Reverb (18 page)

James watches her. “Need a hand?”

“No thanks. I’ve got it.” She fixes her eyes on his for a moment until her guilt forces her to turn away. “Well, goodnight then.”

“Goodnight.”

She walks back up to the house. She does not look back.

Several days pass in a blur. Elisabeth and Cameron keep to their routine—play on the beach, laze, shop, cook. She does not see James running in the mornings. She obsesses over why. She doesn’t see him at the Friday morning street market in town either.
Was he avoiding her?
He knows she lied to him about the film. If she were him—she wouldn’t trust her. She should just give him the stupid film. Go up to his house, hand it to him, and leave.

Around two, after lunch of spiral pasta salad and dinosaur-shaped nuggets, she and Cameron hike up the hill. Takes them twenty long minutes, but her big kid makes it all the way to James’ house without having to be picked up once. Not bad for just fourteen months. He’s strong, just like his daddy. She picks him up before she knocks.

James doesn’t answer so she looks through the window. She sees him, or someone, snuggled in the sleeping bag. She knocks again. Cameron knocks too, but hurts his hand and his lower lip comes out. Elisabeth grabs his hand and kisses it, then sucks his knuckles. He laughs. So does she.

James opens the door, catching their exchange and smiles. “Hey. What’s up? Come in.” He leaves the door open, turns around unsteadily and goes back over to his sleeping bag and crawls inside it.

She follows him inside and sets Cameron down, then moves to James.

Cameron giggles and toddles after his mama. He must think James is playing hide-and-seek, because he yanks back the sleeping bag and laughs. Elisabeth doesn't.

James stays curled in the fetal position. She kneels next to him. He’s soaking wet. His dark, long-sleeve shirt, the one he was wearing several days ago, clings to him. His hair is matted to his face, and to the wet sleeping bag underneath him. His forehead is hot to the touch.

He blinks at her, and then at Cameron who stands bent over him, three inches from his face, still playing. James smiles back up at him, this wonderfully amused grin.

“So, what’s going on?” He speaks to Elisabeth and his smile fades as he sits up and pulls the sleeping bag around his shoulders. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m not exactly sure, now.” She reaches in her jacket pocket and hands him the two rolls of film. “I came here to give you these.”

He stares down at her hand, smiles, but doesn’t reach for the film. “Why don’t you hang on to them, for your chronicle. Isn’t that what you said you wanted them for?”

Cameron grabs the rubber film canister, plops down and examines it.

“Don’t grab, Cameron.
Ask
.”

He ignores her.

James laughs, gets up slowly and stands with his hands on his hips looking down.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m really thirsty.” He goes to the kitchen.

Elisabeth follows him in. “Have you been sick this whole time?”

He opens the fridge and takes out the only thing in it—a half full plastic container of bottled water, and drinks nearly all of it. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it. Whatever’s going around got to me, too.”

“You probably got sick from Cameron. I’m really sorry—”

“I could have picked it up from anywhere. It’s just the flu. I’ll get over it. I’m okay. Really.” He doesn’t look okay. His eyes scare her the most. They’re surrounded by black, like day old eyeliner. He leans against the tile counter top, holds the bottled water to his forehead and closes his eyes. His face is crimson.

Cameron toddles in and starts opening cabinets, searching for hidden treasures. There’s no food, no pots or pans. Every cabinet is empty. “Have you eaten anything in the past few days?”

“I haven’t been very hungry.” He runs his fingers through his hair, pulling it back off his face. Only a few wet strands fall back down, the rest stay matted in place.

“You haven’t eaten
anything
? Are you crazy? You trying to starve to death?” Again she flashes on his cut up forearms.

“I just didn’t think about it.” He shoots her furrowed brows, like he gets her inference. “I don’t have any food here and I didn’t feel up to getting any.” He slides down to the floor, sits with his knees to his chest, his back against the cabinet. Cameron comes over to him to investigate the bottled water in his hand. “How ya doing, sir?” He finishes it with one last gulp, caps it, then hands it to Cameron. “You escort your mama home, my man. And take good care of her, okay? We don’t want her getting sick, too.”

“I’m pretty sure mom’s have a natural immunity to this sort of thing. Do you have a fever?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Do you have any aspirin or any medication in the house?”

“No, but I’ll be fine. I just need to sleep.”

“You need more than that. Come down the hill to my house. I’ll make you some soup, maybe some toast. You can have some tea, a glass of juice, and lots of Tylenol. And you can sleep on my couch, which is a hell of a lot warmer than this floor, and more comfortable, too.”

He stares at her. “As much as I’d like to take you up on your generous offer, the thing is, I’m probably not the best person to be hanging out with right now.”

“If you stay up here another few days like this, the point will be moot.”

He shoots her a defiant grin.

“James, what’s going on? What kind of trouble are you in?” Snapshots of car bombings flash in her head. She kneels and opens her arms to Cameron. He rushes into her and she sits back with his force, holds him in her lap and kisses the top of his head. James watches them, but when she looks over at him, he looks away.

“I had some trouble in the UK a while back.”

“What kind of trouble?”

He studies her again. “I was set up for dealing drugs. I wasn’t dealing. I wasn’t even using. I was set up. I swear to you ‘Lisbeth, I’m telling the truth. I don’t use drugs now. Don’t even drink alcohol, not anymore anyway.”

She holds Cameron, stays fixed on James. He arms rest on his knees, his long, elegant fingers are laced in front of him. His hair is tousled around his now rather gaunt, stubbled face and scattered in his eyes. A drug dealer?
No
. He said he wasn’t. He didn’t look like a drug dealer. He wasn’t like those guys she’d met when she covered the Miami gang riots. He didn’t have that blunt edge. His confession is somewhat relieving, though. Even if he was/is a dealer, they generally aren’t religious fanatics, or psychotics. The odds are against him being dangerous.

She strokes Cameron’s fine hair. He lays his head on her leg and snuggles in. James drops his arms to his sides, spreads his hands on the floor. He looks like a kid carrying a macabre secret. “What are you so afraid of? What are you hiding here from?”

He just stares at her and she thinks he may not answer. “Myself. But I’m doing a damn poor job of it.”

She smiles. “I know what you mean. But you know what I meant. Are there people pursuing you? Who, exactly, are you hiding from?”

“I’m not sure at this point.” He shrugs, flashes a bewildered grin. “A few months ago I left Scotland rather abruptly, and not exactly legally. I disappeared off the face of the Earth so I’d never have to go back there. I changed my name, bought property, established a residence here because it’s secluded, out of the mainstream. Safe.”

“As if there were such a thing…”

He laughs. “You know what’s weird? I thought when I got here I’d be okay—I wouldn’t feel so on edge all the time.” His expression darkens. “But it hasn’t exactly turned out that way.” Tiny pools of liquid emerald peer at her through long, wet lashes and black-rimmed eyes.

“You really are afraid, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” He looks away.

“Of what?”

“Getting hurt.”

“I would say that goes for just about all of us, James.”

He looks at her, smiles, then leaned his head back against the cabinet and cocks it to one side. “Not a whole hell of a lot of people know I’m here. Those who do don’t care who I am or where I came from, and I’m looking to keep it this way. I need to hear from you that you are prepared to protect my anonymity. If you can’t, or I don’t believe you, I’ll be gone by morning.”

“Believe it or not, I’m more concerned about your future than your past right now. Drug dealer or not—”

“I’m not.”

“Well, either way, I don’t think you’re dangerous. To anyone but yourself.” She catches the flicker of awareness in his eyes. “Come home with us, James. I’ll protect your anonymity. I’m a journalist. We have a code of ethics, when we choose to use it.” She gives him a quick grin, then looks down at her son lying in her lap as she gently rubs his back.

Chapter Three

She knows.
No. She’d say it straight out. Or maybe not. She couldn’t know. I've been careful not to let anyone see my arms.

Cameron is mesmerized by her constant stroking. Looks like it feels nice. I stare at mother and child, and am suddenly struck by a deep longing for touch.

I had to tell her the truth. Before she knew, she’d looked at me as if I’m quite possibly a monster. So I had to tell her. Not sure she believes me, but I’m damn lucky she feels more sorry for me than afraid of me.

I’m so damn tired. Fucking flu. My body hurts, the floor
is
cold, and hard. Hot food and a soft couch sounds great. But I hesitate. “I’ve been on this island three months. No one’s come after me yet, and it’s somewhat unlikely they will with the name I’m using. That being said, I cannot guarantee your safety when you’re with me. Do you understand?”

“You must be kidding me. There are no guarantees in life, James.” She stares at me like I’m an idiot. “You need to eat something.
Now
. And Tylenol, and then sleep.” She stands, bringing Cameron with her to her hip. “Come on. Get up. Let’s go.”

They both stare down at me expectantly. They look remarkably alike, the same round face, the same pouty lips, the same huge hazel eyes. Their only difference is their hair. Cameron’s is straight, strawberry-blond and ultra-fine. Elisabeth’s thick auburn waves cascade over her shoulders and extend almost to the small of her back.

I don’t have the energy to argue with her. She’s given me a command, as if talking to her son, and I’m obliged to obey. Truth is, I want to. Maybe it’s the haze of the fever, but I don’t feel afraid of her anymore. Quite the opposite. I’m scared of her leaving, of dying alone in this kitchen. If she leaves, I’m pretty sure I will let myself starve to death. I could. It would be so easy.

You ready for nothing, forever?

Elisabeth watches me intently, as if she’s trying to get inside my head, until Cameron yanks her hair, already impatient with my delay.

Sit on the floor trying to figure out how to get up. Standing on my own is out of the question. Then her hand is in front of me, and I take it. Somehow she manages to help me up off the floor while holding Cameron on her hip. I have to lean against the counter to stay standing.

“Can you make it?”

“Yeah.”
Maybe.
“Let’s go.” I follow them down the hill. The sun is setting, a perfect orange ball sinking into indigo. Long shadows create giants of the dwarf pines. Time stretches and slows. Feels like I’m on acid, flashing back on my surreal experience with Ian’s little joke at our father’s inaugural bash all those years ago. Hillside is red—blood soaked earth. It’s hot, or I am, or both. My stomach churns and stinging bile rises in my throat, hot and fast. I swallow it back.

I make it down the cliff without throwing up, passing out or falling. But five steps into their living room and I have to sit down. Sink onto the couch in front of the fireplace, lean my head back and close my eyes...

“James.”

I hear her, but can’t see her.
What’s happening? Where am I?
I can’t move, paralyzed with fear.

“James. Wake up. You can sleep after you eat something.”

Open my eyes, blink Elisabeth into focus. She’s staring at me with a furrowed brow, a concerned look on her face.

“You okay?”

I smile at her to break the tension. “Yeah.”

“Yeah!” mimics Cameron. He stands at my knees smiling up at me. His expression is filled with pure amusement, innocence, curiosity. Can’t help smiling back at him. He puts his pudgy hands on my knee and the couch and tries to crawl up next to me, but Elisabeth grabs him.

“Oh no, little munchkin. You’ve already infected him once.” She cradles him in her arms. “And I don’t want you sick again, either.” Then she smooshes her face into his torso and blows on his belly. They laugh. And her laughter fills the room with lightness.

“Come in the kitchen.” She holds Cameron on her hip, his tiny arm wrapped around her neck. They stare down at me.

“Yeah. Okay.” I stand, stare at my feet, and will them to follow her into the kitchen. She puts Cameron in his highchair and points to one of the two chairs for me to sit, then sets a bowl of steaming chowder in front of me. Cameron’s tray is full of small bits of things that vaguely look like food. He’s using something, a carrot, maybe, as a crayon. Elisabeth prepares a bowl for herself and sits between Cameron and me at the small linoleum table.

By her grace, during the meal she does not question me. I take small sips and have to focus on swallowing to get it to happen, while she shares tales of her husband, Jack, of their friendship since childhood, of their adventures as journalists traveling the world together, with the occasional interruption to attend to her son. After dinner, she leads me back in the living room and requests that I light a fire while she settles Cameron with a bedtime story.

I construct a pyramid of newspaper balls and split pine logs, then retrieve a blue-tipped match from a box on the bookshelf and strike it against the stone flue and ignite the New York Times, all the while listening through the thin wall to her reading
One Fish, Two Fish
to her son
. Finally sit on the couch, virtually spent, hear her bid him good night, and the door to his room click shut.

Elisabeth returns to the living room, sits on the other end of the couch and stares at the fire. She’s quite beautiful in the firelight, the orange glow haloing her graceful profile, bringing forward the rich brown in her hazel eyes. Light dances across her soft features, illuminating her long neck, the curve of her swollen breasts.

“I told you that I’d known Jack since childhood,” she begins softly. “Though it was actually since infancy. Our mothers were neighbors and best friends years before Jack and I were born.” She continues her reminiscing from dinner earlier. Her voice is soft, sultry, lots of resonance. I enjoy listening to her ramble. “Since we grew up together, our friendship bonded without preconceived notions, like adult relationships always have to contend with. We’ve been, well...
we’re
best friends for as long as I can remember—from the playpen to Cameron.”

“Sounds nice, having someone to share life with.”

“Well, it was, and it wasn’t. It was always Jack and Beth, like one word or something. Everyone assumed we’d end up married, it was expected really, so we did, as a matter of course.” She pauses. “And though I truly loved him for all those years we were together, there was something missing for me. For the longest time I assumed it was my failing, never considering what I was searching to bring out in Jack—he never actually possessed.” She pauses again, still stares at the fire.

Feel her tension as she waits for my response but I can think of none.

“Would you like to know what Jack was missing?”

“Okay.” But now I’m thinking I don’t want to go down the path she’s surely leading me.

“Balls.”

“What?”

“Not literally.” She gives me a shy smile then looks back at the fire. “What I mean is, Jack was afraid to
feel
anything. So he shut it all down. His. Mine. He objectified everything. The quintessential reporter. He didn’t let anyone really touch him. Even me.” Tears are streaming silently down her cheeks. “And though it’s true I miss him every single second of every day, I kind of did when we were together, too.”

I have to look away. Every part of me hurts. Somewhere in there I hear Julia.

“The thing is, living is all about feeling. Feeling pleasure.” She pauses. “Feeling pain.” She pauses again. “Angry, sad, hurt, scared, compassion, passion, love—letting yourself feel these things because in them lies the spectacular richness of being alive.” She looks at me, her hazel eyes certain. “So the tragedy is not only in Jack’s death, but that he never really let himself fully experience living.”

Why is she telling me this? I know she has an angle. What is it?
I feel afraid of her words. Stare at the fire.

“Do you think you’re like Jack?”

“I’m sorry?”
Here we go. Look at her
.

“Well, it seems to me you’d have to be pretty far removed from feeling to slice up your wrists like you did.”

Fuck.

I stand, cross my arms over my chest and bury my hands against my sides. Draw in my breath to speak, but I'm lost for words.
When did she see?
Maybe when she was shooting me and Cameron while we slept, or up at my place this afternoon. I should leave, but exhaustion holds me captive.
Then say something.
“I strive daily to feel as little as possible, actually. Death would be a nominal change.” I raise an eyebrow, crack a grin, but she finds no humor in my comment. I have no idea what else to say to her. Comb my hand through my hair to get it out of my eyes. Scalp tingles and I shiver, then turn to the heat of the fire again.

“I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I apologize for my directness. Jack often accused me of being too forward. Really, I’m sorry if I was offensive.” She gets up, goes to the trunk below the window, pulls a sleeping bag out and spreads it on the couch. “I’m sure you’re exhausted. Why don’t you get some sleep. And again, I apologize if I was offensive.” She puts on a soft smile, but I sense no remorse as she holds my gaze then turns away. “Good night.” She leaves the room without looking back.

I stand in front of the fire watching the flames dance, listen to their crackle, try to pick up a bass line. My eyes burn.

Focus on the rhythm in the crackle.

But I hear none. It’s just fire—random ignitions before it all turns to ash. No rhythm, no rhyme, no reason. I picture her clear eyes, like still, mossy pools.
‘The spectacular richness in being alive, is
feeling.

I feel scared
.

And MAD.
Mad as a hatter
.

I laugh, then flush with heat from fever, break out in sweat. The scars on my forearms itch, and I unbutton my sleeves and roll them back, then hold my arms in front of me and force myself to look at the jagged red lines. They’re still so prominent. No wonder everyone who sees them has a reaction.

Warm tears stream down my face. I taste their salt. Stare at the fire, try to ignore them but feel it coming, the wave forming, the drag as it draws back before cresting. My body reverberates with the pounding of my heart, fear suddenly gripping my throat and suffocating.

She’s a
journalist
, for Christ sake. And now she knows about me. Quick search and she could easily find out who I really am, turn me into tomorrow’s news. And I’d be screwed.

Run, James
.

Right. Wouldn’t make it ten feet up the hill.

My vision fills with eye floaters—sparkling light worms corrupt my sight. Knees buckle. Move to the couch before I fall, and drop onto it. Try to focus on the fire, on the crackle, listen for the rhythm. Still can’t hear one.

Relax.
Lay
my head back against the large couch pillow.
Just listen...

I hear someone screaming...in agony...
I'm
screaming, muscles so taut they feel like they’re tearing. Back in the ancient infirmary, I'm restrained to the metal bed frame, legs pulled wide, bound at the knees, arching my body, complete exposing all of me.

Dilapidated room is empty from my limited perspective, and for a second I think they’re done with me for now, then white hot electric shocks slice through my inner thighs right into my groin and I involuntarily convulse with the stinging heat, hear myself scream again. See my trembling hands bound at the wrists to the bed frame, my fingers outstretched, contorting with resistance.

I struggle wildly, tearing my skin to a bloody pulp, my hands numb now—only feel wetness around my wrists and oozing into my palms between the blinding, agonizing pulses. Limbs ache, loin burns, my balls and cock feel like they’re going to burst. Wires on the electrodes attached to the inside of my convulsing thighs tap against my ass even after the shocks stop.

“
Get it off of me!
Let me go,
you fucks!
” But either I’m yelling at no one or they’re out of my range of vision where I’m strapped to the bed. Hot tears of frustration and outrage stream down my face. Struggle to lift my head, see two bands of metal with thin black wires coming off them around my cock. Panic replacing every other feeling except the searing, shocking pain, like a hot knife ripping through my groin. White hot prickles to the base of my skull somehow stimulate my dick, forcing my head back onto the mattress with my hips arching upward again and again with each penetrating, intolerable lesion. Left groaning, panting, crying when the shocks subside. I manage to lift my head again, look past my knees through my spread legs and notice a red LED is flashing on a video camera mounted on a tripod. They're filming my torture.

Recall snuff films and wonder if this is what’s happening here, almost welcome the idea. I'll be the latest in internet porn until the final scene with the icepick in my ches—”