Reverb (6 page)

“I learned many things,” James whispers. “Things I never knew, I never wanted to know. They tortured me, raped me, kept me isolated for weeks at a time. I’ve been intimate with Lonely, and a blackness I never knew existed. And now I know fear. It’s pervasive.” He glances around the room, then looks at Martin. “The weird thing is, I see things like before, only now I feel them too, more viscerally than ever before. I get you’re afraid for me, even
of
me right now. I can feel your anxiety, like it’s inside of me. I feel everything now, except the tips of my fingers.” He holds his hand up in front of him and rubs the tips of his long, slender fingers together. “And I don’t know how to live like this.” His jaw line hardens and hollows his cheeks.

Martin catches his dark resolve and is chilled by it. He’s dumbstruck, nauseated, yet tantalized by James’ confession. Tortured? Flash images of James restrained and
gently
sexually assaulted were some of Martin's bondage fantasies, though he’s had no desire to see them realized. Guilt for conjuring such twisted scenes consumes him. Again, Martin’s lost for words.

James stares at him. For a second Martin is certain he’s pleading for salvation, direction maybe. Then the mask on many returns, and he looks back outside.

“Details of my torture play into your fantasies, Martin?” His tone is impassive, not accusatory, and he doesn’t look at Martin with the question.

Martin blushes, face and body flush and he breaks out in a sweat. James doesn’t seem to notice.
Bless him.
“Do you hate me?” He blurts, unable to contain his guilt.

James smiles, but still doesn’t look at him. “No. Seems you’re not alone, Martin.” A quick shake of his head. “It doesn’t matter to me what you think, only what you do.”

Now Martin smiles. The old James stands before him—the brutally perceptive, fluid philosopher. He runs his hand through his hair and it tumbles back into his eyes and onto his shoulders. All these years Martin believed James was a narcissist: doing what he wanted, when he wanted, because he could. But it suddenly occurs to him that James was actually a solipsist. Unless you were of immediate concern, he didn’t know you existed. “You know, that you don’t have music to shelter you anymore may not be such a bad thing.”

James shoots him an irate glare. “Go to hell, Martin.”

“I’m trying to help you out of it.” The tension grows between them but Martin feels a need to give him direction out of the tunnel he’s seemingly stuck in. “Think about it, James. Just imagine the possibilities when you let people in.”

His black eyes flash irritation, but Martin is certain he sees humor, perhaps enlightenment as James looks back outside.

“Tell me what’s going on, and between you, me, and John we can figure out how to help you. Resolve your past, take what you learned and start with a clean slate—recreate yourself, become whoever you want to be.”

“I want my fucking life back. I want it to be how it was.”

“And what was that? Where did it get you?”

Quick laugh. Sad smile. He stares out, but Martin gets James heard him.

Ice balls gather in the corners of the five square panes that top the three long bay windows. Pinging grows louder, and harder, and combined with the resonance of the wind creates a soft but audible symphony.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” James whispers in wonder.

“It is.” Martin watches him. He's expressionless, inside his head again. “I’m sorry for whatever you’ve been through, James. And I don’t mean to seem harsh, but you’re here, now, and have to play it as it lays. You have a choice, right now. Keep running, or stop and deal—get a lawyer, a team of them, whatever it takes.”

James shakes his head then fixes his black-eyed stare on Martin. “No.” He brings his hand back to his ribs, his long fingers extending around his slender side. “I can't afford to lose. I told you, I’m never going back there, Martin.” His jaw tightens with his resolve.

Martin feels apprehensive about pushing James further. “John will be all over me if he finds out you’re out of bed. You should lie back down. Get some rest.”

No response. James stares out as moonlight breaks through the clouds, the vineyards suddenly awash in silver droplets against royal blues. Locks of fine hair spill over his brow and brush his long lashes. He blinks repeatedly, as if to keep his eyes open.

“You really ought to rest. We’ll talk in the morning. You’re gonna have to fill in a few blanks for us to help you out of the mess you're in. But for right now, get some sleep, James.”

He stares outside. “Thank you, Martin.”

“No problem. Hope I helped.”

James does not comment.

Hail begins blending with rain. Fat raindrops mix with the small white dots which become fewer and fewer until only water slides down the glass. Martin waits another second but James does not look at him. “Good night, James.” He shakes his head in defeat as he leaves the guestroom.              

Martin’s suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion. Hallway to the kitchen looks long and feels daunting. And he wants a drink. Correction. Many drinks.

Chapter Four

John sits in his office in front of his laptop reviewing the thirty thousand search returns on ‘James Michael Whren.’ ‘James Michael Logan,’ his mother’s married name, yielded almost a million results, most highlighting his music career, producing and writing credits, and the like. John is looking to find out what’s happened to him recently. Can’t possibly help the man without some understanding of what is going on.

He’d never have guessed James would attempt suicide. People driven by an internal obsession were usually unscathed by the external world. Whatever happened to him must have been powerful enough to rip him from the cocoon he’d built with music, which John wouldn’t have believed possible. Not James.

A piano or a guitar seems to be involved with every memory, from the first time he saw the boy pounding away on the piano on the empty stage at Covent Garden in London. ‘That’s the child prodigy,’ Martin had told him. ‘He’s fourteen.’ Martin was in his mid-twenties then, back in the days when he was hot, and healthy. Thought is so overwhelmingly depressing he pushes it aside and continues his reverie... And the prodigy became a man, and John recalled James on the beach that winter in the Hampton’s, in those worn jeans and that gray sweater, running scales on the guitar at six in the morning. No denying the man’s talent, or beauty. John used to tease Martin for his interest, but there had been times even he’d harbored fantasies.

James had always been Martin’s friend. Really, they were more like colleagues, since James never integrated into their lives like so many of Martin's other work cronies. Mentally compromised, possibly suicidal and clearly ravaged, and Martin still wants him. John doesn’t. He has no desire to be with someone so insular. John wants to
be
James. Or, at least, have the looks, possess his talent, and have his family money. Martin doesn't look at him the way he looks at James. No one ever looked at John the way most people look at James. John wants to try that on for a day. Wear it awhile. Bask in being the object of lust. Hard to remember feeling desired.

He relaxes back into the chair and rubs his eyes, then focuses on the page of links, seemingly different versions of the same story:

James Whren, Sole Heir to Whren Family Fortune Arrested in Drug Scandal.

John clicks on the link and brings up an article in the London Times Mirror. Picture of James in his late teens conducting the London Symphony Orchestra at the Barbican. His eyes are closed, his arms up and extended, he’s holding thin white batons in both hands. He looks like he’s making it with God.

John stares at the picture. He doesn't really want to be James. There’s a price with everything. With looks comes fickle lust. With money, especially inherited money comes responsibility. Great talent is only achieved through focused practice, letting most everything else fall away, which is exactly what James had done. If John doesn’t watch it, he’s about to go there with Martin. Surprises him to see himself reflect James, and even more surprising to feel shamed by it. And it suddenly dawns on him why James may not want to be James anymore.

“James Whren, son of Edward Whren, twenty first Earl of Carham, was arrested Tuesday on drug related charges.

Chief Constable Richard Brunstrom of New Scotland Yard made the arrest at Heathrow airport before Mr. Whren boarded a flight back to the United States with allegedly close to half an ounce of methamphetamine.

Sir Edward Whren, a Conservative heredity peer of the House of Lords and a Shadow Minister of State Foreign Affairs, withheld comment in regards to his son’s arrest…”

The article goes on to talk about the arresting officers and that the case was pending trial. It does not shed any light on John’s existing knowledge. He knew of the rumor, of course. Martin had told him ages back, and like Martin, he’d dismissed it. After reviewing several more sites with the same basic information, he rubs his eyes, shuts the laptop, then collects what he needs and leaves the office.

Air is wet, windy and cold. Fine mist falls from the soaked trees but the rain has stopped. The moon shines brightly on the small wet stones of the gravel drive. John crunches across them, then wipes his feet on the welcome mat as he crosses the threshold into the warm house. He brushes the beads of water off his wool sweater as he walks down the short hallway to the guestroom.

The bed is empty. He looks around the vacant room as he places the black bag and heart monitor on the end of the dresser. James is gone, and for a moment John feels a surge of anxiety, but then notices the door to the bathroom is ajar. Before he gets to the threshold he can see James lying on the marble floor, slouched up against the shower wall. John kneels in from of him. James stares ahead, focused on nothing. When his eyes finally travel to John's, it's clear he’s totally out of it. “What’s going on? You with me, James?” Then John noticed the amber prescription bottle next to the half empty glass of water on the counter next to the sink. “Oh God, what did you do?”

John grabs the empty bottle off the counter top. Valium, the prescription John had given  Martin after he’d quit drinking to help him with the transition. There were twenty pills in that bottle, 10mg each, and Martin had only taken only a few, afraid of getting addicted. James has just taken the rest.

“Goddamn you, James!” John grabs both sides of James’ shirt in fury.

“Damn me to hell, John.” James whispers.

“What is going on in here?” Martin stands in the bathroom doorway with his mouth gaping.

John releases James and stands. “James just ate a bottle of Valium.”

James groans. “No worries, John. It doesn’t agree with me.” He manages to get up off the floor but has to grasp the sink counter to stay standing. His eyes are half-mast. He’s breathing in quick gasps as he swallows repeatedly, then grabs his side, leans over the sink and vomits starchy white fluid until it turns into dry heaves. He finally collapsed back against the glass shower wall but managed to stay standing. He looks at Martin, then John, then laughs that maniacal, lunatic fringe laugh, then wipes his mouth clean on his shirt sleeve. Then he staggers past Martin from the bathroom.

From the mirrored wall, John sees him practically fall onto the bed and then curl onto his side.

Martin still stands in the doorway. “What the hell is going on?” He looks from John to James on the bed, his eyes now closed. “We were just talking ten minutes ago.”

John picks up the empty bottle he'd dropped on the floor and goes to the sink. “Why didn’t you call me after you spoke with him?”

“This isn’t my fault, John.”

“I’m not blaming you, Martin. James did this to himself.” John stands over the sink and runs his index finger though the vomit. Feels Martin glaring at him.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m looking to see if all the pills dissolved, gives me a window as to how much got into his system.” The starchy liquid mess has many small round white dots floating in it.

Martin comes closer to look in the sink. “Is he going to be okay?” He steps back as John faces him.

“He’ll live, for now, but he’s not okay, Martin. I tried to tell you before. James is not okay.” John turns on the tap and washes the vomit down the sink.

Martin goes back to the bathroom doorway, leans back against it and looks at James in bed, apparently sleeping. “All that talent and beauty, and he wants to blow it all away.”

“That’s what used to boggle my mind about you when you were drinking yourself to death.” John looks at Martin’s reflection in the mirrored wall in front of him. Martin doesn’t respond. He stares at James. John sighs, shakes his head and goes back to the guestroom. “James! Wake up. Come on. Open your eyes.” John sits on the bed next to him.

James lies curled on his side. John pushes his shoulder back and James moves onto his back, gripping his ribs as he opens his eyes and glares at John through narrow slits. “Give me a break. Leave me alone. Go away.” He tries to curl up again but John grips his face in one hand, pulls his penlight from his lab coat pocket with the other and shines it in James’ eyes. James pushes him off, moves to the head of the bed to get away from John. “Get off of me. Leave me alone.”

John stares at him huddled against the headboard. “Why, James? What the hell were you thinking?”

James closes his eyes again, but John’s on him.

“Wake up! Look at me! Pay attention.”

James opens his eyes to slits again and stares at him.

“You took three quarters of a bottle of Valium, James.” John gets up, goes to the bathroom and gets the prescription bottle, comes back to the bedside and holds the amber bottle an inch from James’ face. “What the hell were you trying to do?”

“Ease up, John.” Martin says.

“Shut up, Martin.”

James laughs condescendingly. John flushes with anger and before he can stop himself he throws the empty bottle at him. James flinches when it hits his chest, his smirk gone. “I didn’t count ‘em, John. I just wanted to shut down. Turn off. Sleep without dreams. Pills were right there.” He squints at Martin across the bed. “You got it right, Martin. I spent the last thirteen months in hell wanting to be what I was, which turns out to be nothing.”

Martin’s jaw drops. “I never said that James—”

He blinks at Martin several times then his eyes drift to John. “Just need to sleep a bit…please...” His eyes roll back in his head a little then he fixes them back on John. “I’m fine. Really. I swear. Just sleep it off for half an hour and I’m outta here.” He blinks a few times then his eyes stay closed. His body goes slack and he slouches back against the pillows, unconscious.

John stares down at him. He looks Christ-like, his slender, muscular body lay over the pillows, his arms slack at his sides. His huge hands are face down and spread loosely on top of the maroon quilt. He looks perfect. Undamaged— but John knows it’s a lie. Anger wells in the pit of his gut. The man is going to walk out their door, and unless he gets help, in a week, a month, a year down the line, he’ll likely be joining Martin at James’ memorial.

“I’m calling Shelly. I’m getting him over to Mt. Sinai.” John looks at Martin standing at the foot of the bed. “He needs to be in a hospital, Martin, where someone can watch him around the clock, get him on the right meds to quell his death wish.” John strokes James hair away from his eyes gently and feels his forehead but there’s no fever. “I’m an internist, just a GP. I handle cuts and colds. I’ve done what I can for him. I’m getting him over to Mt. Sinai.” He stares down at James a second more then glances at Martin before leaving the room.

John takes his cell from his coat pocket as he goes down the hall, searching its database for Dr. Shelly Pasquel’s contact numbers. He finds her listing as he enters the kitchen and calls her. Kate is at the table in the nook, nursing a cup of coffee. She stands when he looks at her.

“This is Shelly. What can I do for you, John?”

“Sorry about the hour, Shel, but I have a patient. White male, late twenties, physically and mentally unstable. He’s already attempted suicide at least twice.” John paces the kitchen with the phone to his ear.

“Since when did you start taking on adults?”

“Well, he’s not actually my patient. He’s more like a friend.”

“Sounds like your friend’s in trouble. Were the attempts serious?”

“Yes.”

“Were both attempts recent? Possibly a response to critical life changes?”

“Yes. I believe so. The thing is, I’m afraid he’s going to try again. He’s experienced some major trauma, and I don’t know exactly how to help him.”

“Bring him in, John. Will he come?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Well, we can get an ambulance over to you on a 51/50. EMTs can handle him once they’re there.”

‘
Or zombify him.
’ John hears Martin in his head. He turns around and continues pacing and almost runs into Martin standing in the kitchen doorway.

“He wasn’t trying to kill himself, John.”

“He ate three quarters of a bottle of Valium, Martin. James just ODed.”

Kate gasps.

“Yeah, but I don’t think intentionally.” Martin responds to John but looks at Kate.

John glances at her, her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide in horror.
James is right. She shouldn’t be here.

“John? Is there a problem?” Shelly’s tone is so damn clinical.

John stands in the center of the kitchen glaring at Martin. “James crossed the line. I can’t just let him walk out of here now.”

“Don’t get him locked up, John.” Martin stands near the doorway staring at his partner of twenty years with his puppy face on. “At least wait until morning and find out why he took the pills. I spent half an hour talking to him earlier. He’s lucid, John. I’m telling you, James is not crazy.”

“John?” Shelly’s voice sounds shrill. “Should I send someone?”

Martin stares at him. “Phillip was locked up, and it didn’t do him any good.”

Martin’s words cut right to the core of John’s certainty. “At the very least, James is reckless, Martin.”

“John.” Shelly is speaking to him again. “I can get someone over there in half an hour if you feel it’s warranted. You understand that once he’s in our system you won’t be able to see him for at least forty-eight hours, and only then by professional courtesy.”