deep breath and asked it: Could Vincent be right? Was there a reason, cold and absolute and unalterable, that she could never have what she longed for? She trusted his judgment, believed in his words always, yet she’d stubbornly refused to accept this one thing that he told her. Why doubt him now? Was it only because she wanted so desperately not to believe it, or was it some vestige of the Cathy she used to be, selfishly refusing to accept that she couldn't always have what she wanted?
It was time to seek the wisdom of a cooler head, though the prospect was daunting, time to beard the lion in his den. Hastily, she planned her course of action, aware that it might be useless, but needing to do something to break this impasse. She picked up a knife from the terrace table and cut two roses from the little bush, and going back inside, placed them, the white and the red, in a vase beside her pillow.
The next morning she was the first one to arrive at the office. All day, she worked with a fervor that saw her dumping completed files and transcripts on Joe's desk by early afternoon.
"Aren't we the little dynamo? Are you bucking for my job, Radcliffe, or just trying to get out of here on time for once?”
"Just doing what you pay me for. Anything else, Joe?"
"Thought you'd never ask." He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, producing a stack of folders, handing it to her with a grin she found amazingly irritating.
“What is that - a bottomless pit?" She accepted the folders with what she hoped was a withering look and left his office.
"There's more where that came from," he called after her.
At six o'clock she looked up to see him standing in front of her desk, wiggling a handful of papers at her.
“You've got to be kidding."
“What is it with you, Cathy? If I didn't know you better I'd swear you were actually trying to get out from under all this work. Got another big party this weekend?"
"Actually, I was thinking of forming a lynch mob."
"Oops, you'll have to find yourself another victim. I'm going fishing."
"Is that why I'm doing all your work for you today? Give them to me, Joe. I'm taking this stuff home before you find any more.” She gathered up her things. "And if you follow me, Ill have you arrested."
“You do good work, kiddo," he twinkled at her.
“Drop dead, Joe," she smiled sweetly and made her escape.
At home she ate a sandwich while she pored over the files. It was ten by the time shed finished, and she breathed a sigh of relief. That's one less thing to worry about, she thought. It could be the final irony that she'd cleared the next two days for whatever might happen. The path she'd chosen might be blocked immediately. He might refuse to discuss the subject at all or worse, tell her things she didn't want to hear. Her one certainty was that she must avoid Vincent. Well, that's been a piece of cake so far she told herself, ruefully. Having decided where to turn, she knew that she didn't want him to come to her - not yet, not before she had better ammunition to fight him with, if such ammunition existed, and if someone would give it to her.