Chapter 7

St. Louis, June 1973

Thankfully, it didn't take too much research to find out the address of the clinic Bobby worked at. For once, Bill's professional life might come to serve his private one.

He'd gotten into his car at seven in the morning, too excited and nervous to drink or eat anything, or wait any longer. He'd carefully studied his itinerary the night before, and written down all the turns he was supposed to make for the over four hours long trip ahead of him.

The city was only just getting busy when he drove through it, slightly over the speed limit, only to properly hit the gas pedal as soon as he reached the highway.

Radio turned on at a low volume, he sped past trucks, exit signs blurring into his peripheral vision until all of the trip became one singular image: the road ahead, an obstacle he had to overcome as quickly as possible.

And with the inertia of a freight train, Bill couldn't feel the fear until he was parking his car in front of his objective.

HILL'S CLINIC.

Doctors Adler, Bachelor, Levard.

His own lungs seemed to have frozen over in the few seconds it took him to read the plaque. He really hadn't thought this through.

But he was here, now. With a change of clothes in the trunk of his car and too much hope on his hands.

He slammed the door too hard when he got out, making himself jump.

The lady at reception didn't seem to care that he didn't have an appointment. Nor did she want to hear his explanation on how he was an old colleague and friend, hoping to see Doctor Bachelor, merely pointing him to a door a little further away.

Bill hoped, as he settled into a waiting room that smelled strongly of detergent and freshly installed linoleum, that she wouldn't get in too much trouble if it turned out, as was most likely, that Bobby didn't want to see him at all.

A mother with her baby sat across the room, coddling it and bouncing it on her knees to make it laugh. Bill's heart squeezed at the thought of his own child, laughing hundreds of miles from here. A few other patients were waiting, an elderly couple and a young woman in a bright red mini skirt. Bill's own pastel clothes, his bow tie and braces, felt out of place. Out of time.

He didn't belong. No matter where he was.

He ended up grabbing a magazine that turned out to be about the feminist fight, and he quickly engrossed himself in his reading and learning about the faults of men, and how awful he'd really been to both his wives.

Not that he had never suspected it, but he'd always thought it was a him problem, and that others were doing it… well, better. Turned out, on top of his own issues, he might be a part of a bigger, problematic puzzle.

Patients came in and out of the waiting room. Babies crying, adults huffing and complaining about the waiting time. Bill kept silent, although he'd been waiting the longest. Lunch time was fast approaching, and he was suddenly regretting not having grabbed breakfast before he hit the road. Cooking smells came in from the street through an open window, and if his stomach hadn't been tied into a row of sailing knots at the prospect of Bobby appearing through the doorway, he might just have slipped out to grab himself a burger.

He hadn't even finished that thought when a tall silhouette flew through the corridor, and a familiar voice rose at the end of it:

"Who?"

"Oh, he didn't say his name," came the feminine voice of the receptionist who clearly hadn't bothered to write down Bill's name.

Footsteps, quick and determined, echoed closer and closer, until…

Bobby's mouth dropped open when his eyes fell on Bill, sitting on a plastic chair with all the guilt in the world in his lap – he'd put the magazine away to make space for it.

"Jesus, what are you doing here?" Bobby's voice came out raspy.

Bill's lips tried to make a sound, but he was too busy taking in the other man in his shirt, glasses slipped down his nose and hair slicked back, that he forgot what he could have possibly said. He was silent for too long, and Bobby relented with a sigh.

"Come with me."

He didn't look back and Bill, after a stunned second, hurried after him through a maze of corridors, until Bobby was holding out a wooden door with a blurred glass encasing, and a Doctor Robert Bachelor, pulmonologist plaque in the middle. Bill slipped past him, avoiding contact at all cost, and held his breath until Bobby closed the door of his office behind them.

Light poured in from a large window overlooking the street, the opposite buildings obscured by a few trees. The desk was massive wood, and neatly organized. All around the room elegant shelves lined the walls, holding patients' files, medical tomes, and to his right, proudly on display, Bobby's diplomas hung on the wall. Another sharp tug of pain burnt through Bill's stomach when he realized he had been there when Bobby got most of them.

Unfortunately, now wasn't the time to reminisce. Yet.

Movement in his peripheral vision snapped him out of his misery and he looked to where Bobby had taken a seat behind his desk and removed his spectacles. He was rubbing at the bridge of his nose, massaging the place where the glasses had left little red ovals into his skin, and for a fleeting second, Bill wanted to be the one to soothe them for him.

Bobby sighed, eyes fixed on the papers lying on his desk.

"Why are you here, Bill?"

The thing was… he hadn't taken a lot of time to think about it. And he couldn't really say my dog pushed me out the door and I believe he could sense I was unhappy and had things to settle… Could he?

"I wanted to see you."

Bobby stretched his jaw, pushed his glasses further away from him on the desk, and finally looked at Bill.

"Well, you have. And now what?"

"I –" Bill's voice broke, running away from him as always.

He dug his fingernails into his palms. No. Not today. He wouldn't let his anxiousness get the best of him. He took one long, determined breath, and spoke:

"I wanted to see you, because I am not happy with my life, Bobby. And I am not happy that you are not in it. I know I ruined so many things in the past, but if there's even a chance… that we could be…"

"Please don't say friends," Bobby cut in, the corners of his mouth pulled into a scornful grimace.

Bill shook his head.

"I want to spend time with you. I… I really don't have much more to say about why I jumped in the car to drive here. Seeing you again, it's… disrupted the quiet misery I've been stuck in for years. I used to content myself with very little, and now I want more for myself."

Bobby looked away again, now kneading at his temples. When he opened his mouth to reply, however, it wasn't exactly the response Bill had expected.

"Did you even book a hotel?"

Well, just one more thing he hadn't thought about.

"No… I came straight here after I packed."

Bobby sighed and reached for a stack of printed cards on his desk. He scribbled something at the back of one and handed it to Bill.

"There. Wait for me at this address. I'll be honest, I have no idea how long I'll be. Then when I can join you, we'll have a proper talk."

It felt like a dismissal, and when he didn't add anything and started opening drawers in his desk, Bill took it as such and left the office as quietly as he could.

When he was back in the clinic's lobby, he turned the card over and read the address. Of course, he'd never been to St. Louis long enough to know where that might be, so he asked the receptionist and took great care in writing down her instructions.

Then he was back in his car and its sweltering heat, sweating through his shirt. He unbuttoned the cuffs and rolled the sleeves up with a sigh of relief. Then he got to driving.

Bill parked in a residential street full of beautiful, rich houses introduced by well-tended front lawns. There was already a car parked in front of the address he wanted, a black Chrysler gleaming under the sun. Bill nervously locked his own and made his way to the front door of number 223. There was no name on the mailbox, nor on the door, but the discreet mezuzah nailed to the door frame should have clued him in. He simply rang the bell, and waited while staring at the neatly carved piece of wood.

"Coming!" shouted a feminine sounding voice from inside.

Bill stood a little straighter, sucked his stomach in, desperate to make a good impression on whoever would come opening the door. It swung wide to reveal a tall woman in denim overalls, of about the same height as him, slender and whose angular face was framed by long, jet black hair. She frowned at him and slowly inspected him from head to toe.

"Hello?"

Bill blinked, and realized that he was expected to introduce himself.

"Oh, hello. I'm, um… Bill. A friend of Doctor Bachelor? He told me to meet him here."

The woman pouted at him, doubt painted all over her face.

"Why would he tell you to meet him here? Are you another doctor?"

"Ah, I did go to the clinic but he still told me…" Bill blabbered on, holding up Bobby's business card between them.

She took it and her eyes widened when she looked at the handwriting on the back.

"Hm, alright. Bold of him to assume I'll entertain you, though. I hope you're prepared to spend a few boring hours waiting for him."

And on those welcoming words, she let him in.

"Shoes off, please," she instructed, pointing at a low rack near the front door with other men's shoes lined up.

He obeyed without a word, bending down to put his black loafers away. If he was honest, after the long drive and with the heat, it was rather a relief to be left in his socks on the white tiled floor.

The living room he was led to was spacious, luminous but not cold. The walls were painted white as well, but there was art hung on it, a few paintings of brightly colored landscapes, and some photography as well. Near French doors that seemed to open onto a backyard, a yellow couch had been placed, facing a television and a mini bar.

The woman swept past Bill and went to crouch in front of the lacquered wood shelves hosting several bottles, pulling two glasses from the lowest one.

"Drink?" she said, holding them up.

"Ah, yes, thank you."

"Whiskey okay?"

Bill threw a quick glance at his watch to find that it was nearing on four o'clock, and he hadn't had much to eat or drink since the morning. But if there was a chance that a shared drink might warm this mysterious stranger to him, he would take it.

"Yes that's fine, thank you."

He would ask for water later. Or, he might just wait for her to offer, which would be less likely to give him cold sweats from working up the nerve.

She poured them both a little of the amber liquid and handed one to Bill before sitting on the couch, crossing one leg and slipping her foot under her buttocks. Bill was expecting to spend some time standing up, under her scrutiny, when she patted the leather next to her.

"Well go on, don't stay there like a big sweaty scarecrow."

The image was enough to tear a chuckle from him, and break through an outer layer of defensive coldness. He lowered himself next to her, staring at his socked feet and the multicolored rug under them. It was plush and thick, and he could just imagine how nice it would feel to dip his toes into it.

"So, tell me a little more," said the woman. "How do you know Bobby?"

He filed for later the information that she was on a first name basis with his old friend. Which meant she wasn't likely to be his cleaning lady after all.

He knew she definitely wasn't his lover. Or had Bobby lied to spare his feelings? Right now, with the sharp burn of whiskey on his tongue, all the catastrophic scenarios his mind was coming up with felt very reasonable and realistic.

"Well?"

He turned his head and found that she was looking at him from under suspicious eyelids, one elbow planted on her legs, her long hair falling in a straight line from head to shin.

"Oh, um… I've known Bobby for a long time…"

She raised her eyebrows and rolled her hand in a ‘go on' motion. Bill's palms were clammy again and he wiped one on his linen pants, the uncomfortable feeling of wetness distracting him from his train of thought.

"We met at school."

"Which one?" his companion asked, eyebrows raised in an expression closer to curiousness than hostility, now. "Med school?"

Bill's mouth opened on an explanation that refused to take form, and ended on a frustrated exhale.

"We did know each other in medical school, yes."

He saw the woman take a sip of whiskey without flinching, her eyes raking over him as if searching for clues.

"Well, he better tell me a little more than that when I ask him."

Bill was still looking for something to say when the silence was broken by loud wailing erupting from the other side of the house. The woman shot to her feet, laying her glass on the surface of the mini bar.

"Oops! Be right back, that'll be Edgar."

Bill watched in a daze as she trotted away to the beginning of the corridor, and disappeared there. The child's crying went on for a few minutes then gradually died down, replaced by cooing, then what sounded like a nursery rhyme.

Oh good, he was sweating again, and winced at the feeling of his shirt sticking to his armpits and belly as he moved. He got up, took a few timid steps around the couch and went to have a look at the pictures hung on the wall.

Bobby was in a few of them, but none with someone that resembled the woman who had opened the door to him. And there were no wedding pictures either, which didn't prove anything, but still let some relief wash over him. Bobby hadn't been wearing a wedding ring either. And he had said that he didn't have any children…

Footsteps behind him made him turn around and the woman reappeared with a toddler in her arms, sucking on a piece of cloth and glowering.

"Edgar, this is Bill, a friend of uncle Bobby. He just woke up from his nap," she added to Bill, tenderly caressing the hair of the child who must have been…

"Is he your son?"

"Yep."

"Oh. So you're Bobby's…"

She grinned at him, taking visible pleasure in watching him put the pieces of the puzzle together which, granted, he should have done way earlier.

"Sister, yeah."

Memory flooded in through the haze of fatigue and overwhelm. A little girl with a ponytail, often glaring at him from behind her mother's legs, or holding Bobby's hand. He hadn't seen her that often, back in their boarding school days. The few times that Bobby's mother visited him, around Rosh Hashanah. Of course, it had been a good thirty years, so he thought he could be excused for not recognizing her.

"You're Hannah," he gasped softly.

"Spot on, detective," she smiled, and he wondered all of a sudden if her behavior since he arrived had been teasing.

"Do you remember me?" he asked.

She shook her head but the gesture was ambiguous as she hoisted her child higher on her hip.

"Kind of. I mean, I don't remember what you looked like before, but I remember your name. Just thought I'd wait to see how long you would go without outright asking me who I was and what I was doing in Bobby's house."

"Right… Well, it seemed rude."

She laughed, and Edgar whined against her shoulder.

"Yeah yeah baby, I know you're hungry. You're gonna stay on the couch for a bit while I make your bottle, okay?"

Without further ado, she plopped the child onto the couch, arranged a blanket over his lap and turned to Bill.

"Watch over him for a few minutes, will you?"

Bill shot a panicked look at her, but she had already left the room.

God, what was it about him that screamed ‘throw a kid at me' when he had no idea what to do with them?

Resigned to his fate, he got close enough to the couch to be able to keep an eye on Edgar, who made a face as he noticed Bill there again.

"Okay, okay," Bill whispered, "I'm not doing anything, alright? Just… being here. Surely you can't be mad at me for existing," he hoped, knowing, deep down, that it was a possibility.

From beyond the corridor, he could hear the familiar ding of a microwave, and thought he could bide his time while this little guy's milk was heating up. At least, the way the kid was still biting into what was actually a ragged plush toy, he wasn't expecting conversation.

Hannah came back a minute later, bottle of milk in hand, and her son immediately opened his arms to crawl on top of her as she sat on the couch. Edgar closed his eyes and started drinking, and the gentle, loving way Hannah was brushing his hair back almost made Bill want to look away. He was intruding on something he had no part of, and as he was now realizing, he really had no business being here at all.

Who was he to show up to Bobby's workplace and demand to be heard, as if Bobby owed him anything? Panic settled in his gut, squeezing everything there and pushing the air out of his lungs, never letting it back in. He unconsciously began scratching at the skin around his nails, and swaying back and forth on the ball of his feet.

"You're not going to have a fit because of my son having his milk, are you? I'm not even breastfeeding him," Hannah deadpanned from a few feet away.

Bill's thoughts failed to latch on to her question, and he went back circling to the topic that had all of his attention and anxiety:

"Do you think I should go?"

Hannah frowned. "Go where?"

"Leave, I mean," Bill winced.

She rolled her eyes and smiled as if that was the silliest thing a child could have told her.

"And how do you think he'll feel if he told you to wait for him here, and he finds you gone when he arrives?"

Bill held his breath, the panic stopping for a beat as it faced a question it couldn't fight. There was no ‘yes, but' to the argument Hannah had just opposed to him.

He could just picture it. Bobby, weary from a long day at the hospital, finally dropping his bag by the door, taking his shoes off, and finding his house empty. When he'd given Bill his address and thought they could talk out whatever was going on in Bill's brain, if he could figure that out himself.

"Hadn't thought about that, had you?" Hannah teased him again.

It was strange, trying to reconcile the shy girl from the thirties, who had seemed almost scared of him, and this grown woman who had apparently no qualms about throwing the truth in his face.

"No," Bill confessed, for lack of better words.

"Well, finish your drink and make yourself useful while we wait for him, okay? He's not going to eat you alive, no matter what you've done."

Bill winced, and went to collect his drink where he'd left it on the small console by the side of the couch.

"What makes you think I've… done something?" he asked before taking a sip.

"You've certainly got the air of someone who's awaiting the verdict at their trial," Hannah grinned, looking far too amused for how frayed Bill felt.

He let out a little indignant huff, while simultaneously knowing she was right.

"I'm just hoping I find the right thing to say," he muttered, more to himself than his audience.

"Can't help you with that."

"Yes, I've noticed," he snapped back, nerves strung too tight for him to remain polite much longer.

Hannah raised her eyebrows and laughed, as if impressed.

"Oh, finally a little life in you. I was starting to wonder if you were so dead inside you'd let me insult you all afternoon."

It was so… surprising, like nothing anyone had ever told him, that Bill was shocked out of his panic and worries. A wave of calm washed over him, leaving him feeling limp and sleepy, and of all things, he giggled.

"You're nothing like Bobby," he mused.

"I've been told."

She was still smiling, and that was a good sign, right? If Bobby found him having befriended his sister instead of having made everything worse, then maybe… Maybe what? This wasn't a point-based system where Bill could win by cumulating small good deeds.

He had to get everything right. Starting by figuring out what he wanted out of this mad trip, other than to get away from his crazy dog, and to see Bobby again.

"Well sit down again, you're not going to wait here like a fence post all night, you'll make me dizzy," Hannah instructed.

He obediently went back to the couch and sank into it, all fight gone from his muscles. His eyes drooped close and for a still, quiet second, he felt at peace. No pain or discomfort, only the weight of his body pushing against the cushions and a throw that smelled faintly like Bobby's cologne. Excitement swept through his belly, and he wasn't exactly relaxed anymore.

There were so many questions on his mind. None that he could ask Hannah, however. He had no idea just how much she knew about her brother, and what he would say that could put him in danger.

So he fixed his gaze on the child, and scrambled for small talk ideas. People were usually happy to chat about their children, he'd found out to his utter dismay and, often, complete discontent.

"How old is he?"

Hannah cocked her head and looked at her son.

"Hey baby, can you answer that? Do you know how many years old you are?"

Refusing to let go of the milk bottle, Edgar held up two chubby fingers.

"Yes, that's right darling," Hannah cooed at him, still cradling the back of his head.

There was so much tenderness radiating from the scene that it stung a little. It was nothing like he'd ever had with his own children. He hadn't even seen his first wife be like that with them. When they were newborns, perhaps, and he hadn't been around much. Margaret had gone back to work soon after giving birth and Bill had only seen Agatha grow up at the weekends, and then not at all.

He swallowed around the lump in his throat and did his best to entertain some light conversation for as long as he could. It turned out, as he'd expected, that once he asked the right questions Hannah was quite happy to go on about her son without interruption. Bill couldn't help but notice she steered clear of the father's subject, and as she wasn't wearing a wedding ring, he made a note not to ask.

Things were changing anyway, these days. He felt like he was just now learning how bad it had been before, by noticing those small changes that women could count as victories. Not being ostracized for getting ditched by an irresponsible father was one of them.

Bill wondered if he fit in that category. He hadn't abandoned any of his children, he just… never had taken them out for a meal, or read them a bedtime story. And since it was now too late for that, he could take that regret to his grave.

He was pleasantly surprised that he didn't notice the time go by. At some point, Edgar had fallen asleep across his mother's lap and was now snoring softly, undisturbed by the adults conversing.

They only stopped when the sound of a car engine made Hannah straighten up and eye the front door.

"That'll be Bobby."

Bill stood up too fast, dizziness following and Hannah laughed to see him so nervous.

"Well I don't know what he's done to you, but I hope it's not that bad."

It's more what I've done to him, Bill wanted to answer. But the less he revealed, the better.

Hannah got to her feet too, hoisting Edgar high on her hip. The child's head lolled back dangerously, his neck craned at an odd angle in his sleep, and Bill unconsciously reached to bring it back up slowly. He met Hannah's gaze then, and there was a sharpness there, as if she could see right through him, that gave him a chill.

"Thanks," she said, and walked to the front door.

As she'd predicted, Bobby stepped through it a moment later. He didn't notice Bill right away from where he was standing, still in the living room and half hidden by a bookshelf. Bobby laid his briefcase down, took off his shoes and greeted his sister with a kiss on the cheek.

"How's Poppycock then?"

Hannah shrugged, gently rocking Edgar from side to side while Bill's mind reeled. Was there another child in the house that he'd failed to notice?

"Completely out of it. He's asleep on your bed."

Bobby nodded, and let out a tired sigh.

"Right, well, thanks for looking after him today. I'll let you know how he is in the morning but I think it'll be okay by then."

"Yeah, well I'm off home then," Hannah replied, and slipped on a pair of sandals. "Have fun with your guest," she told Bobby, and blew him a kiss. "Bye William!" she called, not quite shouting but still making sure that Bill heard her.

When he reluctantly made his way to the entrance of the house, she was already gone.

Bobby was still wearing his glasses but he'd taken off his tie and undone the first couple of buttons on his shirt.

"Hi," he whispered with an awkward smile.

"Um, hello…" Bill trailed off, looking for something to say. "Who's Poppycock?"

Bobby let out a surprised chuckle.

"Oh, you haven't seen him then? Remember I told you about Poppy, my cat? Yeah, short for Poppycock," he added, rubbing a self-conscious hand over his neck. "He's been neutered yesterday and I asked Hannah to be around for today since he's still got a fair dose of painkillers, and is apparently completely high."

Bill's breath rushed out of him. Of course. Bobby hadn't lied, and he should stop expecting him to. He really did have no children, only a cat. Which explained the state of the bottom half of the couch, now that he thought of it.

Both men were frozen in place, and Bill had no clue as to what came next. They should probably sit down, have a drink, and then he should get to untangling the ugly mess that was his feelings.

Instead, Bobby slipped his glasses off and into his shirt's pocket, and motioned towards the rest of the house.

"Come."

Bill hesitantly followed Bobby through a corridor where more pictures were displayed, but he didn't have time to linger on those.

Bobby pushed a door open and stepped in, and when Bill did too, he realized with a start that he was in Bobby's bedroom. The bed was wide and looked plush, comfortable. There was a nice blue throw at the foot of it, and a lot of crocheted pillows. In the middle of those, wearing a plastic cone around its neck, was a cream colored cat, spread out in a very unnatural position.

"Poor baby," Bobby muttered, and delicately sat on the edge of the bed, placing a hand near his cat. "Hey Poppyloon," he whispered.

Considering the cat was medicated, Bill didn't expect it to react, but Bobby's voice seemed to be enough to pull it out of its slumber and answer with a soft meow.

"Yeah, you're not feeling so good are you," Bobby continued, scratching at the cat's head. "You can come closer," he added, and it took a few seconds for Bill to understand that he was addressing him, and not the cat.

He moved stiffly until he was standing close enough to the bed to see that the pet was glaring at him.

"He doesn't look very happy," Bill stated, wondering if that was due to his presence, or the side effect of losing his testicles which, granted, Bill himself wouldn't have been elated about.

"Ah don't worry, he's normally quite easy going. Aren't you?" Bobby returned to talking to Poppy who now lifted himself on wobbly legs to face Bill, eyes still squinted into menacing slits.

Tentatively, Bill brought a hand closer, intending to let the cat sniff him and make up his mind about him before even attempting to pet him. Instead, Poppy let out a loud hiss, and threw a paw out at him, getting the back of Bill's hand properly scratched.

Bill pulled back with a hiss of his own while Bobby scolded his pet.

"Poppy! That's no way to greet a guest!"

He turned to Bill who was inspecting the long lines in his skin, where it had broken and was slowly trickling blood.

"Shit, he got you good," Bobby sighed, sounding increasingly weary. "You'd have hoped that high as he is, he would have had the decency to miss. Come with me."

This time, he didn't wait for Bill to follow and gently took him by the elbow, guiding him across the corridor into a large bathroom. He let go of Bill then, only to open a cabinet and pull out a bottle of disinfectant and band-aids. Without asking, he took Bill's fingers between his and tilted his hand the right way, aiming the spray. He took one look at Bill's face again and stated with a small smile:

"I don't need to tell you this is going to sting."

Bill clenched his teeth at the bite of the disinfectant, but the pain was soon eclipsed by the tender way Bobby swiped a cotton pad on his skin to wipe the blood. Bill did his best to stand perfectly still, hoping he could hide the mad sprinting of his heart, so close to Bobby's body heat again. He watched as Bobby carefully placed the bandages on his hand, patting them to make sure they were sticking properly.

He was still holding Bill's fingers when he cursed:

"Shit."

"What?" Bill nervously asked, feeling his palm begin to sweat where Bobby's fingers were pressed.

"You got all your shots up to date? If not we might need to take you to get them tomorrow."

Bill stared at the place where their hands were joined, Bobby's skin a tad lighter than his own, and the small mole on his middle finger.

"I uh, I don't know."

Finally, Bobby let go. He reclined against the sink with a sigh, and rubbed at his chin.

"Okay, okay, we can deal with that later. You'll be okay for now?"

The worried arch of his eyebrows was really too endearing to be good for Bill's mental state.

"It's just a scratch."

Bobby nodded, and turned his back to him to put the medical aids away.

"Poppy is usually a doll, I don't know what happened… Either he's too high to know what he's doing, or he really doesn't like you."

"Considering my history, the latter wouldn't surprise me," Bill shrugged.

His track record with children tended to match the same with animals.

Bobby hummed, but it didn't seem like he had listened to what Bill just said.

"Well. I think," he started, and stopped to look Bill over as if considering something. "We should sit and have a talk, right?"