Sweet Dreams, Irene

He wasn’t completely mollified, but I didn’t have time to smooth his ruffled feathers. I went back to my desk and started working on election stories, which had now been made vastly more interesting by a couple of high school students. I thought about Julie. Monty Montgomery must have wanted to throttle her. In Jacob’s case, he could go to his father saying he was wrongly accused. Julie was responsible for her own predicament; I couldn’t picture her father being very understanding.

Not an hour had gone by when the phone rang. It was Pete, sounding frantic.

“Look, something’s happened to Frank.”

I let out a little cry, and he immediately knew what I was thinking.

“No, no, no – God, Irene – no, he’s not hurt or anything. I’m sorry. Bad choice of words. But look, something’s wrong with him.”

“I know, but he won’t talk about it.”

“Damn. I was hoping he was talking to you. He seemed to be doing better until this morning.”

“What happened?”

“He’s been suspended.”

“What?!”

“Bredloe suspended him for a couple of days.”

“Why?”

“Well, he sort of punched somebody out.”

“Sort of punched somebody out?”

“The guy had it coming. We’re sitting around this morning and Frank walks in, and Bob Thompson makes a crack and Frank punches him.” Pete laughed. “Knocked old Thompson flat on his ass. We had to hold them to keep them from going at it.”

“Frank punched somebody? Another detective?” I was having trouble getting all of this to sink in. Frank is not someone who goes around punching people.

“Yeah,” said Pete, more subdued.

“You said Thompson made a crack. What kind of crack did he make?”

“A wisecrack.”

“Pete. Don’t.”

“Okay, okay. The guy made a crack about you. Satisfied? Some stupid remark about the paper not getting to bed on time.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes. And Frank would probably have let it pass any other day, but I’m telling you, since this Fremont thing, he’s been impossible. Impossible. He’s a powder keg. That’s why Bredloe suspended him.”

“Pete, why was Bredloe so angry down at the harbor?”

There was silence for a moment.

“Shit, Irene, don’t tell me you were there.”

“I was there.”

“You poor kid. Damn, that shook me up. Bredloe wasn’t really angry, just concerned. He knows Frank isn’t happy with Carlson, but he keeps hoping they’ll work things out. Besides, Frank hasn’t been himself lately.”

“No, he hasn’t.”

“You can’t really blame him. It would be too much for anybody. He’s been bothered by the Gillespie case; he’s let it get to him. I don’t know if he told you, but he’s done almost all the contact with the little girl’s parents. Kid’s father just sits in front of the TV, watching videotapes of her, crying. Hit Frank hard, I guess.

“And back on Halloween night, when Mrs. Fremont died, he was losing it – Carlson picked up on it and told Frank he knew her too well to work on the case, and that he had enough on his plate with the Gillespie case. So that was bad, but Frank seemed to take it okay.”

“Not really.”

“Well, he seemed like he took it okay at the time. The next morning he was a wreck. That’s when the call came in about Ta

“Anyway, I told Carlson off about that. There wasn’t anybody else in the room – Ta

I couldn’t say anything.

“Sorry – I shouldn’t be telling you all of this.” He sighed. “The job might not even be what’s eating at him. It’s November, and that’s Frank’s bad month anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t know?”

“Pete! Would I ask you if I did?”

“No need to get nasty, Irene.”

“Sorry. Just tell me why November is a bad month.”

“His dad died in November. Thanksgiving.”

I thought back to what Frank had told me about his dad’s death. I knew he had died about three years ago, from a heart attack.

“Frank has been upset every year in November for the last three years?”

“Well, it’s always hard on him, but this year is the worst I’ve seen him. Maybe just too many other things happening. I don’t know. I think he blames himself for his dad’s death.”

“What? I thought his dad had a heart attack.”

“Yeah, well, I guess Frank had been talking to his dad, then he went outside to play with his sister’s kid. He was only out there a minute when his mom started screaming. Frank ran in, and his dad was on the floor, clutching his chest. Frank did CPR, but his dad died anyway.”

“Jesus.”

“You know how many times I’ve told him there was nothing he could have done if he had stayed in that room talking to his dad?”

I sat there, suddenly not caring a damn about the election, the newspaper, or anything else. Except Frank.

“Where is he now, Pete?”

“Home, I guess. He won’t talk to me. Could you try?”

“Sure. I don’t know if it will do any good, but I’ll try. Thanks for telling me all of this.”

I found Lydia and asked her to call me at Frank’s if anybody needed me. Then I located Stacee.

“Something’s come up, Stacee, and I have to leave. Lydia knows how to get in touch with me.” I listed some of the things I had pla

I raced down to Frank’s house. He didn’t answer the doorbell, but his car was in the driveway, so I pulled out my key and let myself in. I called to him as I opened the door, but there was no response. I kept calling all the way through the house, then saw he was sitting out on the back patio. A bottle of scotch sat next to him.

“A little early in the day, isn’t it?” I said as I walked out into the backyard.

He didn’t answer me or look at me.

I moved around to where I could see his face. He looked like hell.

I sat down next to him.

“If you’re gong to defend my questionable honor with your bare knuckles, the least you can do is look me in the eye.”

“Pete has a goddamned big mouth,” he spat, but at least he looked at me.

“How long do you think this would have been a secret, anyway?”

“With that bunch of hens, not long.”

“Pete’s just worried about you. So am I.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.”

Silence.

“Look,” he said angrily, “I don’t need you to hold my hand every time I have a problem at work. Don’t you have an election to cover?”

“A problem at work? Is that what this is? Face it, Frank. Something’s really wrong and you know it.”

“It’s my problem.”

“Our problem.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Goddamn it, Irene, do you always have to have the last fucking word!?”

“When it matters, yes.”

More silence.

“Go back to work.”

“Talk to me.”

He threw his glass against the wall of the house. I jumped, but I wasn’t going to back down.

“Break every last piece of glass in the house if it makes you feel better. But talk to me, Frank.”

“I told you, I can’t.”

“Bullshit. You won’t.”