She put her theory to the test, sensed a trick panel in the wall, and divined the right combination of sliding boards to unlock it.
Winona wended her way along the crawlspace on all fours, stunned by how elaborate it was.
Using her acumen for spatial relations, she quickly discovered a junction room where several of the passageways converged. Hartman was evidently using it as his own personal retreat from the world, a habit left over from childhood, perhaps.
There was a map spread out across the desktop under a sheet of glass that traced the hidden passageways. She could tell at a glance that it had been edited to jog Hartman’s memory, but not to reveal the complete routes to and from the rooms in case the map fell into the wrong hands. I think this is one time even you could use a visual aid, Winona. With some effort to clear the desk, she retrieved the map, folded it up, tucked it away in her blouse, and then reset the desk exactly as it was, minus the map.
***
A half hour later, Winona rejoined the others in the main festivities room, brushed her hair back into place and patted her sweaty face with a handkerchief to conceal just how busy she had been behind the scenes.
THIRTY
The students were stringing gaudy-colored paper ribbon, preparing for Hartman's party. Hartman, watching how they were converting his tasteful home into a cheap, bawdy affair, rubbed his temples from the impending migraine.
Winona handed the ribbon to Fiona, a younger secretary better able to get up the ladder. She caught Fiona eying up Danny Sparks, who couldn’t be bothered, surprising, and discomforting the ever-empathetic Winona. Hartman felt Danny may have had his own reasons for being elusive.
“I don't know if this party is the best idea right now, Winona,” Hartman said.
“Nonsense.” Winona grabbed another handful of colored ribbon. “I personally interviewed every one of your students who’s going to be in attendance. Each one has a unique type of genius, professor, you could do well to appreciate. Liken yourself to a pirate. No one leaves 'til you've found the treasure buried deep inside each person.”
“This is your idea for helping me to reconnect with humanity?”
“Yes, and it's damn brilliant, if I do say so myself. It's high time you stopped valuing your brand of genius over everyone else's.”
She handed the balloons to Fiona to carry up the ladder. Fiona greeted her with a smile, suggesting she was listening in on their conversation, and had been recruited over to Winona’s side. She looked noticeably more comfortable in her own skin. Up until then, Hartman could tell she’d been feeling out of sorts; like the hired help that was supposed to be neither seen nor heard. Winona winked at her.
Reaching for another clump of balloons, Winona said, “We all have a piece of the puzzle, Clay. You're no more or less important than any other. Together we form the picture God wants us to see.”
He smiled at her. “Touché. Maybe if you'd taken my class I'd have felt like less of a failure.”
“You can't ever know how you affect people, doc.” She handed the latest decorations to Fiona. “One little thing you say could surface years later, help them survive a situation they'd never triumph over otherwise. Having that kind of faith – now that's being married to God.”
Hartman smiled. “How do you know how to push all the right buttons?”
“I've been in love with you ever since I could remember.”
“But you're a lesbian.”
“With issues.”
He chuckled, felt himself relax. But the din of everyone telling everyone else what to do next for the preparations inflamed his migraine. “I need to rest my eyes.”
He took a step towards the couch situated in the eye of the tornado. Before he could cover any more ground, though, he was corralled by Adam.
“Come take a look, doc,” Adam said, grabbing his arm.
“Not now, Adam. I'm really at my breaking point.”
“You're going to love this.”
Showing him the big-screen monitor, Adam flipped from fish-eye-lens view to fish-eye-lens view of different rooms in the house. “On each stage, people play out the sticking points in their lives, with you interjecting yourself into the scenes. You get to fix more psyches in one evening than most psychologists get to over a lifetime.”
Hartman nodded. “That way, their deep thinking won’t be colored by their aberrant psychology. It's very thoughtful of you, Adam. I love the drama-therapy idea.” Maybe if they think they came up with the idea to attack their psychology first, and their philosophy second, it’ll be all the more effective. He was willing to try anything.
***
Fiona climbed off the ladder to work out the kink in her back in time to be hit on by Spence. He had the pickup style of an alligator lying in waiting just under the surface of a pond. “Hey, gorgeous! If you want to see how much I care, ask me to do the impossible.”
She smiled. “Write me a ten page essay on what it means to be a real man.”
Spence gulped. When he was able to get his mouth moving again, he said, “And me thinking you were the first uncomplicated woman to come along in a while.” Spence made a sick face and slinked away.
Little did he know, she would have role modeled her behavior to suit his conception of the perfect man. When he realized he needed more from her, she’d make him write another ten page letter, and she would become the perfect companion for the reconstituted him. Bit by bit, letter by letter, she’d get him where she wanted him, free of all pretenses about her, about himself, and about the two of them.
She smiled more tenderly, feeling bad for beating up on him like that. The price she paid for lowering her defenses was overhearing Chad come to his buddy’s aid without any of her armoring to shield her. He didn’t think she could hear him from where she was standing. “When you gonna learn, if they just have enough mental energy to pose and look pretty, they don’t have enough sense to follow you around?”
Chad raised his eyes to her in time to realize she had overheard him. He was surprised to find a very-pleased-with-herself expression on her face.
And why not? Strange though it might seem to some, her strategies for dealing with being constantly hit on were quite successful at repelling unworthy candidates. Perhaps a little too effective; that was the problem.
***
Hartman plopped down on the couch that was right in the middle of things. The eye-of-the-tornado analogy proved little more than a captivating concept. In truth, the “safe refuge” left him even more vulnerable to the idle chatter. And now he felt too drained to get up and do anything about it.
As he lay there, taking hits from all sides, he convulsed. Even to idle eyes, he resembled a pupa gestating into something far uglier.
Immediately to the rear of the couch, Spence’s voice played like a sidewinder missile locked onto Hartman. “Where’re the cream pies? You can't have a self-respecting sendoff party without a pie-in-the-face gag.”
“Will you let it go, already?” Chad scolded. “You can’t blame them for going with non-confrontational as a motif.”
“Yeah, no shit. He got so nasty over the last month, my loathing of the man nearly beat out my sense of remorse for helping to drive him over the edge.”
Overheating from the pressure of enduring their prattle, Hartman spasmed.
After approaching on the other side of the couch, Jeannie joined the inauspicious twosome of Chad and Spence. None of them had the least idea Hartman was the one sprawled on the couch before them. Doubtful they could pick the figure out of the picture puzzle that comprised all the commotion in the room. It didn’t hurt that, by now, several garbage bags filled with confetti and the like had been heaped on him from the waist down by folks who had never looked twice to see if the coast was clear. “Honey, did you order the Kopi Luwak for Hartman?”
“Shit!” Adam blurted. “On the other hand, we're sharing the most special moments of our lives with him. I think that's gift enough.”
“I guess.” Sh
e kissed Adam. “I'm going to miss him.”
“He's like a fine wine,” Adam said. “If you overdo it, it loses its specialness.”
Hartman caressed his forehead, the latest musings about him pressed in on his brain like a vice clamp.
“Yeah, I'm thinking that's how he feels about us,” Jeannie said. “Not sure sustained exposure was the best idea for a sendoff.”
Murray nested at yet another point on the half circle arcing around the sofa on which Hartman was sprawled. Hartman saw him just barely from the crack in his largely closed eyelids. Murray did a mock search, twisted his body the limit of its range, side to side. “Has anyone seen Hartman?”
“Like he matters,” Danny said, after landing next to Murray. “We're just doing this to allay our guilt for revoking his alien-from-another-world visitation status.”
“Damn, that's too real,” Murray said, and swigged his beer.
Hartman's eyes popped open. The wasp had finally emerged from the pupa, with the help of the drones unwittingly attending the cocoon of clamor about his person.
He vaulted off the couch and out of the room without anyone noticing in the pandemonium of preparations.
***
Winona blew on her whistle. “Okay, everyone, go find a room, and change into character. The fun's about to begin.”
THIRTY-ONE
Spence, in his suite less than five minutes later, noticed his mood was off. He impatiently awaited the upcoming charade with Hartman. Pacing just made things worse. Every three strides he bumped into something, and each time his anxiety ratcheted up a notch. He ran his eyes over the surfaces the way he used to run his eyes over Victoria’s skin. What was it about this room?
***
Murray hovered before the full length mirror on the closet door of his suite, admiring himself in the geisha outfit. “This is so great! I always wanted to do a geisha!”
Lorie just rolled her eyes, turned her back to him, and settled in for what promised to be one very long evening.
Murray noticed the slash marks on his forearms were exposed. After struggling with the sleeves, which just weren’t going to cover them, he applied makeup to the area, obscuring the horizontal gashes.
***
No sooner had the door closed on Danny Sparks than he was crawling out of his skin.
He opened the lid on the sterling silver serving tray seated on top of the dining cart with the feeling he was being served his final supper.
He collapsed on the cot. The squeaking springs were like nails on a chalkboard. All he had to do was shift his weight to annoy himself further. He jumped to his feet and hit his head against the sloping ceiling, a painful reminder to stay away from the far edges of this cubbyhole they called a suite. A task easier said than done.
He checked his watch, anxious for this ordeal to be over. He stared at the second hand, each tick, like drops from a leaky faucet he couldn’t shut off in the middle of trying to sleep.
***
The two detectives stepped into Hartman’s foyer.
“I don't hear anyone screaming,” Robin said. “Sounds like we haven't missed anything.”
“You suppose there's a price to be paid for not knowing when to be fashionably late?” Manny asked.
“Let’s hope the late-arriving forensics will make us out to be complete fools.”
“Especially if the dessert’s any good. Don’t want to have to run this gauntlet after stuffing myself.” Manny looked over the taxing interiors from the viewpoint of a hunter.
***
The two detectives headed toward the party noise. Once they were out of earshot, Hartman, sporting a disconcerting expression, locked the door behind them with a chain customarily used in tractor pulls.
***
Once inside the main festivities room, Robin spied Fiona on the ladder, fretting over gum stuck under her stiletto heel. She pulled so hard at it she lost her balance and went sailing into the sofa. She promptly stuck the freed gum in her mouth.
Fiona looked up at the two detectives leering at her, apparently used to the unwanted attention. Robin realized she was probably the only person in the room to pick up on the fact they were detectives, despite being distracted and pissed off by the signals they were sending her. Her eyes darted to the shoulder-holstered guns and the badges clipped to their belts, causing the detectives in turn to secure the bottom buttons on their twill blend sport coats.
She blew a bubble with her gum and popped it to send a message – Let me burst your bubble. Despite the letdown, Robin and Manny couldn’t help smiling. In their world, succinctness won points, regardless of the message. And they had even more respect for anyone who could think quickly on their feet, the way a good sportsman seeks worthy game. Granted, putting a couple of dogs in their place was probably more of a spinal cord reflex for her than anything requiring higher thinking.
“Where is everyone?” Manny asked. “I know the guy wasn't popular, but this is inhuman.”
***
Overhearing Manny’s ungracious assessment of him from the hall, Hartman fumed, and then melded with the shadows.
***
“We fanned out,” Winona informed Manny. “All the world's a stage tonight – or at least every locked room. It's a drama therapy exercise I thought up. Watch and learn, boys. This is how you save someone from spontaneous combustion.”
Robin and Manny watched Hartman enter one of the rooms on the big screen TV where Spence was pacing nervously. Their interest piqued, they crowded the monitor, eager to see how events would unfold.
Fiona took a step closer to the screen herself, forgetting she was standing on the top rung of the ladder. Robin, standing fortuitously with respect to her falling body, caught her in his arms. He smiled broadly. Maybe he’d misjudged just how quick on the take this girl was. He set her on her two feet, and tipped his hat to her.
***
Hartman entered Spence’s room through a sliding panel, which closed behind him before Spence could turn to investigate the source of the disturbance.
“Where's Chad? Have you seen Chad?” Spence blurted, jumping out of his skin. He reminded Hartman of a bitch who, waiting to drop her first puppy until her master came home, had endured the tortures of hell in the name of the pack hierarchy.
“Why?”
“He's the only one who can keep my mind off things!” Spence wrung his hands, as if stereotypical displays of distress were the extent of his emotional range. Hartman rewound his memories of the dynamic duo in his head. Chad never seemed too attached to anyone or anything. Maybe Spence was hoping for an osmotic transference of this sensibility; maybe it was no more than nature seeking a balance.
“Like what?”
“Victoria, who else! The love of my life. Never mind she walked out on me saying she was more attached to the amulet on her chest. I can't sleep. I can't eat. All I do is wallow in memories of her, morning and night.”
“Why?”
“Why! Cause when we're together, nothing else seems real.”
“She keeps you over-secreting endorphins. She's your drug dealer.”
“What? It's love, you moron.”
“No, it's drugs. Love is inclusive, not exclusive. The more your head is filled with it, the more right you feel with the world, not less.”
“Maybe there are different kinds of love.”
“I really need you to see the truth for what it is, Spence. Stop lying to yourself. Stop herding yourself out of your own skull.” Hartman stepped closer, rested a reassuring hand on Spence’s shoulder, squeezed gently. “You want to lose yourself in her because you can't stand who you are. Without self-love there can be no love of others, just addiction.”
Renaissance 2.0: The Entire Series (books 1 thru 5) Page 20
