That day was October thirteenth, a Saturday in Manhattan, and more than six years since our meeting in the bookstore. The sun had risen with a cold, crisp chill, decadently blue skies, and radiance in the city as if the day knew what was to come. Susan phoned Bishop to wish him a happy birthday. He was quiet on the phone, his voice hoarse. She asked what was wrong, but with Bishop there was always a lapse in communication when he was troubled. Gratefully, Susan knew how to play his game; in the silence he’d offer his troubles.
“I can’t relax,” he said. “I’m having trouble focusing.” Bishop referred to hypnosis as focusing, a place he often called “the peaceful city.”
“Maybe it’s the new medication. It’s only been a few weeks. You know it takes time to adjust.”
There was a pause. “Bishop?” she said. “Yes. I’m here.”
“Try taking a nap. Maybe some rest will do you good.
I’ll be over later, and we’ll go out for your birthday.”
“I can’t stop thinking about him,” he said. Bishop was referring to Michael Flannery, a former patient at the City Hospital and the reason Bishop was sent to the State Mental Institute. “He’s consuming my thoughts. He won’t leave.”
“Bishop, you’ve got to slow down.”
He sighed, and Susan could feel the frustration in his voice.
“We’ll talk to Dr. Whalberg on Monday. Maybe there’s something he can do.”
“I don’t want to talk to him. I’m tired of taking medications. He thinks every problem can be fixed with a pill.”
“Okay then, what would you like to do?”
“I don’t—my mind’s racing. I just need to focus.” “Do you want me to come over now?”
“No,” he said abruptly. “I need some time alone. I’ll be here when you get here. I think I’ll go for a walk then take a nap.”
“I’ll wake you with a kiss.”
“So sweet. Now that is heaven.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. Bishop had a way of always knowing what to say to lighten the mood. “Happy Birthday, baby,” she said. “Talk to you soon.”
“I love you,” he said, but his tone carried desperation rather than joy.
“Love you too.”
Bishop lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn Heights. There wasn’t much furniture in the apartment other than a futon couch and a television that sat on a small wood table. A queen-sized mattress was stuffed in the bedroom on the floor; no other furniture could fit other than a long mirror, which clung to the wall beside the bed.
Bishop closed his eyes, breathing deeply, hoping to clear his thoughts, but Michael was there again. And then the phone rang.