The reasons that originally drove Gloria to my apartment produced an undercurrent of sadness that threatened to escalate into full-scale depression as Holmes traced the history of their relationship. A teacher/student love affair fragmented with bouts of guilt, recriminations, and self-doubt. Although they maintained contact after Dr. James graduated, they apparently hadn’t resumed their friendship until after he married. His wife seemed to protect them from themselves. At least Holmes thought so.

After Holmes stopped talking, Gloria, her throat tight, continued, “What Eban says about our relationship is true. While I was with him I felt loved and taken care of. A part of me never felt better. But I had no need of Yvonne’s protection. Once we finished that part of our relationship,” she looked at both of us defiantly, “it was over.”

Undertones of a deeper, more complicated conflict punctured their differing perceptions, but I’d had enough of Dr. James without her professional clothes. “You don’t have to tell me all this.”

“I know.” She closed her eyes. “Please, this is difficult enough without interruptions. You see, Eban is a genius in my field.” She stopped, opened her eyes, bit her lower lip and continued in a soft even voice. “I care a great deal about my work. For as long as I can remember, work has been a source of pride and identity. If he and I were together, my work, my ambitions, would necessarily take a back seat.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “As wonderful as our relationship made me feel, there was too great a sacrifice.”

The three of us sat there; they with their memories, me with my own history of four-card flushes. It was one thing to fire my therapist, another to be confronted with her shattered dreams.

“So you were afraid Holmes graduated from fucking students to fucking clients.”

The hostility shredded the atmosphere. I stood, grateful for my sunglasses. “Look, I gotta go. If there were any doubt,” I opened my hands toward the two of them, “that last remark clinches it.”

I walked toward Dr. James and tried to make up. “Dr. Holmes is right about my needing some protection. Why don’t you give me a dollar like they do on television. You know, then I’ll have a client.” I smiled but she was still stung by my big mouth.

“I wouldn’t give you a quarter. Your body may hurt but I think I’ve taken a fair beating myself today. There was no need for you to act like a shit.”

I took off the glasses. “You’re absolutely right. And so was he,” I jerked my thumb toward Holmes, “before. I think it’s probably the right thing, but changing our relationship is harder than it looks.” I stared directly at her. “I am going to keep looking into this with or without your dollar. Tell you the truth, I’m not sure whether I’m better off with or without a client.”

“Which raises another question, Matt.” Holmes was stroking his beard thoughtfully, but his eyes were hard and filled with something I couldn’t recognize. There was a side to him that I hadn’t yet met. “Your intent is clear, but you might be in over your head.” He couldn’t resist, “I suspect the other fellow won the fight.”

Who could blame him? None of us had had it easy today. He’d just done a busman’s holiday, stuck his ass on a clothesline, and had his fantasy about his and Gloria’s relationship slapped. But I wasn’t going to back off now.

“I was in over my head the minute I said I’d get involved. It’s a consensus. But now that I’m in, I’m staying. It’s not a feeling I often have and,” I bowed stiffly, very stiffly, toward Dr. James, “thanks to her help, a feeling I don’t intend to ignore.” I looked back toward

Holmes and was surprised to see him struggling to rid his face of a twisted, hostile expression. “The other fellow only won the round,” I said starting for the door.

“Wait.”

I was glad it was her voice. She was opening her desk drawer. “Here’s a couple of dollars. We will discuss real payment some other time.”

There was no accounting for the sense of exhilaration I felt when I pocketed the singles. I shook hands with Eban, who had bounced up from his chair and was trying to generate his earlier warmth and friendliness. After his look of a moment ago it didn’t square, but he didn’t dampen my enthusiasm. I had trouble walking out the door, but by the time the elevator deposited me in the lobby I was admitting the obvious: I liked what I was doing.

The weather outside was beautiful. One of those days when the sun and blue of the sky reach out and cradle you, insulate you from the people and activities which surround you. For a moment even my body, though in need of a hot bath, felt like mine and not some alien graft to contend with. Although I needed to make sense out of all that had occurred I wasn’t going to do it now. There weren’t too many days when I noticed the weather, and even fewer that I liked. Sometimes you just had to smell the flowers.

I decided on a long ride home. As I drove around the city I found myself thinking of the family without the usual gravel-in-my-face sensation. I felt badly that they were buried in Chicago; I wanted to visit their graves. Instead I drove to Author’s Ridge, a cemetery in an outlying town where a number of famous literary figures lay. I walked to the point where you could see both Emerson’s and Thoreau’s graves; Emerson’s was marked with a large round monument, Thoreau’s a small modest plaque. As they lived so they will be remembered. It bode well for the memories of those who were mine.

The drive back was quiet. A slight drop in the temperature gave early warning to the onset of evening. I was amazed at how quickly the day had winged by. I thought about talking to Phil, but time had lightened my ambition and I didn’t want an injection of cynicism. It was time to put things in perspective, comfortably, at home.

Only there was more left to the day. I noticed the door leading to the basement was slightly ajar. The calm I’d felt since leaving Dr. James’s office evaporated in the face of another potential visit from last night’s friends. I forced my body to walk the hall quietly to my apartment. The sound of the television drifted out from behind the closed door. I thought about leaving and returning later but there seemed no point. Whoever it was, was making himself right at home. I bunched my body into a tight, painful ball, grabbed and simultaneously twisted the handle of the door, thrust my way in, and scared the shit out of Lou who was lounging on the recliner watching the tube. He jumped to his feet and looked wildly around the room. I just stood there panting with fear and pain. Neither of us said anything for a moment.

“Jesus Christ, boychik, do you always come home that way? What the hell happened to you? I thought your days of picking on bartenders were over.” He stood with his hands shaking.

I finally caught my breath. “Lou, how are you? Why didn’t you let me know you were coming? What are you doing in town? How is Martha?”

“Slow down, Matty.” He lowered his bulk onto the chair though he kept the back upright. “Sit down, will you? You’re acting crazy.” He looked at me carefully. “Why are you wearing sunglasses? Are you high on something? Are you drinking again?”

I walked over to the couch. “Now you slow down. I’m not drinking and I’m not high. I’ve had some trouble lately and I’m jumpy about it.”

“What sort of trouble?”

I waved my arm. “I’ll tell you later, first things first.” I took off my glasses and looked him over. “You’re looking fat and sassy.”

He grimaced. “Fat yes, sassy I’m not so sure about. What the hell happened to your face?”

“Broken nose, no big deal. I promise you we’ll get to it. What brings you to town?”

“Got to check on my investments, right?” He smiled. So did I. “Right.”

“The mayor sent me to feel out whether it makes sense for him to initiate a national campaign.”

“You mean you want to find out whether it makes sense to run the mayor, don’t you.”

“You’ve always thought I was more of a kingmaker than is true.”

I nodded and smiled. Here was the last relic of Chicago’s Daley years, a guy who managed to land in a new era with his local clout intact, and he was still pretending to be a political hack. We both knew that the high point of his life had been handing Illinois to Kennedy in ‘60. Every time a national election rolled around Lou looked to repeat the experience.

“How long are you in for?”

“Just ‘til the morning.”

“Lou.” I was disappointed.

His face set. “I can’t leave Martha alone too long these days.”

“Is she sick?”

His hands tightened on the arms of the chair. “Not really. She’s having trouble remembering things. The whitecoats have some fancy name for it but I call it age.”

“What do you mean by whitecoats? Is she hospitalized?”

“Not now. She has to go once in a while.”

“When did this begin?”

“Oh, it’s not recent.” He didn’t want to talk but my silence seemed to push him into it. “It’s been coming on for a long time. Hey, it was even pretty funny for a while. We sometimes would sit around and laugh about some of the shenanigans she used to pull.”

“When did it stop being funny?”

He looked at me sharply. “Still not one for tact, are you?”

“I guess not.” He was one of the very few people who could still make me feel sheepish.

“It got bad about a year ago.”

“Jesus, Lou, I didn’t know.”

“How could you? I didn’t tell you. You’ve got enough tsouris of your own.”

“Sure.”

“Look, don’t sure me. All telling you would do is worry another person. It seemed like a dumb idea.”

“Do you stay home with her?”

“Most nights. I got steady help in the day.”

He pushed himself to his feet with his large powerful arms. “Enough with this. By the looks of it you got some problems yourself. Anyhow, I don’t want to talk about mine or even hear about yours. I want to eat. Then I’ll want to listen.”

I felt relieved about not talking. I also felt hungry. “Sounds like a great idea. Name your fancy, my treat.” He shook his large head and grumbled, “I’ll name the place but you leave your money home.” “We’ll work it out. Where do you want to go?” “Where I always go. The joint that doesn’t have a name. The one by the ocean.”