The Imposter (26 page)

"Give
me a moment, Robert, so I can brush my teeth."

He
laughed at her, remembering that this was Alex's prelude to love.  He said,
"I'll do the same."

Alex
went into her bathroom, stripped off her clothes, and changed into a satin
gown.  She reemerged and found Robert waiting for her in her bed.   No, it was
their antique walnut bed with the deeply carved rosewood ten foot headboard. 

For
a moment, Alex was infinitely glad she had Helene, her cleaning lady, continue
to put satin sheets on her bed.  Over the past couple of years, she had laughed
at herself for using them, but now, it was worth it.

She
smiled shyly at Robert and he pulled her into bed.  She fell into his arms. 
Robert was naked and she felt his muscled, lean body press against her as they
embraced.  She breathed a sigh of contentment as he kissed her.  It was
beautiful.  It was poignantly familiar, it seemed so right.  It was right, Alex
convinced  herself.  She loved the way he smelled, so fresh and masculine.  She
was giving  herself up to a night of ecstasy, when the phone rang.  Robert gave
a little, sad moan.  Alex giggled and picked it up.  It was Monique.  Alex felt
guilty.  She had forgotten all about Monique and Jack.

"Alex,
can you meet me? I have got to talk to you!  I can't find Jack!" Monique's
voice was strangely hollow and frightened.

Alex
looked at her alarm clock.  It was almost 11:00 PM.  She said, "Of course,
Monique.  Are you okay? You sound frightened.  Where are you?"

"I
am frightened and I'm at home.  Would you like to come here?" Monique
picked up on Alex's hesitation.  "I could come there, but I'm not sure
that someone .…"

"No,
you stay there.  I'll come over.  I'll be over in about 20 minutes."

"Thanks,
Alex.  I appreciate it." Monique sounded relieved.

Alex
looked at Robert, who smiled at her sheepishly.  "Could I have a rain check,"
she asked demurely.

He
laughed.  "You bet! You can have any kind of check you want.  Monique
okay?"

"I
think so.  She said she was frightened and wanted to talk." Alex became
apologetic.  "If it was anything or anyone else, I would've said no, but .…"

"Alex. 
It's okay.  Believe me, I understand.  Want me to go?"

"No. 
But if I need you, I'll call.  Deal?"

"You
bet.  I'll drop you off."

Robert
and Alex looked at each other shyly.  Robert finally said, "I won't look,
if you won't look."

"Okay,
… another deal.  Shut your eyes!"

"Okay."
Robert pretended to shut his eyes as his beautiful former wife bounded naked
from the bed, clutching only a sheet.  She had the elegance of a gazelle.  She
turned around and smiled at him as she ran into the master bath.

God,
she's beautiful, he thought to himself.  She looks like a goddess with her
alabaster skin and perfect body.  She hasn't changed at all.  In fact, she
looks better now than she did 10 years ago.  He was right.  Alex's long legs
and buttocks were perfectly formed.  Her tiny waist was the same.  If anything,
she had improved.  He sighed as he retreated into the guest bath to dress. 
Well, he thought to himself, it was almost a perfect night.  It was certainly
more perfect than he had ever dreamed of on his way over.  Robert smiled to
himself.  
I love her,
he thought.
  I really love her.   Please God,
please make her want me back,
he prayed to himself.

Lester
Whitset was having a rough evening.  He was furious about Dr.  Desmonde
breaking into his office.  He also knew that Anthony Gavette had seen him come
out of Rose 's room.  That had pissed him off, especially when Anthony started
screaming rape while hurling obscenities and threats at him.  Lester decided he
really didn't give a damn about Anthony.  Anthony was the least of his
problems.

The
voices had been screaming at him all night, since he  left the hospital and
went home.  He had tried to stop them, but couldn't.  His head was hurting so
badly, that Whitset decided on a chemical fix, something he rarely did. 
Sometimes it helped calm the voices down and send them away.  The booze and
pills made him feel mellow and he deserved it.  It'd been a bad day.  Then,
when he was  calm and could think better, he could decide what to do about that
imposter shrink bitch.

Lester
went to his bar and poured himself a tumbler full of scotch whiskey.  After
gulping the golden liquid, he went into his tiny bathroom to look for his
Xanax.  Damn, the bottle was empty.  He'd have to steal some tomorrow off the
medication cart.  He refilled his tumbler again and drank it all.

Finally,
the whiskey was helping.  The voices were fading.  He thought again about
Rose.  He knew she would be loyal to him.  She had shared in his little game. 
He continued to think about her as he drank heavily.  He suspected Rose had
told Anthony about the little game they had been playing.  Whitset considered
Anthony his closest equal on the unit.  He also knew that Anthony coveted the
little waiflike patient. 

Anthony
had told Lester one night, over a week ago, that he had wanted Rose for his
own.  Whitset had laughed at Anthony, reminding him that he was, after all,
only a patient and not the administrator, like Les, who had the pick of the
female patient litter.  Anthony had gotten mad, but Lester calmed him down,
assuring him that he liked his women tall and lush, like Angela Richelieu --
not like the skinny little waif, Rose.  Eventually, Anthony had cooled off,
feeling confident that Lester was telling the truth. 

Whitset
had put on a real show for Anthony and had spent most of the evening watching
the beautiful nurse as she worked on the unit.  Anthony had watched his every
move.  Whitset had even followed Angie into the glassed medication room, making
obscene gestures behind her back in an effort to prove his point to Anthony and
the other patients watching from the day room.  Anthony had seemed pretty
convinced.   Whitset had thought what a dumb ass Gavette was.   Just a stupid,
ignoramus crazy.

Whitset
smiled as he remembered how he foiled Anthony.  Yes, Anthony was close to his
equal, but of course, Lester was the superior being.  The two men had a lot in
common, but Whitset was the leader.  After all, he was the administrator and
Anthony was a lowly patient without any power.  Lester had all the power,
except some that the shrink bitch thought she had.  He mustn't think about
that, he told himself.  Tut, tut, for Anthony Gavette.  He smiled as he relived
the evening.  As soon as Anthony had been medicated and hauled off to bed by
the psych tech, Whitset had reentered Rose's room.

As
the evening wore on and Whitset continued to drink, he daydreamed about the
night with Rose.  It had been good, so good.  Rose was exactly what he had
needed.  The two had played like children, naughty children of course, for over
two hours.  Lester had been able to be himself with her.  He was so happy when
he had learned that Rose likes the simple little games of house that he had
made up.  He became more excited when he learned that Rose  hadn't minded when
the big burglar came in and killed her husband and then raped her in the
special way that only Lester knew how to do.  He had ignored Rose when she had
cried for help.  He knew she loved it.

Whitset 
shook himself when he realized he had drooled all down the front of his shirt. 
He got up to get a towel and shuddered when he thought of Angela Richelieu. 
She was a big, gross, woman pig.  He had hated her.  Still did.  She was
trouble.  She wasn't obedient.  She never had been – like Rose.  He felt
grossed out at the thought of Angela.   He knew he'd have to take care of her
if she woke up.  It kind of made him happy ... it would be a pleasant 'chore,'
he thought to himself.

Whitset
began to feel agitated again and poured himself another glass of whiskey,
drinking it quickly.  It was good.  Booze really did help him.  He felt
better.  He was calm.  Whitset looked down at his pants.  He had a huge hard
on.  He thought about Rose again and smiled to himself as he checked his
watch.  It was a little past nine.  He knew that pretty soon it would be lights
out at the Pavilion.  He had just enough time to finish his drink and go to the
Pavilion to sample a few more of Rose's favors.  Maybe he'd get off this time! 
And, afterwards, maybe he'd go into Anthony's room and lord it over him.  Tell
him about the little game he and Rose played, about how she preferred him to
the big, powerful Anthony.  Lester smiled and clapped his hands in anticipation
of his plans for the evening.  He felt like such a naughty boy.

His
phone rang.  It shrilled endlessly in the still apartment.  At first, Whitset
was disoriented.  He had only gotten one or two phone calls in the six months
he had lived in New Orleans.  They had been from long distance telephone
services trying to sell him cheaper long-distance rates.  He picked it up.  It
was Don Montgomery.

"Whitset,
is that you,” Don Montgomery, demanded.  “Say something to me, dammit!"

Whitset
recovered swiftly.  "Don, what's up? Where are you?"

"I'm
in my car on the way home.  Have you decided to hire the staff we talked
about?" Don's voice was laced with static.  The cell reception was
terrible.

Whitset
was annoyed.  He hated cell phones.  He said clearly, "No, I'm not hiring
anyone.  I told you my decision today.  We don't need all that staff.  It costs
too much and it's stupid."

"Whitset,"
Don's voice was placating, "We have got to do something or else Desmonde
will go to the press.  You heard her today.  Whitset, just hire them
temporarily.  We can get rid of them when all this quiets down.  Nobody will
listen to her story in two weeks or a month.  I think we should give her what
she wants -- at least for now."  Don's voice ended in a whine.

Whitset,
hardly sober, reviewed his options.  "Don't worry, Don.  I'll take care of
Desmonde.  I'll talk to her again."

"She's
not going to back down.  I know the woman.  You have got to give her what she
wants now.  Do it, Whitset, it's worth it.  I promise it will be a temporary
fix."

Lester
felt himself losing control.  The voices were back, telling him to get the
shrink bitch.  He could barely talk coherently.  "I said I would take care
of it, Don.  Don't worry.  See you tomorrow." Whitset hung up the phone.

"Whitset,
you sound funny.  You sure you're okay?"  Don repeated his question again
before he realized the administrator had hung up.  The CEO said out loud in his
car, "You had better take care of it, you damn asshole! If you don't, I'm
canceling your contract and I'll make sure you never get another job
anywhere." Don floored his gold Porsche and drove recklessly down Canal
Street towards his house.

Whitset
sat on the sofa.  The voices had completely taken over his head.  In his mind,
he again saw Dr. Desmonde turn to plastic in front of him.  He was going to
have to do what the voices told him to do.  The imposter shrink had to be
stopped.  After all, wasn't that his mission?  He was supposed to get rid of
all the imposters.  They told him so.  Whitset grabbed his tie and left his
French Quarter apartment. 

He
wandered aimlessly for about an hour through the sultry New Orleans heat into
the Vieux Carre, trying to decide what to do.  He sat on a bench, holding his
head, trying to argue with the voices.  Nobody looked at him.  After all, he
was in the French Quarter of New Orleans with  all kinds of people and all
walks of life.  He fit right into the crowd.  He finally acquiesced to the
voices and entered a phone booth to look for Monique's address.  Phone booths
were a bit of an anachronism in most cities, but New Orleans still had them.  
Phone booths were still around for the throngs of people who could not afford
cell phones.  He found no listing for Monique Desmonde.

He
was furious.  Why didn't the shrink bitch have an address?  Maybe imposters
didn't really live in houses.  They seem to appear only now and then.  Perhaps
they were already dead.  Whitset batted this idea around in his head for a few
minutes.  It certainly seemed plausible to him.  Finally, an idea dawned in his
drunken head.  

Whitset
reached for his cell phone and called CCMC information.  He identified himself
and the hospital operator bought his story and gave him Monique's phone number
and address.  He was in luck.  She lived on Royal Street in the Quarter, only a
few blocks away.  He dialed the number and got a machine or voice mail.   He
was livid.  He hated answering machines and voicemail.  His calls were too
important to be picked up by a piece of equipment.  Machines represented more
of the technology he hated.  In frustration, he slammed the receiver down,
chipping a large chunk of plastic out of his iPhone. 

The
voices were loud again, screaming at him.   Whitset entered a bar and ordered a
double whiskey, which he downed in rapid time.  He had a second drink.  It was
now almost 10:30 PM.  He walked over to the wall phone in the bar and dialed
the psychiatrist phone number.  She answered on the first ring.  He could see
her cold, plastic face talking to him.  Her lips were just as red as his
teachers had been -- taut, thin, and inflexible.  He would change that.  Soon. 
She said hello three times before he hung up.  He decided to have another drink
or two for the road and the work ahead.