Dear Irene Read Online Free Page B

either place during the hours in question, sometime between midnight and four in the morning.
    The professor was fifty-four years old. Her colleagues described her as a vivacious woman who wore her years well. She lived alone. She seemed quite devoted to her students; she often held meetings of her graduate seminars in her home, and willingly gave of her time to students who needed extra help. She taught a seminar in twentieth-century U.S. history on Wednesday nights, and was doing some research on the Truman administration. It was not uncommon for her to work late in her office on her research and writing. When she was killed, she had been working on an article she hoped to submit to the
Journal of American History
.
    After Pete left, Frank and I sat together in the living room. I asked him about his meeting with John. At first he claimed that they were just talking about cooperation between the newspaper and the police on the Blaylock case.
    “No sale,” I said. “You wouldn’t need to exclude me from that conversation.”
    “Okay, so maybe we talked about you. What of it?”
    “What of it? I’ll tell you what of it. Shall I go into Captain Bredloe’s office and have a nice long talk with him about you?”
    “Be my guest.”
    “You wouldn’t like it.”
    He was quiet for a moment then said, “No, I guess not. Look, John’s just concerned about you.”
    “Concerned how?”
    “Well, in a fatherly kind of way, I guess.”
    “Fatherly? You mean as in
Father Knows Best
? As in ‘Well, son, we men folk need to protect our little gals’?”
    “I don’t mean that at all…”
    “I got scared today,” I went on, ignoring his protest. “
Anybody
would have been scared, I think. But because of this damned splint and cast, my being scared looks different to him. John doesn’t think I’m ready to come back to work.”
    There was a long pause before he said, “Well, yes. That came up in the conversation.”
    I stood up. “You know what I want?”
    “Irene…”
    “Faith. Faith in my ability to function. Less help. Less control by well-meaning but—”
    “No one is trying to control you—”
    “Bullshit. Oh, it’s all in the name of taking care of me, mind you. Friends. People who just want to make sure I’m all right. I’m all right!”
    He was silent.
    “He had no business talking to you about my ability to do my job!”
    “You’re right.”
    “Absolutely none.”
    “None whatsoever.”
    “You’re not even a relative.”
    A pause. “No.”
    “You’re just… you’re just…” I was losing steam. I sat down next to him. “Why am I yelling at you? It’s not your fault.”
    “No, it’s not.” He said it without looking at me.
    “Sorry.”
    He didn’t say anything. It was then I realized it wasn’t anger that was keeping him quiet.
    “You’re better than a relative,” I tried. “Much better.”
    Still nothing. For a few seconds, I felt like I might start crying or something.
    Don’t do it,
I told myself.
    He finally looked over at me. When he did, his expression changed. “Irene? Hey…”
    My turn not to answer.
    “It’s okay,” he said, putting an arm around me and pulling me closer. “Go ahead and cry.”
    “No way,” I said stubbornly.
    He started laughing. “You are one of a kind.”
    “Thanks, I guess.”
    “John said that to me today. ‘Kelly’s one of a kind.’”
    I had to smile at his imitation of John’s gruff voice.
    “That’s what I meant by ‘fatherly,’” he went on. “I think with your dad and O’Connor gone, John felt like it was his duty to check me out. He was trying to figure out if I was going to be a suitable husband. He mentioned the divorce rate for cops more than once.”
    “Of all the damned nerve!”
    “Take it easy. It didn’t really bother me. He’s right. From the outside, it probably looks dicey. Look at it from his perspective. A cop and a reporter. Who would think it could work?”
    “The people on the inside. The only