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They appeared to be ghostly things traveling across his face, whispering to him in their strangely accusatory voices as they did so. Ben wanted to close his eyes and blot out the sight before him, but he found he couldn't. They were just too captivating. He wanted to avert his eyes, to look at something else, but he knew; he could feel the dull, vacant eyes on him. There was a presence that was always with him and oddly absent from him--one he could almost touch if he reached out, but he was too afraid to reach out. And he couldn't turn around and face him just yet. So Ben stood there staring at them, counting them, and tracing them with the invisible fingers of his mind.
They were hideous.
He had spent hours--no--days examining his ruined face in the small mirror above the bathroom sink. The clock ticked patiently as he examined every gouge that sliced across his cheek and forehead. When he was feeling bolder, he would let the hospital gown slip and follow the road map of scars to their ultimate destination. Here was the town of Devastation. There was the borough of Anger, right next to its neighbor, Bitterness.
The doctors and nurses came and went, diplomatically focusing on his eyes, though unable to keep their gazes from flickering every once in a while. The physical therapists poked and prodded, talked amongst themselves, and scribbled on their pads about their plans to torture his broken body back into its former glory. He always had the urge to ask if he was ready to be served because surely they realized what he was now--an unappetizing dish left cold by all the guests who shuddered at the sight. The medical staff members were the oblivious chefs, clucking over the dish, trying to choose just the right garnish to convince their guests that here, indeed, was a meal fit for kings.
He reached out to the mirror and was surprised when his fingers brushed the cool, smooth surface. Though his silvery reflection was masked by dozens of his own fingerprints, something inside told him that today would be the day when his hand would slip through--as insubstantial as the still air--and he would fall to the other side where nothing could touch him.
More importantly, on the other side of the looking glass, he, Benjamin Bruckner, couldn't touch anyone else.
He turned from his own face and shuffled out of the bathroom. The man sitting on the one chair in the room smirked at him.
"Did you think it would look different, today, Benny?"
"Leave me alone."
"You know I can't do that. I have nowhere to go. You saw to that."
Ben made his way to the bed, reluctantly. He would rather be anywhere but here with his unwelcome guest, but having the other man follow him around drew too much unwanted attention. Their intense verbal sparring had bought him a new round of visitors who tried to help him "channel" his feelings in a healthier way.
"It was an accident." It was his usual protest and it brought the usual response.
"What? You accidentally slipped into a bottle of wine? Come on, Mr. Bruckner. You can do better than that."
"I wasn't drunk." Ben sat heavily. The stitches in his side pulled and threatened to pop, but he refused to lie down until this latest verbal duel was over.
"Spare me. You couldn't see straight to save your life."
"It's not true!" Ben started to shake as he always did. His denial rang through his head, turning into an accusation against himself.
His guest's smile stretched and tightened into a deathly, sardonic grin. "You said you loved me, but you couldn't see straight to save mine."
Ben gasped and fell back on the bed. His eyes closed against the pain wracking through his body. His face throbbed as if the skin were trying to peel itself off. It lasted only a moment--an infinite moment--but when he opened his eyes, Paul was gone.
The argument happened over and over, seemingly without end, but the result was always the same. Ben was always alone.
And Paul was still dead.
There was nothing he could do about it. There was no prayer he could say, no magic lamp to rub, no mantra to utter over and over again until it wasn't so horribly true. So disfiguringly real. Not a damned thing. This wasn't a dream, and he so desperately needed it to be a dream. He wanted to wake up and have it be the worst nightmare he'd ever had...but it wasn't. The pain of his stitches and the road map of scars on is face told him that. Paul was dead, Paul was angry, and Paul blamed him.
Even though Ben denied it, there was something deep inside of him that knew Paul was right. Ben hadn't been able to save his lover. He'd barely been able to save himself. The scars covering his body and especially his face were a testament to this simple yet unavoidable fact. He'd done this.
A wave of guilt washed over Ben like the ocean storming the shore at high tide. He was drowning in it and the pain was almost unbearable. What made it worse was that it didn't come in short, jabbing stabs that he could handle. Because that meant it would attack, then leave for a while, allowing him to recover a little. No. This was a slow, thudding ache that continued night and day, growing in intensity with each beat of his shattered heart. It was a maddening thing, causing his mind to cave in on itself.
Debbie paced impatiently back and forth, wearing a groove into the plush rug under her slippered feet. It was Sunday afternoon and no one had heard anything from her middle son since Friday evening. She wondered if she should trying calling again, but then she worried that she'd miss his call coming in while dialing.
She ran scenarios in her head as to what she was going to do once she finally saw her wayward son. First, she was going to hug the shit out of him; then she was going to kill him.
Vic sat at the table watching his sister pacing with an ever-growing sense of anticipation. He knew the boy was fine. Hell, he was a man now and, like all men, was prone to bouts of being inconsiderate. However, this was so unlike him. Just when Vic thought he couldn't stand watching his sister's pacing any longer, the phone rang and he nearly jumped out of his skin.
Brian sat at his desk in his loft staring at the computer screen, clad only in the briefs he had put on after getting out of the shower about an hour ago. The pie chart he was supposed to be analyzing for the proposal he was to give on Monday was nothing but a multi-colored blur to him. Periodically, he'd glance over at the phone, willing it to ring. Brian was worried and he hated to worry about anyone but himself. It made him nervous. The only thing Brian hated more then worrying was being nervous. It killed his hard-on.
David sat on the sofa, remote control in his hand, clicking the channels aimlessly. He was pissed off. How dare that little brat not call? David picked up the phone on the end table several times and slammed it down each time. There was just no fucking way he was going to call him.
He threw the remote down and watched with satisfaction as it bounced off the sofa and onto the floor. If only he could rid himself of his responsibilities as easily. Time and time again, it was the same story. How many times would he be expected to come to the rescue? Everyone else screwed up their lives and then came to him to fix it. What would they do without him to fix it all?
His little brother was getting too fucking old for these childish games. Someone was going to have to knock some sense into him, and pretty damn soon, and he was just the one to do it.
As soon as Michael opened the door to his apartment, he knew he was going to catch hell. A feeling of dread blanketed him like freshly fallen snow in winter, cold and precise. It had effectively killed the buzz he'd been hanging onto all the way home. He hadn't meant to worry anyone. He just needed a break from all of them. He loved them dearly but they had no idea how batty they were making him.
When he left his mother's house on Friday after a family dinner, he had meant to go home. All he wanted to do was unplug the phone, turn off his cell, lock the door, and sleep until Monday when he had to be back at work...or until his mother came over and nearly knocked down the door to see if he was still breathing. Whichever came first, either was acceptable as long as he got some time away from them. But once he started driving he just he couldn't stop and didn't stop until he found himself in Philadelphia.
It was time to bite the bullet. Michael picked up the phone dialing his mother's number. She picked up on the first ring.
"Michael Charles Novotny, you better have a damned good explanation for this! Start talking!...Don't 'Ma' me! Do you know how much you worried me? Well, do you?...Get away? What the hell do you have to get away from? Where the hell were you?"
Vic stepped carefully around his sister as she paced like a restless tiger while winding the phone cord around her wrist. Any minute now and the cord would be yanked out of the wall. He stopped her while she ranted on and attempted to unwrap the cord. She shook him off impatiently and started pacing the kitchen again.
"Yes, I know you're a grown man! Since when does being grown mean you take off and scare your family half to death? Your brothers are beside themselves! They've practically been combing the streets!...Of course. He's been even more worried than me. I even had to stop him from calling the cops....Why would you say that? They were both worried....Damn it. I know he's not your father, but he is your older brother....If you were an adult like him, we wouldn't be having this conversation. HE would have called me....Sorry isn't good enough, especially if you're going to use that tone of voice....No. You give ME a break! If you're father were here, it would kill him to see you acting like this....Excuse me?"
Vic jumped back when Debbie whipped around and started stomping in the other direction.
She slammed her clench fist against the counter. "You're supposed to be the one I can count on! How could you? Ever since your father..." She dropped onto one of the kitchen chairs in a defeated posture. Her voice shook with her next words. "You're so much like him that it scares me sometimes. I keep thinking that one day you'll walk out like him and never..." She choked and on a sob and paused to listen. "...Of course. I love all three of you, but it's not the same." Debbie fumbled in her pocket until she was able to produce a wrinkled handkerchief. She dabbed at the tears on her face and wiped her nose. "No. No. I'm fine...Yes, I know. I love you too, baby."
Vic approached silently and placed his hands on her shoulders. She acknowledged his comfort with a glance and a nod.
"Just...Call them, okay? They really are worrying. And you have to come to dinner tonight. I made your favorite--lasagna....Well GET hungry. I'll be expecting you at seven o'clock sharp!" She slammed the phone down.
"So, do you feel better now that you ripped him a new one, Sis?"
"Don't start with me Vic. I've had a crappy weekend." Her face told the truth of her claim--the faint, dark circles under her eyes, the sag of her shoulders, the downturned corners of her mouth carving permanent grooves into her face.
Vic sat at the table and took one of Debbie's hands in his own. He frowned at the calluses that had never been there before. Once, in another life, her hands had been as soft as silk and his sister had been almost a lady of leisure. Since Charles was gone, the light had gone out of her eyes as quickly as the money, the so-called friends, and the social status. The hands that had held fine silverware and sported precious jewels were now roughened from her work at her restaurant. These same hands tried to hold onto Michael with an iron grip. "You're going to lose him if you keep doing this."
"What am I doing? I'm just watching out for him."
"Why do you feel you need to? He's an adult."
Debbie snorted indignantly. "An adult? He's got his head in the clouds half the time. The rest of the time, he's got his face in those damned comics. When is he going to wise up?"
"He's like his father, in that way."
"Exactly my point!"
"But would you have wanted his father to be different than he was?"
Debbie looked up, her face twisted with grief. "If it meant that Charles would still be here? Hell, yes."
Michael hung up the phone carefully. His ears still rang from his mother's abrupt and loud disconnection. It hadn't gone as badly as he thought it would, although his resentment was still roiling around in his stomach like sour fruit. He was tempted to ignore his mother's demand for an audience with him. It could only lead to a continuation of the conversation. And once his mother got started on her long-lost husband, there was no stopping her.
He walked across the room to the one picture he had of his father. His apartment was quite different from his old room at home. That one was jam-packed with photos and souvenirs from as far back as he could remember. They created a nest that comforted him when he needed to hide from his brothers and their relentless harassment of him. Here, he had little of himself besides a few pictures and posters, as if by keeping the walls empty of the past, he could put aside the memories. Despite the few reminders, the past was always there waiting...
As a child, he used to slither under the bed, trying to forget the latest name-calling or the play fighting that became a little too rough and a little too deliberate. Under his bed was an oasis of quiet--like Superman's Fortress of Solitude where he could regain his strength, far away from the ills of the world.
But his favorite times were when he wasn't alone. His father would come home from work and climb the stairs to the bedrooms to join him. Their house was large and well appointed--not a showstopper, but clearly the product of healthy finances and good taste. The upstairs, though, was a different story. Debbie and Charles had allowed the boys to participate in the decoration of their rooms. They could have changed their minds when Michael had taken the Captain Astro theme a bit too far, but they had the sense and the caring to indulge their boys in creating their own niches in the rambling house.
And so, Charles Novotny would climb the stairs and make his way to Michael's bedroom. He would kick off his shoes, take off his jacket and tie, and roll up his sleeves. Thus prepared, he would join Michael under the bed, pushing aside the Captain Astro sheets to enter another world. Sometimes they discussed what events had driven Michael to hide, but most of the time it was just the two of them and the latest stories of all Michael's heroes. The best times were when Michael's father would make a big production out of opening a crisp paper bag--as if it could be anything else other than the latest issues of Michael's favorite comics. Together, they would read the adventures, taking turns acting out the characters. Time would slip away like fine sand through an hourglass until the indignities of school or the playground or of Michael's own backyard would fade to the recesses of his mind.
Michael picked up the picture and looked at it. He did look like his father--practically a spitting image. He liked to think that it was a good thing, but sometimes when his mother would look at him in a certain way--as if she was waiting for a dangerous animal to show its true colors--he wondered if it was.
"Fuck." He put the picture back in its place on the bookshelf. He didn't need to reminisce. He needed to shower off the two days of road dirt so he could feel human again. The wind in his hair and the sun beating down on him on the long stretches of highway had been a balm to his restless spirit, but they had left him with fine grit nestled into every crevice. He needed to drink a strong cup of coffee and recapture the most resistant of his brain cells that were still floating down from their high. He still wondered how he had managed to make it home without being pulled over. The danger had revved his adrenaline to the max and left him quivering from its effects. Not even his mother's scolding could get him down. Not yet.
Ben lay on his stiff hospital bed, unsuccessfully attempting to ignore the man sitting only inches from him. He would turn over and face the window if it didn't require so much effort to do so or tempt the fates into bursting a few of his stitches. That's all he'd need--a setback. Finally, he let his gaze fall fully on the figure sitting silently in the chair next to his bed, the man waiting with the patience of the dead to be acknowledged.
Paul looked different this time, but for a moment Ben didn't know what it was. Then his mind opened fully and he saw it with gut wrenching clarity. Paul looked as he had the very last time Ben had seen him. His sandy hair was matted with patches of vibrant, wet, sticky blood in some places, and dark, drying blood in others. The left side of his face was split wide open, exposing his high cheekbone. His left eye was nearly torn from its socket. The beautiful Egyptian cotton shirt he'd been wearing that day was now covered in its owner's blood. And like that day when they both sat pinned in the car, Paul was trying to tell him something. But Ben couldn't hear it then and he couldn't hear it now. He kept staring at Paul's mouth, trying, in vain, to read his lover's lips. He closed his eyes against the thundering silence of the muted accusation.
His face hurt, his side hurt, his back hurt, his heart and soul hurt. He picked up the buzzer that connected to the nurse's station and, with a trembling thumb, pressed the button. They waited in silence until a young woman entered the room, smiling brightly and asking Ben what he needed. Ben told her as politely as he could, through agony-driven, clenched teeth that he needed something for the pain. She looked at her watch, smiled again, and left the room. When she came back, she had a small cup of water in one hand and an even smaller cup with his medication in the other. Ben sat up a little, trying to cause himself as little pain as he possible, and allowed her to give him first the pills, then the water. He smiled, said thank you, and watched her leave the room.
"You can't get rid of me that easily, Benny," Paul said in a soft gentle voice.
"You're not here," Ben said, lying back on the bed and staring up at the ceiling.
"You can see and hear me. I'm in the one place you can't get rid of me and I'm not going anywhere," Paul said, venom slipping in to his voice so that it sounded almost like a hiss.
"I'm a crazy man talking to a dead man. That's all I know. All I need to know," Ben said, looking back at the chair only to be surprised to find it empty.
"We're both dead men." Paul's voice echoed in Ben's head like rolling thunder or crashing waves.
After taking a long, hot shower, Michael felt more human. The cool wood felt good against his bare feet as he went into the kitchen, got a glass of juice, and stared at the phone. Then he walked into the living room, plopped down on the sofa, and again stared at the phone.
The last thing Michael wanted to do was talk to either of his brothers, especially David. Since Brian had gotten older he'd become less of a prick. He had even become somewhat of a friend. David was another story all together.
When their father walked out the way he did, David had stepped in as man of the house. He had to take care of everything and that was a lot to handle. He did it and he hardly ever complained, but Michael also knew that most of David's frustrations at having to be the man of the house were taken out on him. He and Brian would gang up on him before, but it got so much worse when their father left. Or maybe it just appeared that way because he was gone. Because that buffer between Michael and the world had effectively disappeared, leaving him to contend with things the way they really were.
He picked up the phone and dialed his oldest brother's number first. Better to just get it out of the way rather than drag it out. The longer David had to wait the worse it would be. No matter what his mom had said, Michael knew David was more pissed than worried.
"Hello."
"Hi."
"Hi. That's it? All I fucking get is 'Hi'?"
"David--"
"Where the fuck were you?"
"Look, I just called to let you know I'm home."
"So you're home. And we're all just supposed to be so goddamn grateful for that fact that we don't get an explanation?"
"I'm not a child, David."
"You're not a child? You took off and didn't tell anyone, Michael. You scared our mother to death. She's been calling your apartment and cell phone every fucking hour since you decided to disappear and she's had us out looking for you. What kind of man does that?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry anyone. I just...I just..."
"You just what? You just didn't think. You never think Michael and it's going to get you hurt. You're all right though?"
"I'm fine." Michael said, wiping tears from his eyes and trying to hold the sound of them out of his voice. That's all David would need to hear to rip into him again.
"I'll talk to you later."
Before Michael could say anything else, the phone went dead. He sank back into the couch and wanted to disappear. He wanted it to swallow him whole and never let him go. David always made him feel helpless, stupid, and, in a fucked up way, loved--and all at the same time. David would say all these mean things, then he'd throw something in there that let Michael know his older brother cared about him, deep underneath all that anger he carried around with him like a tree trunk on his shoulders.
With trembling fingers, Michael dialed Brian's number. With any luck his younger brother would be out somewhere getting laid or would have someone there and wouldn't answer the phone. No such luck, Michael thought as he heard his brother's voice on the other end of the line...
"The wanderer returns." Brian said, laid back.
Michael could hear the worry in his voice. "You gonna scream at me too?"
"I was thinkin' about it, but I figured that right about now you feel lower than dog shit and I hate to kick a man when he's down."
"No, you don't."
"That's true, but I'd never kick you while you were down, Mikey. So what happened?"
"I just can't take it sometimes. That's all," Michael said, closing his eyes, glad to talk to someone who was at least trying to understand, even if Brian never would.
"Do me a favor, Mikey. The next time you feel like that, give me a call. Hell, I might even go with ya," Brian said, only half joking.
"It's not that simple."
"I know. But do it anyway."
"Sure." Michael said, feeling completely defeated and hung up the phone without another word.
"Do you have everything you need, Mr. Bruckner?"
Ben looked around the room. His clothes and toiletries were packed. He had his prescriptions and his cane. He had no cards, flowers, or gifts to take because he'd refused them or given them away. "I'm all set."
The chipper nurse handed him a printed copy of his discharge instructions, which included a long list of appointments to be kept.
"Thank you."
"Let's go. Your chariot awaits. Best of luck to you."
He sat in the wheelchair and let the transporter roll him to the exit where his taxi awaited. As the corridors of his home/prison of the last few weeks whizzed by in a white blur, Ben looked at the sheet. It took a big team to rebuild a man from scratch: physical therapists to get him walking upright; occupational therapists to teach him how to use his hands like a fully evolved human being; orthopedic doctors to check on his shattered bones and the pins and rods that held them together; surgeons to fix up the soft parts inside and to turn his outward appearance into some semblance of a man; and, of course, a psychiatrist to make sure that he didn't go off the deep end and waste all that hard work.
How many times had he recited the nursery rhyme in his head? All the king's horses and all the king's men...He wondered if he would suffer the fate of poor Humpty Dumpty. The bright light at the end of the corridor drew him and he wondered if this was what Paul had seen in those final moments. Or was it like falling asleep or floating up to the sky? Was there anything at all? Ben's trip down the tunnel of light led not to some final reward. Instead, a bright yellow taxicab stood at the curb while the driver idly picking at his fingernails and awaited his passenger.
"Here we are!" said the transporter cheerfully. He and the driver helped Ben out of his wheelchair and into the back seat of the cab. While Ben adjusted to life on the outside, they loaded his bags into the taxi's trunk. All too soon, Ben was on his way home. He kept his head down, in a vain attempt to avoid the eyes of the driver and puzzled at the idea that he had any vanity left.
"You were always hot. I loved making all the other boys jealous."
Ben refused to turn or to answer out loud, fully aware that Paul was invisible to everyone but him. He had given up on the hope that ignoring the incarnation would make it go away, but he'd learned to wait until he was alone before responding.
"Did you hear me, Benny?"
Ben risked a brief glance out of the corner of his eye. Today, Paul was as he was on some long ago vacation. Where had they been?
"Miami. How could you forget?" Paul laughed. "You couldn't keep your hands off me. I wore all those tight clothes just to make you nutty." He sighed and brushed his sun bleached sandy hair out of his eyes. He looked out the window at the crowded buildings and the pedestrians walking to and fro, buried in their own lives. "This isn't exactly a sun-drenched tropical paradise." He turned and pinned Ben with icy blue eyes. "I don't feel hot where I am. But I don't feel cold either. I don't feel anything. What about you?"
Ben turned away. He wished he had someone in the cab with him...someone real.
"I am real," said Paul and reached out to touch Ben. The cab hit a pothole and the vehicle lurched so that Ben never knew if he'd actually felt anything. "I'm as real as you are."
Ben looked up to find the driver staring at him. He turned again so that the scars faced away from the mirror. Real? He didn't feel real. The only thing he felt was distant--as if he were wrapped in a bubble. But when the sting of human interaction pierced the bubble, he felt too much. The numbness of the bubble was better. He crumpled the discharge sheet in his hand and tossed it out the window. He wouldn't be needing it.
"Oh, look! Slow down. This is my stop."
The cab was passing a large, grassy stretch of land. Through the high walls of the iron fence, the white blocks of carved stone dotted the ground in endless, straight rows that stretched as far as the eye could see. Only winding pathways and the occasional tree interrupted the obscenely geometric vision. Ben suddenly realized that he didn't know where Paul was buried. It had taken almost a week for him to wake up from the effects of the accident and the surgery. It had taken another couple of weeks before he could remember.
Once he had actually been able to talk, rehashing the horrific events had been impossible. One by one, the number of visitors had dropped and the phone calls had dried up. He hadn't wanted to rehash. He refused all comfort. He didn't want to talk to anyone and he didn't want to hear the pointless platitudes and hollow sympathy. He didn't want to know, so no one told him. And now he was left wondering where Paul was. The lack of knowledge seized him by the throat and he was drowning in fear. He had to know. He had to know, now!
A cold voice blew across his ear and sent a shiver through the very core of him. "Don't worry. I'm right here. I'll always be here."
"Ma, will you listen to me for just five minutes?" It had been days since Michael's little escape and he'd been avoiding having this conversation with her, but during his getaway, he'd had a lot of time to think about his life.
"Not now, honey. Opening time is coming and we're not nearly ready."
"You always say that and we're always ready."
"Well, we won't be if you keep distracting me. Here. Take care of these."
Michael's breath left him with a whoosh when his mother slammed the bucket of salt and pepper shakers into his stomach. He started laying them out on the tables while trying to talk to her. "I just want to know what you think."
Debbie was a flurry of activity as she stacked menus, checked the silverware, and checked the bar. "What I think? What do I know about these things? Did you talk to David?"
Michael sighed and ground his teeth. "Yes."
"What did he think?"
"Michael, it's just not practical. What are you going to do with an English degree? Teach? You'll make less money than you do now."
"No. I don't want to teach. I want to write."
"Do you realize how hard it is to break into the publishing business? You need contacts and you need a lot of talent."
"But it's what I want to do. It's worth a try to--"
"And while you're in school, how are you going to support yourself?"
"I'll still work. I'll go to school part time. I know I can--"
"You had a hard time when you first went to college. You dropped out. What makes you think that this time will be easier?"
"I'm not stupid, David. I didn't apply myself, then because I didn't want to be there. Now, I know what I want and I'm willing to work harder to get it."
"I never said you were stupid, but it takes more than hard work to be a writer."
"So, I shouldn't even try?"
"Do it as a hobby if you want, but if you go back to school, you should do something more realistic--something you can handle--something that can pay the bills. If Dad had done that--"
"Dad was an artist! And he was good! If he had been able to spend more time on his music--"
"More time? He nearly blew all our savings on a pipe dream. And then, when he couldn't hack it, he left! He left mom and he left us. Do you want to be like him? Always dreaming? Always letting people down?
"Well? What did your brother say?"
Michael repositioned a chair that didn't need repositioning. "I don't care what David thinks. I want to know what you think."
"Honey, I can't make this kind of decision for you."
Michael slammed a pepper shaker down, spilling the black and grey grains across the white tablecloth. He swept them onto the floor. "I didn't ask you to decide. I can do that. I only want a second opinion--or some support if that's not too much to ask."
Debbie stopped lighting candles and looked at Michael squarely. "I think it's a bad idea."
"What? How can you say that?"
"I talked to David--"
"Oh, sure. If David said it, then it must be right!"
"You asked, now listen."
"Fine." Michael sat in a nearby chair. "Shoot."
They both turned when the door open and admitted a shadowed figure.
Debbie stepped forward. "I'm sorry, but the restaurant isn't open for lunch for another half hour."
The figure came closer and revealed itself as the figure of an earnest, young man. "I'm sorry, Ma'am, but I'm not here to eat. I have a package for..." He consulted a sheet of paper on his clipboard. "Mrs. Charles Novotny? I was given this address as an alternate to her home address. I tried there, first, but no one was home. Do you all know if I can find her here?"
Debbie nodded. "That's me. What is this about?"
"Oh. Hello, Mrs. Novotny. I have a package for you. I need you to sign for it."
Debbie didn't come any closer. She stared at the proffered clipboard as if it would bite. "Who is this from?"
The boy dropped his arm and pulled a manila envelope from under his arm. "It's from Phillips, Myers, and Hart Law Associates."
Debbie paled and took a step back. "Excuse me?"
"Phillips, Myers, and--"
"I heard you!" Debbie took a few shaky steps forward and held out her hand. "I'll sign that." She signed the paper and took the envelope. "Thanks. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you."
"That's all right, Ma'am. Have a nice day." The courier left the restaurant and the two remaining occupants behind.
Michael hurried to his mother's side. "What is it?"
Debbie looked at Michael with wounded eyes. "Nothing." She took a step back when he opened his mouth to insist. "Nothing at all." She rushed to the back of the restaurant and out through the kitchen door, clutching the envelope in a death grip.
A moment later, Vic came out of the kitchen, wiping the flour from his hands on a towel. "What the hell happened to your mother? She took off crying."
Michael shrugged, but inside he was worrying. "Someone delivered a letter from some law firm. She got upset without even opening it. I hope she's not in some trouble."
Vic frowned. "What law firm?"
"Phillips, Myers, and uh..."
"Hart?"
"Yeah. That was it."
"Fuck." Vic turned to look at the kitchen door, through which his sister had disappeared. "Fuck," he repeated.
"What is it? Who are those people? Is the restaurant being sued?"
"If I'm right, Phillips, Myers, and Hart was the law firm that your father's family always used."
The room started to spin and Michael sat again in the nearest chair. He had a feeling that the news would be anything but good.
The place didn't look any different than it had the afternoon he and Paul had set out for the garden party at Janet and Steve's. It had been a beautiful day. The sun had been shining and the flowers in Janet's garden had smelled absolutely wonderful. One could have become intoxicated from the fragrance of the roses alone. Ben had spent a great deal of that day being distracted by how beautiful Paul looked in the garden: how his hair had caught and held the rays of the sun; how his body had been perfectly silhouetted in the golden hues of his shirt; how his pants had seemed to hug him in all the right places while still leaving something to Ben's overactive imagination. He couldn't wait to get home and remove those barriers.
Maybe he should have waited. Maybe five or ten minutes either way would have made a difference. Maybe. Maybe. The world was full of maybes, what ifs, could've and would've beens. The entire universe was awash in doubt and guilt and alternate scenarios and roads not traveled down. And they changed absolutely nothing because, in this reality, things were still nightmarish. In this reality, things were still painful and scary and filled to overflowing with the inky black bile of loss, confusion, and guilt.
No. Nothing had changed except for the thick covering of dust that seemed to blanket everything in sight. Ben dropped his gaze to his hand and the keys still in it, then tossed them onto the small, mahogany table next to the door. The taxi driver had been great about helping Ben into the house. He'd even carried the bags into the bedroom on the second floor. The guy was looking for a big tip and Ben didn't disappoint. But now, Ben was alone with him in this place and it scared the shit out of him.
He closed his eyes as the keys made the familiar sound of metal hitting wood. It used to be comforting. It meant he was home. The rigors of the day could fall away and the world could fade because he was home and either Paul was there already or soon would be. But, as he opened his eyes, Ben realized with agonizing certainty that this place was no longer home. This place, his house, their house, was now nothing more than a reminder of the past--a living breathing embodiment of his loss.
Everywhere he looked, he saw reminders of his life with Paul. There were pictures on every available surface, pictures Ben couldn't remember being there before. But now they were there glowing beneath the dust covering them with neon clarity. They called to him; they smirked, taunted, and teased him. He heard the laughter of the moment when those pictures were taken and he heard their hollow sound bounce around in the emptiness of the room.
Ben wanted to leave. He wanted to run as far and as fast as his painfully mending legs could carry him, but he stayed planted in the spot where his old life and his new life met like mountains kissing the sky. It was seamless in the perfection of it and yet it was an illusion. Mountains don't kiss the sky; they stand forever, reaching for something that can't be reached, longing and envying what will never be theirs. When God separated earth from sky, he tore apart lovers. The earth, in revolt and in sorrow, stretched forth its arms, reaching for something that could never be as it once was. And so it was with Ben. He was standing in the entryway of his own house, reaching for something he could no longer have, but he could do nothing because it was his fault it was gone in the first place. He could neither advance nor retreat. He simply stood there with his back up against the door as his mind tried to adjust to his previously familiar surroundings that now appeared foreign to him.
"Come on in, Benny boy. Now we can talk without you feeling like a nut in the privacy of our own home," Paul said in a mocking voice, sitting up from a supine position on the sofa.
"Give me some peace...for a minute, please," Ben said, whispering softly to himself.
"I don't have peace. Why should you?" Paul spat at him.
"I'm sorry," Ben said as tears rolled down his face.
Paul placed both hands over his heart, smiling smugly as he did so. "My life was aborted and you're sorry. Don't you see how ridiculous that sounds?"
"It wasn't my fault!" Ben screamed and held his head, dropping his cane in the process.
"Then whose fault was it? Who was driving the fucking car?" Paul asked in a calm, soothing voice.
"It was an accident," Ben said weakly.
"There are no accidents. You should know that by now," Paul replied before he vanished. "You should know that by now."
Paul's voice echoed throughout the corners of Ben's mind. "Don't go," Ben heard himself saying over and over. "Don't leave me alone. Not here..."
After calling David at his office and contacting Brian, Debbie finally called Michael at the restaurant where she'd left him to take care of the morning rush. Her hand trembled and she paced the floor as she waited for her sons to reach her house.
Vic, too, was a nervous wreck. He knew this couldn't be a good thing and he was hoping against hope that it wasn't what he thought it was because, if it was, everything would blow up in her face, especially where Michael was concerned.
David arrived first, looking somber but saying nothing when he saw the look on his mother's face. Brian arrived next. He and David exchanged looks as he sat down next to his older brother. Then Michael came and he felt the tension in the room. It was so thick he felt as though it were closing in on him from all sides. He silently took a seat beside his brothers on the couch and waited for his mother to start talking. Vic sat nearby in the overstuffed armchair and closed his eyes.
"This came from the law firm your father used to use," Debbie said, holding the package in her hand.
"What's in it?" David asked, leaning forward a little.
Debbie cleared her throat before telling her boys, her three sons, that their father was dead. David sat back, his face emotionless. Brian closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Debbie's eyes were glued to her middle son. Michael hands began trembling and tears slowly began spilling out of his eyes, but he said nothing.
"He sent all of you something." Debbie reached inside the package and handed each of her sons the letters their father had written to them.
Michael's, however, was more than one letter; it was a packet of several. Michael took them from his mother with shaking hands and said nothing. David asked if there was anything else. Debbie told them all that their father had left a will, but that he really didn't have anything to leave any of them.
"He did leave Michael a little money, but, after the lawyer's fees and taxes, it only boils down to a few hundred dollars."
"Figures," David said smugly.
"Are you all right?" Michael asked his mother as he got up, walked over to her, and placed his arms around her.
"Oh, I'm fine, sweetie," Debbie told her son as she leaned into him, betraying her true emotions.
Michael closed his eyes and held his mother. Something in him had suddenly gone completely cold. He felt nothing as he held his mother in his arms. He felt nothing as Brian and David came and put their arms around both of them. He felt nothing as Brian gave him an extra squeeze of understanding.
For the first time in his life, Michael felt alone in the world. These people around him were strangers to him. The only person he'd ever felt a really strong connection to was now gone. All he had left of his father was a few hundred dollars, which would be gone in no time at all, and a few letters that were supposed to explain it all to him--or at least he hoped so.
After the boys left and Vic had gone to his room, Debbie sat down and read the letter Charles had written to her.
Dear Deb,
You were right about everything. I had to get that out of the way first. I know how you love to be right, buut I had to try it anyway. I know it was selfish, I know it was wrong, and I know you will never be able to forgive me. Let's be real, though, Deb. I was never the man you wanted or needed me to be. Not that I didn't want to be. Not that I didn't try to be. I just wasn't built to be.
I wanted things to be different than they were. If you believe nothing else, please believe that. I wanted to be that man who deserved you. The one who made you laugh, the one who brushed your hair when you got all stressed out. I wanted to be the man who could make you proud to be called his wife, but it seems like the more I tried, the more I failed. The more I failed, the bigger my dreams got and the longer I spent in them, trying to escape, trying to get rid of that suffocating feeling of drowning.
I'm sorry will never be enough, not for everything you and the boys have had to go through since I left. But I am so sorry, baby. I'm more sorry than you will ever know. I'll go to my grave regretting the pain I've caused all of you.
You were right about not letting me see the boys. It would have angered David. I don't know about Brian because he was always so much harder to read than the other boys. It would have devastated Michael. God how I've missed them, though. My boys, all so different. David strong, stoic, and driven. Brian cocky, arrogant, and detached. And Michael, well, Michael is like me--a dreamer, but unlike me, he'll make something of himself. Unlike me, he won't disappoint you. Of all our boys, he's the one who actually sees the world the most clearly. He's the one who understands his place in it the best, although it may take him a little time to realize it. He's the most adaptable of our boys and he's also the strongest of them, but you can't hold onto him too tightly, Deb, or he'll slip right through your fingers.
Well, I guess that's all I have to say, except...I loved you then, the beautiful, young woman I married and wanted to give the world to. I love you now even though I've hurt and disappointed you in more ways than I can count. And I'll love you forever because, even though I picked a hell of a way to show it, you've always had my heart and you've always been in mine...
Charles...
At first, David threw the letter on to the table and walked away from it, mumbling to himself about how he'd never read it. He went into the kitchen, poured himself some bottled water, and went back to the table. He picked it up, held it up to the light, and then dropped it again. When he couldn't take it anymore, he opened the letter and read it.
Dearest David,
I know you don't want to read this letter. I know you've debated as to whether or not it's going to make you feel better or worse about the situation and about me. You wouldn't be you if you didn't. Knowing this, I'm not going to make this a long letter.
I know you're the angriest at me. You've always been the angriest at me. You wanted more for yourself, your brothers, and your mother than I was able to give. know you think I failed you all and left you to pick up the pieces. Well, you're right. I knew you could handle it. I knew you would take care of your mother and your brothers. I knew you'd be the man of the house. I know you think I'm a selfish coward--and you'd be right.
I was a coward. I admit that. I was as wrong as a man can possibly be. I'm not going to say sorry because I know it won't mean much to you, but I will say that I'm proud of you, Son. You did what I couldn't and probably better than I could have.
Thank you for taking care of our family. Thank you for loving them, protecting them, and being there for them when I couldn't.
Dad
Brian walked into his loft, not feeling much of anything about the death of his father. He knew he should feel sad or angry, but he'd felt none of these things when his father was alive. He looked at the letter and smiled to himself. He knew he'd never read it, knew he'd never be tempted to. So he fished in his pocket and found his cigarettes. He placed one in his mouth, found his lighter, and lit it. While the flame was still blazing, he picked up the letter from his father and set it on fire. He placed the burning paper in the ashtray, sat back, and watched as the flames consumed it. A single tear rolled down his cheek. It would be the first and only time Brian would cry for his father.
Michael sat on the sofa of his apartment after unplugging the phone and turning off his cell. He looked at the small packet of about ten letters in his hand and closed his eyes. He flipped trough them slowly and saw that there was one letter there for every year his father had been gone. All were dated on Michael's birthday. He smiled to himself before he got angry at his father for not mailing these to him. There were times he could have used something like these letters to better cope with everything. Then he thought: what was the use to being angry at a dead man? It changed nothing. And, anyway, he had the letters now. He closed his eyes again, feeling the paper glide underneath his fingers. Then he read the letter on top. The one his father had written before his death.
My dearest Michael,
Yours is the hardest letter I've had to write. It has taken me the longest to compose because I'm not sure what I can say to make it up to you. I know it's foolish of me to think I can even do such a thing, but you know me and my dreams.
I've missed you all so much, but you especially. I've missed our talks under the bed and, when you got older, our talks out in that old fort you boys built when you were little. I never had the heart to tear it down, even though your mother begged me to. It was our place, yours and mine, where we escaped the world--a place out of time where we talked about everything and nothing--where you could still be my little boy as I watched you becoming a man.
I want you to know, Michael, that I didn't want to leave. I just couldn't stay anymore. It was never about you boys or your mother. It was about me. I know how selfish that sounds, but I think you can understand. You were the only one that did. You felt so out of place, so lost sometimes and I wished I could have made that better for you. I realize now that you have to go through that kind of stuff alone if it's ever going to get better for you. You have to find your own place in the world, Michael. You have to be your own man and do what makes you happy and not what you think your mother or brothers want you to be or do. They can't live your life for you.
I tried being the man I thought people needed me to be and look how that turned out. I hurt my wife and you boys because I couldn't live up to the standards other people had set for me. I don't want you to end up like me, my sweet boy. I never want you to feel as alone as I did, as I do. I never want you to look back on your life and regret not doing something because other people thought you shouldn't do it or because they might have been disappointed in you if you did.
I wrote you letters on your birthday. I wanted you to know I was thinking about you, but your mother was right. Those letters would have done more harm than good. It's not that she wanted you to forget me. She wanted you to be able to get past me, to learn to live without me since I was never coming back. Those letter would have been salt in a wound that needed to heal. Don't be angry with her, Son. I agreed with her, so if you have to be angry with someone, you be angry with me. She was learning to build a life without me and you boys had to do the same.
Don't read the letters now. Wait a while and, when you really need them or when you find someone you want to share them with, then take them out and read them. You're a good man, Michael. I always knew you would be. Be your own man, now. Be the man you want to be. Don't live your life in denial of who you are.
I love you, Son, more than words can say.
Dad
Scott Holton shifted uncomfortably on the loveseat. The dust that clouded up reached his nose and mouth and made him cough. This place is like a mausoleum, he thought to himself. How can he live like this? Looking around the formerly luxurious room, he wondered about the blank space over the bar. There was a telltale rectangle of bright wallpaper, around which the rest had faded. A missing painting, perhaps? Sold off for cash? With a more careful eye, he noticed numerous remaining souvenirs from Ben and Paul's travels. The quality of these pieces could not be completely obscured by the lack of housekeeping. Nothing else seemed out of place since the last time he'd been there other than the missing painting. In fact, if he weren't mistaken, there seemed to be more pictures of Paul than there had been before. He was about to stand to take a closer look when halting footsteps approached.
Ben entered the room with a hesitant gait. In his hands, he held a tray with a small coffee pot, cups, saucers, and a small pitcher of cream. Scott was tempted to run over and help, but the determined set of his friend's jaw and the fierce concentration on his face, warned him to let Ben do this on his own. He sat and waited for his friend to speak.
"Cream and sugar?"
Scott nearly laughed at the banality. He was sitting with this battered man in a house that bore a striking resemblance to a set from a gothic horror movie and having coffee as if it were only natural to dine with the utmost civility in such a setting. What else was there to do but cooperate with the farce? "Yes, please. One sugar and light on the cream, if you would."
Ben busied himself preparing Scott's coffee, keeping the untouched side of his face forward. The less Scott could see, the more his curiosity grew. His eyes automatically swung to the space above the bar to catch a reflection and answered his earlier question to himself. Not a painting, then. Missing was the ornate mirror that had hung there for as long as he knew. In fact, he hadn't seen a mirror since he'd entered the house.
"Here you go."
Scott took the coffee cup and sat back. The dust clouds surrounded him again and he sneezed, nearly upending the steaming coffee in his own lap. "If you need a new cleaning lady, my wife uses one I can recommend."
"I'd rather not have anyone else in the house. I like my privacy. Besides, I'm doing fine on my own."
Scott watched curiously as Ben still fiddled with the coffee service. He had poured himself a cup and was making a third. His hands had a fine tremor, but his movements remained slow and deliberate. "Are you expecting someone else?"
Ben looked up and Scott received the full brunt of piercing eyes. Never before would he have described Ben's eyes as icy, but that was just what they were--as cold as the frost in winter--so cold that the usual bright blue took on a steely gray cast. And distant in a way that made Scott wonder if the old Ben was still all there.
"No. Why do you ask?"
Scott nodded at the third cup of coffee. "Either you're expecting a third person or you've become really impatient for a jolt of caffeine." Ben looked quickly to his left at the empty chair and turned away with a bent head. Despite the posture, Scott still detected a flush in Ben's pale cheek.
"I must have spaced out for a minute."
Scott puzzled at Ben's studious lack of attention to the third coffee cup and to his entire left side. Once again, he wondered if there was some lingering brain damage that the doctors had missed. Ben's actions were awkward and distracted to a degree that seemed out of proportion to what he might have expected after all the weeks of rehabilitation. Then again, what could he realistically expect from a man whose his life had been shattered? No words could repair the invisible wounds any more than a surgeons scalpel could get erase all the physical scars. It was no surpise that Scott felt his helpless so keenly. "How has the therapy been going?" he asked, fearing the reaction. His fear was for naught because the response was remarkably subdued.
Ben's mouth pinched into a thin line and his hand gripped the coffee cup a little tightly. "You know I haven't been going. I told you I haven't left since I came back. Why do you bother to ask?"
"I keep hoping that you'll change your mind."
Ben's face became shuttered. "I won't. I'm sure you didn't drive all the way out here just to ask me that."
"I wouldn't have had to come all the way out if you would use the phone." Unbeknownst to Ben, Scott had entertained the worry that Ben had fled the town. When he tried to call, the phones were disconnected. No one in their circle had seen Ben in days. He even wondered if Ben had had a medical setback and had been readmitted to the hospital. When he came to the house and found that none of his fears were true, he had felt relief that it wasn't the worst, anger that Ben had made him worry, and an all-encompassing fear that Ben was lost in a more profound way. The longer he was in the house, the more he felt that his fear was justified.
"You could have written me a letter."
"I needed to talk to you." And yet they weren't talking--not really.
"About what?"
Scott took a deep breath. "When are you going to come--?"
Ben put the coffee cup down so hard that it was a miracle the delicate china didn't chip. The coffee sloshed over the sides and spilled on his hand, but he never flinched. "Don't."
"Don't what? You didn't even let me ask."
"I'm not coming back."
"Your students have been asking about you." Scott chuckled ruefully. "I don't think I was the best substitute." The workload had been manageable, but stepping into the shoes of one of the most popular professors at the university's Liberal Arts department had been daunting. The students had been clamoring for Professor Bruckner's return and Scott hoped that this might be an incentive to get Ben back into the stream of life.
"All my students have already moved onto the next semester. I'm just a memory to them."
"But--"
"It's not going to happen, Scott."
"I'm sure Paul would never want--"
Ben stood faster than Scott would have imagined he could. "I think you should leave, now."
Once Scott had the bit in his mouth, he refused to let go. "It's been weeks. You've holed yourself up in here like some kind of hermit. In town, there are all sorts of crazy rumors going around. You can't spend the rest of your life up here." He ran a hand through his red hair in frustration. Damn Ben and his stubbornness! "They are going to revoke your tenure if you don't talk to the Board about your plans. You worked so hard to get this far. Don't throw it all away!"
Ben walked to the window and stared out at the garden. "I don't need the money right now. I can live off my savings and my inheritance for a long time. Why should I go out there so they can stare at the freak?"
"You're not a freak." Scott caught a glimpse of Ben's face and flinched, despite himself. Ben might not be wrong about the reactions to which he might be subject. Already, uncomplimentary nicknames were flying fast and furious among those wont to gossip.
"What have they been saying about me in town?"
Scott squirmed with discomfort and refused to meet Ben's eyes. When had Ben become a mind reader? "I don't remember."
"Just as I suspected. I really do think you need to go."
"Wait!" Scott grasped at any thread of conversation that might keep Ben talking to him. "People are wondering if you are going to have to go to court. I was wondering myself, though I assumed not."
Ben's hand pressed against the windowpane so hard that the glass bowed, but didn't break. "My alcohol level was below the legal limit. I'm completely exonerated." Ben leaned his forehead against the window. "According to the law, I'm totally innocent." He laughed harshly, as if listening to an inaudible joke.
"That should be good news." Scott squinted with worry when Ben looked to his side and stared off at nothing. The silence stretched into nothingness until Ben spoke again. His voice grated as if he'd been shouting for hours.
"I'm sorry, Scott. I appreciate you coming to check on me, but I have a splitting headache."
"Of course. I didn't mean to tire you out." Scott stood and walked to the window where his friend stood. He carefully touched Ben on the shoulder and was saddened when Ben stiffened in rejection. He dropped his hand and said sadly, "Is it okay if I drop by next week?"
"I wouldn't want you to waste your time."
"I want to." Scott wanted to pound on the nearest piece of furniture. He would probably get more of a response than what he was getting from his friend.
"I'd prefer you didn't. I just need time to myself. I'll be fine." Ben fell silent.
Scott reluctantly showed himself out of the house. After slipping into his car, he looked back at the house. He wanted to run inside and drag Ben out of the home that he was slowly turning into a prison of his own making. Ben was anything but fine.
Michael was twiddling his thumbs at the laundromat, watching his clothes tumble in the dryer, and wondering how it all connected to the meaning of life. The two children--a boy and a girl--playing on the other side of the room probably didn't have this problem. To them, life was about the next game they played, the next school assignment, the next meal, the next fight over a toy, and other trivial matters that took on so much importance at that age.
Maybe, if they were more introspective, they wondered about why the sky was blue or why bunny rabbits exist. They probably weren't that deep, though. They certainly weren't wasting time like he was doing, staring at sheets circling over and over and trying not to wallow in his own dark feelings.
For a while, he had been telling himself that it was simple fatigue. Too many late nights drinking, clubbing, or doing whatever seemed so more pressing than sleep were bound to take their toll. But for the past few weeks, he had done nothing but go to work, eat, and sleep--as repetitive and boring as the clothes in the dryer. Yesterday, he'd done nothing more strenuous than lounge around his apartment and watch TV. He'd slept so much that his body rebelled at the inactivity, so being physically tired was not the issue.
He sat and listened to the little girl who was whistling for no apparent reason. Two men sat to his right talking quietly. Their Spanish was incomprehensible to him, but the lilting rhythm of the words was like music. A cool breeze blew through the open door of the laundromat and washed over him, stirring the tiny hairs on his arms. The sun poured through the open door and kissed his cheek with its warmth. He had a paying job, a decent place to live, and a family who said they loved him. There was no reason on earth not to feel good. What more could he want? What more did he deserve to ask for
But instead of feeling grateful, he sat in the laundromat, surrounded by strangers, wondering if it had any more meaning than the clothes spinning in the metal vat. Did a dryer know the meaning of its life? Or did it sit, staring at the various faces that came and went and wonder what the point was. Life's a wash and then you dry, he thought humorlessly . There had to be more than this. As a child, he would have asked his father. For the past several years, even with his father gone, there had been the knowledge that somewhere out there was someone with the answers. Someone who would love him patiently and share his wisdom. Someone he could follow. He'd never know who precisely he thought that someone was until his mother announced his passing. Now that illusion had been ripped away like a bandage off an open wound. He was bleeding and he was desperate for a way to stop the flow.
"Why the fuck would you want to do that?"
"He's our father. We should pay our respects."
"Bullshit." Brian pulled open a box and started rolling a joint, his movements practiced and efficient. "Why now? He died months ago."
Michael sat next to Brian on the floor. "We owe it to him to say a real goodbye."
"He's dead."
"I know that!"
"Well, then you should know that he can't hear you anymore. He probably couldn't hear you when he was here."
Michael's face darkened. "How can you say that? Don't you remember how he used to spend time with us and teach us stuff? How he was always--"
Brian sniffed loudly and cut Michael off. "That's some memory you have, there, buddy. Don't YOU remember him staying out all night without telling us where he went? Not unlike your little vanishing trick. Do you remember the fights him and Mom used to have?"
"He loved us."
Brian sneered. "Is that what he said in all those letters he left for you? How much he loved you?" He flicked the ash of his cigarette as easily as he had swept away the ashes of his father's legacy.
"He did in the one I read. I didn't read all of them yet."
Brian took a deep drag from his joint, leaned his head back against the couch, and let the smoke absorb into his lungs. With a rough voice, he asked, "That's touching, Mikey, but if he was such a great fucking father, then where the hell was he for ten years?"
Michael's teeth ached with a desire to spill his knowledge and thus alleviate his burden, but his father's words wouldn't let him: Don't be angry with her, Son. I agreed with her, so if you have to be angry with someone you be angry with me. "Just because he couldn't live with us, doesn't mean he didn't love us."
"Just because he's dead, doesn't mean I have to give a shit."
"You already do."
"Bullshit." Brian stared at Michael, but could only hold the look for a minute. "Fuck."
"Just come with me."
Brian stubbed out the end of the joint in his ashtray. "I already said goodbye in my own way. I don't need to go. Brian sighed tiredly. "Can we talk about something else for five minutes? You're ruining my high."
Michael crossed his arms and glared at his little brother's casual pose. The minutes ticked by until Brian swore out loud.
"Christ, your stubborn! Fine. I'll go."
"Good. Now you can help me convince Mom and David."
"No."
"But David--" Michael looked at Brian desperately.
Brian raised an eloquent eyebrow that said, "I told you so." He took a swig out of his beer bottle, leaned back on the couch, and put his feet up on the coffee table.
"How many times do I have to tell you that the table is a museum piece? Get your goddamned feet off of it!" David was standing, arms akimbo, glaring at Brian's lanky figure.
Brian widened his eyes innocently. "I don't know how I keep forgetting that. You must remind me next time I'm here." He left his feet planted exactly where they were.
David turned stepped up and nudged Brian's legs until his feet were off the table. "Why do you have to be such a pain in the ass?"
"Mikey and I learned from the best." Brian grinned at his older brother pointedly.
David rolled his eyes and looked at Michael who was perched on the edge of a chair and wringing his hands. "I don't want to go. I see no need for us to do this. I'm not closing my practice on short notice so we can go gallivanting off to the back of beyond."
"It's not that far and it's not gallivanting. I thought that you would want some closure."
David linked his hands behind his neck and pressed against the knots that always seemed to be there. His forehead was creased with a frown and the lines around his mouth formed deep brackets. "I got my closure when he walked out the door."
"Fine!" Michael bounced out of the chair and stalked to the door.
"Mikey!"
Michael swung around when Brian grabbed him. "What? He doesn't want to go, so forget him! Who needs him anyway?" Michael yanked his arm away and rushed out of the house, slamming the door behind him.
Brian turned to face David, who was staring at the floor and rubbing a finger across his lip. "He didn't mean it."
David looked up sharply. "I don't need you to tell me what he means. I practically raised him."
Brian reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
"Don't smoke that in here."
"Don't worry. It's the legal kind. I agree that you partially raised Michael--"
"And you."
"That's true...But you can't take Dad's place no matter how hard you try."
"I never tried to."
Brian cocked an eyebrow. "Are you sure about that?"
David exhaled with exhaustion. "Go after him. Knowing the stubborn little shit, he'll walk all the way home."
Brian sauntered to the front door. "Think about what I said, bro. You know I'm right."
The sarcasm dripped like honey from David's voice. "Yeah, Brian. You're always right."
"Finally, he comes to his senses. It's about damn time." Brian exited before David could respond.
Vic sat on the edge of the bed and watched his sister packing an overnight bag. "With all that happened, why are you doing this? You're not going to hurl rocks at his tombstone, are you?"
Debbie looked up. "Of course not! I can do this without resorting to an emotional display." Secretly, however, she didn't think that her brother's idea was an entirely bad one. If she didn't harbor the tiniest fear of some divine retribution for such an act, she might actually do it.
Vic leaned back. "You are Debbie Novotny? My sister, Debbie?" He ducked and laughed when she tossed a piece of clothing at him that covered his head. He pulled it away from his face, looked down at the tee shirt, and said, "Thank goodness. I was afraid that it was your bra."
They both burst into giggles until Debbie sat on the bed, her bag forgotten as quickly as her laughter. "What am I going to say, Vic? I can't believe this mess."
"Michael still hasn't talked to you about it?"
"He's barely said a word to me in the last few weeks. He says he's not angry, but I don't believe him."
"Give him time, Deb. He'll come around. Losing his father for a second time sent him into a tailspin."
"I know. I hope that saying goodbye helps him...and Brian."
"Brian will do all right. So will Michael. And you too."
"Me? I'm tough as nails."
Vic nudged Debbie with his shoulder. "I remember a girl who wasn't so tough. She used to flutter when a certain boy was around."
Debbie laughed heartily. "I still can't believe that I used to get giggly. Charles must have wanted to run in the other direction."
"No. He told me that you made him feel ten feet tall."
Debbie turned to her brother, her mouth open in astonishment. "When did he say that? And why didn't you tell me?"
Vic drew himself up. "We men have a code that we live by. I could never have given you information that might be used as leverage later on."
"I wouldn't have done that!"
"You forget. I know you well."
Debbie smiled. "Okay. Maybe I would have used it once or twice." She stared off into space. "I'm glad that I made him feel good at one time. I guess I forgot how." She bent over herself and shielded her face with her hands. "How am I going to do this? I'm so angry I could kill him if he walked in the door!"
Vic slung an arm around her shoulders. "Remember that no matter how much hurt, anger, and disappointment there was, there were also happy days and that you two created three things that you love dearly. That's how you do it."
Debbie pressed a kiss to Vic's cheek. "I'm so glad I let you hang around."
Michael hit the speed-dial button again. "He swore he would be here."
David dug his hands deeper into his pockets. "He also said that he might change his mind."
"He didn't tell me that! Why wouldn't he tell me? He knew we were expecting him! We arranged to leave late today because of him and his pet project at work. If he wanted to bag the trip, why not just reject me flat out like you did?" Michael was looking down the road as if Brian would magically appear, so he didn't see David wince at the little blow.
"I don't think he's coming."
"But he said--"
"He's not coming!" David spun on his heel to turn away from the wounded look on his brother's face. There was no escape, though. Michael circled and stood in front of him.
"Did he say that to you?"
David took a deep breath and looked into Michael's eyes. "Yes, he said that."
Michael started shaking his head before he could speak. "Why didn't he just tell me?"
"Because he's a coward who didn't want to disappoint you or have you give him a hard time about not going."
Michael stepped back and stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk. He turned to look at his mother, who was waiting in the rental car. She frowned and pointed at her watch. Michael turned back to David. "Tell him I said thanks for nothing." Michael walked around the car and got in the driver's seat.
"What happened to your brother?"
"Change of plans. He had some emergency at work."
"Oh. So, I guess it's just us."
Michael gripped the steering wheel and peered through the front windshield. At the motel, they would have separate rooms, but what was he going to talk about with his mother for three hours in the car? Now, he would be stuck with her until tomorrow and the thought was making his head throb and his neck muscles twist into impossible knots. With a sense of impending dread, he threw the car into drive and started their journey.
David watched as the car disappeared. He stood there long after it was gone, just staring into the glare of the day. Finally, he closed his eyes and felt the tear that had been threatening to fall since Michael's little blow begin to trickle down his face. It slowly made its way down his cheek and he found himself cursing under his breath. He'd fucked up....He'd fucked up and there was nothing he could do or say to fix it.
Michael needed this. David had seen it in his face the day he and Brian had come over trying to convince him to go. Michael was drowning and reaching for a life preserver and David had walked away, leaving his little brother to be swallowed by the tide.
If Brian was a coward, then so was he.
"Wake up, sleepy head."
"Five more minutes."
"We don't have five minutes."
"Come on, baby. I'll make it worth your while."
"Unless you can breathe life back into my lungs, we don't have time for this shit."
Ben woke with a start. His eyes were trying to adjust to the half light of the room. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The dawn of a brand new day. Big fucking deal."
Just imagine how I feel," Paul said, sitting on the end of the bed, looking at Ben sideways. Smiling.
Ben ignored the comment and swung his stiff legs over the side of the bed. He stood up and walked gingerly into the bathroom. He turned on the faucet and splashed his face with cold water. It felt like daggers piercing his sensitive skin. Nope. He wasn't dead yet.
After taking a shower, he went downstairs and got a cup of strong, black coffee. He sat down and drank it while watching one of those mundane morning talk shows he'd become addicted to. It was mind candy, nothing more, nothing less. Just something to do other than talk to the incorporeal air.
His friends and colleagues had finally gotten the message that he didn't want to be bothered, so they stopped calling. They stopped dropping by just to see if he was all right, even though he knew it was really about trying to get a good look at his face. He was utterly alone in the world and he found it wasn't such a bad thing. No one could hurt him...well, no one living.
"I take offense to that, Benny," Paul chimed in. "I was perfectly willing to sit here and watch TV until you got all personal and shit."
Ben turned his head and looked at the empty space next to him. He knew he was insane. Or did he just think he was insane, but was actually sane? Would a sane man ask himself these questions that were more like progress reports on his mental well being? Would an insane man actually know he was insane or would he think he were sane and everything else around him was insane and he was just trying to make sense of it? Could he make sense of it? Would a truly insane person know to try and make sense of it? Or would they leave it as it was and travel through the world not understanding their place in it? Where there actually such things and ghosts? Or was it the mind's way of vomiting up guilt and regret? Was Paul talking to him? Or was he talking to himself using Paul as the vessel for his pain, his anguish, his remorse? Was--
"You're talking in circles again. I told you about that. You keep this up and you're going to give yourself a headache. Hell, you've already given me one."
Ben laughed out loud. It was the first time he'd done that in ages and it sounded hysterical. But was it the laughter of an insane man?
Michael drove in silence, his hands clutching the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white and his fingers ached. He kept his eyes on the road and said nothing to his mother. Right now he wished he were alone. The anger building inside was suffocating him. He wanted to scream but his father's words kept playing over and over in his head on a continuous audio loop. They were the only things keeping him from bursting at the seams.
"Michael, you shouldn't be angry with you're brothers. They just weren't ready yet," Debbie said softly to her son, watching as the muscles in his jaw tightened.
"I'm fine," Michael said, trying to sound fine.
"Baby, you know they love you. They just need more time." Debbie reached over and touched her son's hand.
Michael recoiled from her touch as if he'd been doused with scalding liquid. "I said I'm find, Ma."
"No you're not," Debbie said, looking concerned. "When we get back, I'll make a dinner and you and your brothers will sit and talk this thing out."
"That's not going to happen," Michael said through clenched teeth. God, he wished he'd come alone. That way, after visiting his father's grave he could just drive and drive, until he was so far away from his family that even the mere thought of them was like looking back on a dream.
"Michael."
"Don't. I'm always the one who has to be so fucking understanding of all of your feelings. I'm always the one who has to apologize, I'm the one who gets walked all over, and then I'm made to feel like some ungrateful little shit. I'm sick of it. I'm so fucking sick of it you have no idea." Michael said, his voice full of tears and anger.
"I know you're angry at your brothers, but there's no need--"
"You really think this is about my brothers? In one way or another they've treated me like shit my entire life. I expect it from them," Michael said, his voice and body trembling uncontrollably. So much so that he had to pull over and stopped the car. He turned and glared at his mother. "This has nothing to do with my brothers. I'm going to see my father's grave because that's all I have left of him, because you wouldn't let him come see us. To see me."
"Oh, Michael. Please, baby, give me a chance to explain." Debbie gasped, moving both hands to her mouth as if trying to catch the words.
Brian slid the door to his loft open and was greeted by a devastated looking David. He stepped aside and allowed his big brother to walk in. Brian slid the door shut and followed David over to the sofa. David plopped down like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. This was nothing new. What was new, however, was that for the first time David looked as if he couldn't handle the weight. As if it were crushing him.
"You told him?" Brian asked as he sat down.
"Yeah," David said.
"How'd he take it?" Brian asked, a little nervous.
"We're in trouble, Brian," David said, leaning back and closing his eyes.
"He'll be fine. He'll forgive us," Brian said, leaning back, not sure he believed it himself.
"No. He won't. Not this time."
"What'd he say David?"
"He said tell Brian thanks for nothing."
"That's all?"
"You didn't see the look in his eyes. You didn't hear the way he said it." David opened his eyes and sat up. "I'm telling you, Brian, if Mom wasn't in the car with him, I don't think he'd come back."
"Look, I'm not going to feel guilty for not going. That bastard walked out on us. He left you to be the man of the fucking house. I don't owe him a goddamn thing. We, none of us owes him a goddamn thing," Brian said.
"What do you owe Michael?"
"What?"
"What do we owe Michael? 'Cause that's what this was about. He needed us Brian, and we blew him off. Again. He needed to do this, and he needed us, his fucking brothers to help him. We hurt him Brian. I mean we really fucking hurt him this time. And I don't know if we can fix it."
"He'll calm down. "
"That's just it, he was calm. He wasn't angry, he didn't yell, he didn't pout or whine. None of his usual Mikey shit. He just turned around, got into the car, and drove off." David put his hand on Brian's knee and took a deep breath before continuing. "It's like he disappeared right in front of my eyes."
"You're over exaggerating." Brian pulled away from his brother moving off the couch with feline grace and walked over to the counter.
"If you say it enough, you'll convince yourself," David said, slumping back into the sofa.
Michael's anger had evaporated. He never could stay angry long. It always seemed to disappear when he looked into his mother's eyes, or David's, or Brian's. But this time was different. This time his anger was replaced, not by a sense of love for this woman, but by an overwhelming sense of sadness and loss. He found that he was grieving for her, for them. He blinked, suddenly, as if something were in his eyes and when he looked again he found he didn't know the woman sitting beside him. He found he didn't want to know her. He felt a coldness creeping up his body, traveling through his veins like ice water. And even though there was an indifference attached to his sadness, he didn't want to hurt this woman. But he found he could no longer bite his tongue.
"What's there to explain? You kept my father from seeing us and you lied about it." Michael heard himself talking almost as if in a dream. Almost as if he'd been asleep and were now only half awake. In that moment when the conscious mind meets the real world, one can hold a conversation and never know what was said but still have the feeling of having said it.
"He wasn't coming...back...Michael. We...needed to...move on." Debbie said, fumbling for words, which was so unlike her.
"He wasn't coming back to you, you mean. And so, as part of his punishment for that, you kept him away from us." It was more of a realization than an accusation. Just something he suddenly understood, something he wished he hadn't.
"Your father lived on dreams. It was like a disease and I didn't want him..." Debbie stopped short when she saw the look in her son's eyes. "I don't know if I can explain it to you in away that you'll understand. Hell, I don't even really understand it. I never meant to hurt you, Michael, or your brothers. At the time I thought it was the right thing to do."
Debbie looked at her son. Michael's _expression was unreadable. He had detached himself from the situation in the same way his father used to. He wasn't ignoring her, not really. He'd just stopped listening to her and traveled to a place inside of himself that no one could touch, which was worse. Because it meant he wasn't being indifferent to her. That she could understand. That she could fight and make him pay attention. No. Michael was protecting himself the same way Charles used to. He was using silence as a protective screen. Silence would insolate him from the barrage of feelings flooding him at this very moment. The most predominate of all of them was her son's sense of sadness. It dripped off of him like dew off trees in early morning. His face was blank, but Debbie could always read her son's mood through his eyes. And right now those beautiful, dark chocolate eyes, which held all of his joys, his fears, and his loneliness, so like his father's, were almost black. They looked exactly the way Charles' eyes looked the night he told her he was leaving. His face, usually so animated, was muted, but his eyes were always expressive. His eyes told the world how he felt if you knew how to look, and Debbie had always known how to look. Her son was the same way. His eyes told you exactly how he was feeling even when his facial expression said nothing.
She hadn't remembered that until now. She hadn't wanted to. She found it tickled her, the way the mind had a way of keeping from you things you'd rather not remember, but things you never cease to know. Michael had effectively tuned her out and was now starting the car. The conversation was over for him. He looked up through the rear view mirror and then pulled into traffic.
"Don't worry, Ma, if you don't tell them, they'll never know." Michael's voice was ice. He paused for a second, took a deep breath, let it out, and then said. "A storm's coming." This was to be the last thing he said to her for the rest of their drive.
The wind blew hard and often and the rain came down in blinding sheets. Lightning streaked across the sky, cutting into the darkness like a knife and the thunder sounded like the angry voice of God. It was a damaging and cleansing storm. It was the kind storm that up turned trees, causing gouging wounds to form. It was the kind of storm that stalled cars, stranding their occupants on the side of the road, forcing them to seek refuge elsewhere. It was the kind of storm that knocked down power lines and plunged the world into seemingly endless darkness. It was the kind of storm that forced a changed, be it for the better or not didn't matter.
Ben stood looking out the window. Finally, the world was reflecting his inner torment. The sky was as dark and foreboding as his mood. The storm was leaving, in its wake, nasty scars upon the earth. He stood in wonderment at how captivating destruction could be. How natural it seemed to watch something whole get turned into something deformed and yet, in its deformity, be strangely beautiful while at the same time taking on the haunting quality of having been something else before.
Michael and Debbie sat in the car until Michael just couldn't stand it anymore. He saw the house. It was only about a hundred yards away. The length of a football field and he could escape what wasn't being said in this fucking car. Michael opened his door. His mother looked at him, but didn't say anything. In Michael's mind, if not reality, he was alone.
She watched as her son stood there letting the rain wash over him, as if it could take away the sadness filling his slender frame. He finally closed the car door and started walking slowly, in the direction of the house. Debbie, not wanting to be alone, followed. It was a miserable walk and she was getting soaked, but this didn't seem to bother Michael. He seemed to be enjoying the storm.
Ben saw them coming and was a bit reluctant to have them in their home, but it was pouring and he couldn't leave them out there in the rain. He was glad the lights had gone out. He could stay in the shadows and offer them a place to dry off until the rain stopped.
Something distracted him. The dark haired man walking in front of the woman, was swinging his arms and smiling. It was odd, and yet it stirred something in Ben. It wasn't freedom. In the manner of his step before he'd started his dance, in the way he held his head, and in the entire scope of his body's language, the man seemed too grounded for that. No, it wasn't freedom...far from it. It was something else. It was abandon.
They were halfway to the house when Debbie slipped and almost fell in the mud. She nearly called out for Michael, but stopped herself. What on earth would she do if he didn't answer? As soon as she had righted herself, she hurried to catch up. They walked on in silence, he radiating a nervous energy as if he could dance between the raindrops, she with a determined trudge and a heavy heart born of the guilt that had silenced her for so long.
With step after step, the panic rose in her throat. The silent, dark house up ahead had a forbidding facade. It was cloaked in the shadows created by the setting sun, whose rays escaped through heavy clouds. Its walls were covered with ivy as if the earth, itself, would pull the stone structure into its dark depths. Windows blinked down like empty, blank eyes--like Michael's eyes the last time she'd dared to look him in the face directly.
It suddenly seemed important that she speak to him and make him understand before they entered the house. Inexplicable instinct told her that crossing the threshold would be an irrevocable boundary. It screamed at her to drag Michael by the arm back to the car. Perhaps it was the unblinking stare of the windows that were watching her and waiting to devour her. But Michael, with an almost frantic sense of disinhibition, was rushing forward with little caution.
"Maybe we should wait in the car, baby. It doesn't look like anyone's home." She felt uncharacteristically flustered when her son gave her a look of bewilderment--the kind given when rain falls upwards or your dog starts to quote Shakespeare or your mother babbles utter nonsense.
"The power's probably out like it is everywhere else. It won't hurt to try."
She tried to hide the hope that flared. The conversation was mundane, but at least he was speaking to her. "I don't want to disturb them. They might be nervous about strangers."
Michael didn't stop on his trip to the front door. "If they don't want us to come in, they can say no." His back to her discouraged further conversation, so she followed silently. They ascended the flagstone steps to a large door with a brass knocker.
"How do I look? All right?" asked Debbie nervously. She patted at her hair and fussed with her damp clothing until Michael turned to look at her. His eyes were hidden in shadow, but she suspected that they would have been unreadable even in full daylight. He stared at her face, as expressionless as the lion's head on the door's brass knocker.
"Well?" she asked in a high-pitched tone of voice, uncomfortable with his blank gaze.
Michael reached towards her face and she stood steady despite her first instinct to flinch. This is Michael we're talking about. He wouldn't hurt a fly. But that was the problem. He looked like Michael. He walked like him. His voice, when he deigned to speak, was that of her beloved son, but the man before her seemed a total stranger--wounded, despite his earlier celebration in the storm. At that moment, she felt the weight of her choices like a mountain on her shoulders.
Meanwhile, Michael's hand was still reaching. Instead of striking out like they might have done, they brushed her cheek lightly and impersonally. He drew his hand away and looked at his fingertips, which were smudged with black. "Your makeup is running. You look like you're crying black tears." There was no smile, no quick joke like he ordinarily would have made. Nothing to indicate that he had any feeling whatsoever. He wiped his hands on his jeans, stepped back further into the shadow of the door, and turned to grasp the brass knocker.
The metallic echo held the ring of accusation and judgment. Debbie scrubbed at her cheek with her sodden coat sleeve, knowing that the black tears were now mixed with real ones.
The shiny aluminum covering the toaster served as a mirror in a house that had no others. Ben examined his face from every angle. In the premature darkness of the rainstorm, his face was barely visible. Held just right, the candle he had found in one of the kitchen cabinets illuminated the good side of his face while throwing the other one in shadow. If he let them in, there was always the risk that the lights could suddenly come on, exposing him to the world. Perhaps it would be better if he hid and let them think the house was empty.
"God forbid you should put yourself out to help somebody. Just lock yourself up in this pretty house and pretend like the world doesn't exist. Forget about them...just like everyone's forgetting about you."
Ben spun around and flinched when the edge of the ceramic tiles caught his shoe. The light flickered wildly, casting ominous shadows on the walls that seemed to reach out to him. "Where the hell are you?"
"Right here."
Ben turned around and almost yelled at the grinning, macabre face.
"You're worried about them seeing you? What would they think they if they got a load of me?" With an almost clinical detachment, Paul patted a dangling piece of skin, still wet with blood, back into place. "It never stays long."
Ben closed his eyes and swallowed back the rising sickness. It was impossible, but he could almost smell the decay. He felt his way out of the room until he was away from the ghastly vision, but Paul's persistent voice followed him. "Honey, where are you going? Don't I look nice?"
By the time he reached the front door, he was shaking like a leaf. The candle's flame bounced dangerously each time the melted wax brushed the wick. He took a deep breath to steady himself. This should be easy. He could do this. Then came a heavy, metallic knocking like distant gunshots in rapid succession that almost made him turn and walk away. He waited for enough time to go buy so that they wouldn't realize he'd been standing guard, waiting, and then he swung the door open.
One blue eye. That's all Michael could see of the stranger who opened the door. A blue eye with an unblinking fringe of blondish lashes. An eye with shadows underneath it.
But were the shadows created by the contrast of grey darkness and shadow, or were they there all along? The eye wasn't welcoming. Curious? Maybe. Suspicious? Undoubtedly. There was some other quality in the sweep of the eyelid and the way the eye almost made contact, but not quite. He half-expected the strange man to melt back into the shadows of the dark foyer or to slam the door without a word.
Michael thought his prediction came true when the door started to swing towards him.
"Sorry," the stranger said as he yanked on the door. "Sometimes it gets caught on the rug." His foot was busily tapping down the bump in the disobedient floor covering.
"We're sorry to disturb you, but our car decided to malfunction at the worst possible time and my cell phone isn't working. We were wondering if we could come out of the storm and use your phone, if it's not too much trouble."
The stranger looked up from his task just as lightning flashed silently and lit the scene. Michael's impression was of a face made of angles and planes as if life had burned all the excess flesh away and left only the spare frame of the man's face. And yet the stranger had a stark beauty about him. He started speaking again and Michael focused more on the vibration of his voice and the movement of his shadowed face than on the actual message conveyed.
"I don't have a phone, but you're welcome to wait out the storm until you can get to the next closest house."
Michael was surprised to hear his mother talking because, frankly, he had forgotten that she was standing there.
"Thanks. Maybe you could point us in the right direction and we can walk there, now."
The stranger shrugged. "You could do that, but it's a couple of miles down the road and I don't drive." The stranger pointed to his leg. Only then did Michael notice the stiff posture and the cane in the man's hand.
"War injury?" asked Michael joking. He cursed internally when a flash of pain and the ghost of a mirthless smile crossed the visible part of the man's face. The candle lowered and now Michael could barely see him.
"You could say that. Come in, please." The stranger stepped back and bade them enter.
Michael stepped aside to let his mother enter first, but she was shaking her head.
"We can walk two miles in no time," she said. "Really, the weather's not that bad."
Mother Nature must have heard Debbie's words and taken up the challenge, for at that very moment of denial, the wind set to gusting, and lightning and thunder turned the world into a booming, chaotic sympathy. The ground seemed to hurl itself up in worshipful offering to the gods of chaos and destruction. And with the fury came a wash of rain, at first gentle, but increasingly powerful, until it lifted every leaf and every blade of grass that had the unfortunate luck to be less than tightly bound.
Michael waited until resignation wrote itself across his mother's face and she preceded him into the house.