Brownstone

by Dean Kutzler

  It’s been over a year since Jack had been home for a visit. His father had cancelled both Thanksgiving and Christmas last year. On both occasions, Mr. Editor needed to attend an out of state conference that simply could not be put off. Screw the rest of the family. Business always first. Outside of the usual holiday affair, Jack never visited home. He’d literally hopped on a plane to Montréal before his graduation cap had even hit the ground and he hadn’t looked back since. He couldn’t. He’d been eager to start his new life and see what he could make of it.

  His relationship with his parents was more of a mutual understanding. They loved, respected and supported anything he did with his life, which is more than anyone could hope for from most parents, but the only direction they’d ever given him was to follow in his father’s footsteps and that was mainly his father’s doing. His mother had always gone along with whatever his father said like any good Stepford wife. His parents never really got involved with anything in Jack’s life. All the important decisions were left up to teenage Jack. This is a blessing when you’re young. When you’re young, you just want to do what any fervent teenage boy wants to do. Chase girls or boys. Play video games. Stay up all night watching the Thriller marathon.

  As an adult, Jack wished his parents had been as strict as some of his less fortunate friends. His parents just assumed he’d follow in daddy’s footsteps. So what direction or discipline could they have offered?

  Jack learned early on that it all boils down to discipline. Nothing is accomplished without a plan and discipline to adhere to that plan. Thanks to his parents, he constantly battled with discipline. Everyone wants to blame someone else for their faults—parents, teachers, etc. Blame could be placed on whomever, but at the end of the day as you take tally as an adult, the mirror is the only true place for it to go. Nobody ever wants to believe they’re flawed. And maybe nobody is—maybe that is just how some of us are supposed to turn out.

  When Calvin learned about Jack’s uncle, he’d offered to take a short sabbatical from the university so he could come along for moral and emotional support. He insisted Jack would need him. They’d spent all night discussing what they were going to do. Going back and forth over the same damn thing. Jack loved Calvin and his dedication but he needed some time apart. He was starting to think that maybe it wasn’t just relationship counseling that they needed. Jack was starting to think that he needed to see a therapist himself. Why should he be the only one in the world that didn’t?

  Jack had developed the same feeling over the last five years with Calvin that he had felt with his father. He was no therapist and his father was far from perfect, but Jack was sure the problem was his and his alone. He just couldn’t spell out the issue. Calvin said that Jack was having commitment issues. Everything seemed to point to that, regardless of Jack’s reassurances to Calvin and to himself.

  The plane started touching down on the runway and Jack nearly ripped out his goatee. He’d been lost in thought. It’s amazing how those little wheels supported the whole plane. It was comical. Tiny little rubber wheels, centered beneath a metallic beast, screeching and bouncing, screeching and bouncing, angling the huge monstrosity level as it decelerates its way to a halt on the tarmac.

  The little wheels were completing their journey as the plane was nearing the end of the runway. It had been a quick and painless trip, thankfully.

  “Thank you for flying Delta,” the flight attendant said, handing Jack a little pin resembling wings as he passed the cockpit. She gave him a little wink when he gave her a perplexed look.

  Mr. Shatner had been nice enough to Judo-chop Jack a room at the Marriott when he’d booked the plane. Not only was the Marriott his favorite place to stay, the one in Times Square had been located close to the New York library where he’d planned on finding that angle for his piece on the Notre-Dame Basilica of Montréal. His mother had insisted that he come stay in his old room but that would have entailed listening to his father go on and on and on about how he should never have moved out of New York and away from opportunity. How he could have been Assistant Editor at The New York Times by now. As if that was what Jack’s purpose in life was—sitting in a cubicle outside his father’s office, awaiting his next command. Not this life, dad.

  Jack had said he’d already booked a hotel room. When she pleaded with him to cancel he said that he needed to manage his time better and try and get some writing done while he was there because it was close to the library. It was partly a lie and she knew it. Despite his feelings for his father, Jack loved both his parents and in order for it to stay that way he needed to spend as little time with Dear-Ole-Dad as possible.

  The flight attendant opened the aircraft door and Jack made his way down the make-shift corridor from the plane to the terminal, keeping as close to the faux-walls as possible. Those things made him cringe. They reminded him of walking on metal storm doors in the city and subway grates. He always felt as if he was going to fall through one day and end up as a rat’s dinner.

  Outside of the Airport, he hopped into the first cab he came across. “Marriott, Times Square, please.” Jack said pulling the heavy door closed with a thud.

  “You got it Mack.” The cabby said, turning his worn out golf cap backwards, slamming the cab in gear and testing the integrity of the car’s suspension as they sped out of the airport.

  The trees were a kaleidoscope of fall colors as the cab raced down the New Jersey Turnpike. Jack took a deep breath and a strong hold of the Oh Shit Handle in the cab. He took notice of the interior’s familiar smell. Like all cabs, it smelled like funky feet, but it gave him a sense of comfort. He was back home. Once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker.

  They finally emerged through the traffic and the cab was barreling down the Lincoln Tunnel when Jack’s phone started ringing.

  “Hey Mack? Ain’t dat da True Blood song? My wife loves dat show. She says it’s seeeeexy. Huh! How da hell can vamps suckin’ ya neck be seeeeeexy? She made me sit tru dat other neck bitin’ movie—what da hell was it called? Hmmm—ah, Daylight? I don’t know. I fell asleep tru half of it.”

  Jack pulled out his iPhone. It was his mother. He sent it right to voicemail. She was probably ready for another round at his lodging arrangements. He felt the guilt in her voice earlier on the phone. It was never her fault, really. All the lost years of parenting she let his father dictate. Her will never matched his bull-headedness.

  “Twilight.” Jack said putting his phone away, looking up through the cab’s window wondering if one day the tunnel would ever give way to the Hudson. It wasn’t the water that he was afraid of, it was the drowning part he couldn’t get past.

  “Eh?” The cabby grunted.

  “The name of the vampire movie. It’s called Twilight.”

  The cabby eyed him in the rearview mirror. “Oh! Yea! Dat’s da name of it. Vera couldn’t stop flappin’ about it all night. I wouldn’t a minded if’n it got me lucky dat night if ya know wad I mean. Tee hee!” His eyes snapped back to the brake lights in front of them as he braked hard, laying on the horn just a little bit too long. “Come on! Git dat piece a shit movin’! We ain’t got all night! It’s just a freakin’ tunnel for Christ’s sake! It ain’t gonna fall apart!”

  Ah, New York. It’s a hell of a town Jack thought to himself as he nestled into the comfort of the smelly old seat. Montréal was a wonderful place to live but there is just something about the Big Apple that can’t be replicated, duplicated or syndicated. He wasn’t sure if it was the people, the places or maybe just a little combination of both.

  Once he dropped his bags off at the hotel, the plan was to go visit his uncle first thing and avoid running into his parents while he was there. He wasn’t ready for his father and the drama. Seeing Uncle Terry in his condition was going to be enough of a shocker. Lights out. Lifeless. Uncle Terry had been smart, quick witted and a very bright individual. He’d always been so full of life and zest that Jack couldn’t imagine seeing him in such a state. His light snuffed
out.

  The taxicab pulled up in front of the hotel and Jack handed the cab fare through front passenger window and told the cabbie to keep the change. He pulled his hand back just in time before the wheels of the cab screeched. He watched as it roared its way out of the valet circle of the Marriott.

  “Tanks Pal!” The cabbie shouted, his voice competing with the honking commuters.

  On his way into the hotel, Jack stopped to admire the floral display in the center of the lobby before he got in line to check in. The Marriott knew how to do things right. The arrangement was huge, towering over him by at least four feet. It was a beautiful ensemble of fall flowers and foliage with the main focus on the Brugmansia branches with their beautiful upside down flowers that resemble huge pixie hat bells.

  The branches were hung in perfect strings that swirled around the entire display from top to bottom giving it an art deco facade of a Christmas tree. Different colored flowers were sprinkled all over in between the Brugmansia branches, mimicking Christmas balls. The top of the faux-tree was adorned with a large bunch of Bird of Paradise flowers that were arranged just so, that it looked like a big exotic multicolored star sitting atop of the creation. The final touch of tinsel dressed the entire tree, bringing it to life from the breezy sliding entrance door.

  Jack was next in line and the young woman behind the reservation desk, wearing a vest and jacket said, “Good afternoon and welcome to the Marriott. Have you a reservation?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” He pulled his luggage up to the desk. “It’s under Elliot. Jack Elliot.”

  “Thank you Mr. Elliot. It’ll just be a moment while I pull up your reservation,” she said typing his name into the computer. Once she found his reservation she frowned for a moment.

  “Is everything okay?” He asked, leaning a little closer trying to get a glimpse at her computer screen. “I used Priceline.com to book the room. I have the print out in my bag. Let me get it out for—”

  “No worries, Mr. Elliot. That isn’t necessary. Everything is fine. I have your reservation right here. I just need your ID and a credit card for incidentals.” She began preparing the hotel key card. Frowning again, she continued. “You have an urgent message here to call a Dr. Alderson.”

  “Dr. Alderson?” He repeated, tugging at his goatee. “That isn’t my doctor. Could that be—I wonder if it’s about my uncle?” he thought out loud. “How did he know where I was staying? Did he say what it was in regards to?” He handed over his driver’s license and credit card.

  After double-checking her computer, the girl behind the desk adjusted her vest and said, “No, I’m sorry. He didn’t.” She squinted at the screen and tapped a few keys. “He called twice and left you a voicemail which I’ve just forwarded to your suite, room number 732, located on the seventh floor next to the newly installed pool. Then he called a third time and insisted that we have you contact him as soon as you check in.” Taking the ID and credit card she asked, “Is this the same card on file for any incidentals?”

  “Yes,” he nodded, releasing his goatee and scratching his head. Did he tell his mother which hotel? He couldn’t remember. It had to be about Uncle Terry. Hopefully he wasn’t too late.

  The hotel clerk confirmed the card and ID and handed them back, along with the hotel key card. “Thank you Mr. Elliot. Please enjoy your stay with us here at the Marriott and I hope that everything turns out okay.” She nodded, locking eyes with him, emphasizing her concern.

  “Thank you.” Jack took the cards and gathered up his luggage.

  The mysterious phone calls had him worried. His parents would have called if something happened, then he remembered the call he’d sent to voicemail during the cab ride. He’d check the message when he got to his room. That still didn’t explain how the doctor knew where to leave a message. He was sure he hadn’t told his mother where he was staying. Jack loved the Marriott when he traveled. Everyone knew it. Maybe someone had gotten word to the doctor. But who? His mother would have given the doctor his cell number, not the hotel.

  Leaving the reservation desk he hurried past the Starbucks located in the hotel, taking note that its entrance led out onto the street. Normally, he’d never be able to pass up the chance for life-sustaining espresso, but he needed to retrieve the doctor’s message in his room. He really hoped he wasn’t too late.

  He walked down the hallway to the elevator and pressed the up button. As he waited, he pulled his wallet from the carry-on bag and flipped past photos of Clavis until he found the one his mother had taken during Christmas. He was four years old sitting in Santa’s lap next to the Christmas tree he’d helped the maids decorate. It was the year that Uncle Terry had dressed up as Old Saint Nick and delivered all the presents on Christmas morning.

  Rubbing his eyes at the memory, he wished he’d spent more time with Uncle Terry as an adult. Jack loved the holidays as a young boy, not only for the festivities and presents, but for that sense of home and family his uncle always brought, along with the gifts. His uncle filled the missing gap in Jack’s life that his father failed to fill.

  The elevator bell snapped Jack back to the present. Quickly, he started wrestling with the flap on his carry-on to put the wallet back when the doors slid open. Focusing on the bag and simultaneously grabbing his other piece of luggage, Jack bumped into the man exiting the elevator and tripped him by mistake.

  “Excuse me, my son.” The man said with a pinched voice, regaining momentum and shuffling around Jack’s luggage.

  Once Jack safely secured his wallet in the carry-on, he turned around in the elevator to apologize and caught a glimpse of black jacket as the man turned the corner down the hall.

  “Oops—sorry! Excuse me, I was in such a hurry. Do I know you?” He called down the hallway. Apparently the man was in a hurry, too. Funny. He thought the voice sounded familiar, but not quite. He couldn’t quite place it and that was odd. He always knew a voice before he knew a face.

  Jack rode the elevator up to the seventh floor. When the doors opened, the smell of chlorine flooded the elevator. On his way past the pool, he looked through the glass doors at a bunch of young girls splashing about, playing a game of Marco Polo. Their parents watched over them in the adjoining hot tub. Only if this trip was for leisure, he could move those parents over and take a relaxing soak after unpacking, but that wouldn’t be the case, as he’d soon find out.

  Jack slid the hotel key card into the mechanism and it made a little shift-click-sound. As he pushed the door open with his luggage, he noticed the phone’s message light blinking on and off like a hazard sign. Smartly designed and fashionable as always, the Marriott’s room had been equipped for leisure and business alike with an armoire housing a TV entertainment system, a little breakfast nook with coffee service, mini-fridge and an executive desk with Wi-Fi capabilities, along with the usual double beds and full bath.

  Jack shoved the luggage and carry-on into the closet by the door to be tended to later and tossed the hotel key on top of the armoire before he sat down at the desk. The message light blinked on and off as if signaling his growing apprehensions. He wanted the moment to stay frozen in time, to advance no further than the blinking hazard light. On and off. On and off. No bad news could announce itself if the light just kept blinking on and off, on and off.

  Fulfilling the inevitable, Jack snatched the phone off its cradle and hit the message button, bringing the endless beacon to a stop. He pulled on his goatee while he listened to a series of clicks as the message service began to play his fate.

  “Paging Doctor Larson to ER, STAT!” echoed in the receiver before a man’s deep voice said, “Mr. Elliot. This is Dr. Alderson, head of ICU at Mount Sinai. I’ve tried reaching you several times in regards to your uncle, Mr. Terrance Elliot. Your number was found in his wallet in case of emergencies and I spoke with your partner and he informed me of your stay at the Marriott.” Mystery solved. Jack’s heart ached. His uncle felt him important enough to be his emergency contact. “I’m in charge
of your uncle’s care here at the hospital and need to speak to you regarding his condition. There has been a medical altercation, however, policy doesn’t permit me to discuss specific medical information over the phone, so I’ll be brief. He’s had a momentary lapse of lucidity that is fading rapidly in which he’s urgently requesting your presence. I’m going to be frank with you, Mr. Elliot. I’m advising that you come quickly at his request. He is in room four in ICU. Please heed my advice and come as quickly as you can. I apologize for not informing you in person, but I’m left no choice.”

  Jack eased the phone down on the cradle. Fate had been served. Although the devastating blow had yet to happen, it was on its way and wasting no time according to the doctor. His uncle had regained consciousness on his deathbed and the first thing he thought about was his nephew, Jack.

  He didn’t have time to feel. This was happening all too fast. He hasn’t even unpacked yet. Racking his brain, Jack needed to find the quickest way to get to the hospital. A taxi would conveniently get caught up in traffic somewhere along the route to the hospital as the meter raced to catch the national deficit. A combination of foot and taxi would still serve as a cumbersome means.

  The good ole Metro was always the best way to get across the city, quickly. Not wanting to waste valuable time in case his memory didn’t serve him accurately, Jack pulled out his iPhone, tapped up the Map App and surveyed his options. After considering the distance and time he didn’t have that it would take him to walk to the appropriate subway, he opted for the quickest bus route according to the iPhone.

  A bus would be departing in four minutes, just outside the hotel at the 42nd street station and that would get him to the hospital in twenty-five minutes. If it got jammed up in traffic, depending on how far it made its way through the three mile journey, he would just have to jump off and run the rest of the way. He had to hurry. That was four minutes to the bus’s arrival, give or take a few if it was on schedule and if the iPhone App had been accurate.