My grip on the steering wheel was tight. When I released it the tension quickly moved to the muscles of my face. I drew a deep breath and focused my attention to the road ahead of me. That road was the one thing I could count on to soothe my frustrations—whether a wooded path on foot or a twenty-five minute drive through bull pines, white firs and old growth cedars —I used the motion, the time and the sights to purge the stress of the day—the life. But I couldn’t forget. I couldn’t leave my profession or my responsibilities behind completely. Too many people relied on my help and my counsel. But for my wife and child, I tried.
I arrived at home as the late afternoon light was failing. The windows were dark save a single lamp shining out from the living room. I entered quietly, hung my coat, set my briefcase near the spiral stair that led to my office above, and inhaled deeply—the aroma of apples, warm bread, candles and my small family—home.
The two were asleep on the couch. Edwin was wrapped in his mother’s arms, mouth wide open and breathing softly. Helen, with a similar expression, stirred as I leaned down to kiss her.
“I’ve been thinking,” Helen whispered without opening her eyes turning slightly toward me, “I think we should go away for awhile.”
I kissed Edwin and knelt. “Go away? We just got back from the lake—”
“I know—I want some alone time with you. Just you,” she said.
“We can surely visit up there next weekend if you’d like—”
“No. I want to go somewhere we’ve never been before. Something new. Just to get away. We can leave Edwin with Carol. I already called her.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I whispered. “But it will have to wait. Things are a little nuts at work.”
She sighed. “I knew you were going to say that.” Her tone was suddenly sharp.
“Helen, we can schedule something after the holidays perhaps. But right now I am too busy—”
Helen rolled out from under Edwin’s sleeping body, draped a blanket over him and started toward the kitchen.
Calmly I asked, “Darling, would you like to talk?” I followed her.
“Don’t you fucking do that,” she said, “don’t you fucking do that to me—like I’m one of your goddamn patients.”
“Do what?” I said rounding the corner.
The sharp features of her face were pulled tight with tension. She rested a hand on the kitchen sink and faced the window. “I didn’t ask for a doctor. I asked for my husband.”
“I am your husband,” I said, calmly.
“I am your husband,” she echoed in my calm tone. “Jesus! Will you, for just one-second, listen to yourself? You sound like Mr. Rogers. I’m not ten-years-old, though you like to think I am.” She began digging in her purse. “I’m not a patient of yours.”
I sighed and put my head in my hands pulling my forefingers across my eyes in an attempt, to rub out the fatigue. “I’m sorry, Helen.” She didn’t answer but instead pulled out a cigarette. Lighting it, she stared thoughtfully at the glowing red tip and shook her head.
“So who’s there? Mr. Fix-it? Dr. Loche? Mr. Newirth?”
“Your husband,” I replied.
Who was she speaking to?
For as long as I’ve known Helen, that question had troubled me. In college, Helen battled depression and struggled to erase the black memories of her difficult upbringing, an alcoholic father, an abusive and neglectful mother and the loneliness of being an only child. When we met, she would often tell me about her dark past and the pains of coping. My desire for her love and her hand in marriage had mixed with my youthful desire to become her cure. After all, I was studying to become proficient in matters of mental disorder, why shouldn’t I help her with what I’d learned? But, as time passed, I began to notice the disparity between husband and doctor—lover and caregiver. And so did she. I tried not to give advice. I tried to be empathetic, though, in the end, I knew that wasn’t what she wanted.
Helen took a long pull from her cigarette, folded her arms and then unfolded them. Agitated, she smashed the cigarette into the ashtray on the counter and began to cry. Then, like a wind will sweep clouds aside, her eyes lit up slightly. With a sad smile through sparkling tears she said, “I’m sorry.” Her voice was quavering.
I moved to her and pulled her into my arms. “I’m sorry,” she said again, “I just don’t feel well today, and I just want to be near you.” The smell of her hair, her skin—my wife—I could feel her cling to me, her body deflating, her pain rising away. “You are my everything,” she cried. “I’m sorry. I love you.”
“And I love you,” I said. I held her tighter and stared at the black window above the sink, wishing that I could see a light out there. Some kind of hope for her. Some kind of cure.
There was a knock on our front door.
“Oh,” Helen said stepping back from me. “We have company tonight.” She reached for a box of tissue.
“Who?”
“Basil Fenn. I bumped into him in Sandpoint today, and I invited him over for dinner. I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t mean to nap for so long. I lost track of time. The food is in the oven. Let me get cleaned up.” She walked up the hall toward the bathroom.
He sat on the couch—his right leg stretched out straight on the ottoman. He received a gin and tonic with a gracious sigh. “The fall is here,” he said.
“Beautiful isn’t it?” I agreed. “How was the drive?”
“Glorious.”
Helen had now returned. There was no trace of her tears. With drink in hand she perched herself on the arm of my chair like a cat and swayed gently to the Led Zeppelin record that she had put on. Basil noticed the ashtray on the coffee table, “May I smoke?”
“Please do,” Helen said as she reached into her own pocket for her cigarettes. Basil offered one to me.
“No, thanks,” I said.
We talked for a long while about our new home. Basil took great interest in how we designed it and had it built. “Every nook and cranny,” Helen proudly stated.
“It’s very cool,” he said. “I love the way it feels just as you enter. The high ceilings and the big feel. The windows, too. The way you can see the grounds all around the house. With the trees it makes it difficult to see in. Nice. I love the whole castle thing.”
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s a kind of hobby for me. I sometimes think that I was born to live in another time.” Basil stared at me with an expression that was difficult to pinpoint. It seemed familiar for reasons that I couldn’t explain. “Old things, old stories, mythologies.”
“Swords and sorcery?” he asked with a laugh.
“No,” I said, “not exactly.”
“What about ghost stories? Most castles are haunted, right? How about this one?”
Helen interjected, “That’s so crazy! We sometimes think this place is haunted.”
“Really?” Basil said.
“Well,” I added, “we joke about it. Sometimes we think we hear a strange thump coming from the basement. Or a weird clicking sound, very far away and distant. All it is, really, is the furnace turning on.”
“Yes, but it’s still strange,” Helen said looking around. “Sometimes it feels like there’s a presence—like someone, or some thing is in the room with you.”
I shook my head and looked at Basil. “But no, our castle isn’t haunted.”
“Well, I know that feeling. Like you’re not alone. Have you ever been in a real castle?” he asked me.
“Yes, actually, quite a few. In Germany, when I was young.” I said.
“I haven’t had the chance, well, until now I guess.” he said. “Feels well protected in here. It would be fun to visit overseas someday—but who’s got the cash for that kind of thing?”
Helen laughed. “If you’d start doing something with your art you just might be able to buy yourself a castle.”
Basil suddenly changed the subject and turned to me, “You got an office? A man cave?”
I felt my eyes widen. A ton
e of reluctance entered my voice. “Yes. At the top of the tower.”
Basil nodded and looked down at his hands.
“You should see his office,” Helen remarked. “His real home.”
“I’d love to,” Basil said, but before he could read my unwilling expression he added, “but I’ll wait to be invited.”
Helen pressed me with her eyes as if asking me to jump to my feet and escort Basil up the spiral staircase to my only refuge from the world. “Maybe next time, Basil,” I said, “the room is a bit disheveled.”
“Believe me, I know what you mean,” he agreed. “My studio is completely trashed right now. But you know what they say, a messy space is proof of work getting done.”
Helen was quick to interject, “Then Loche mustn’t have completed much up there. He keeps it incredibly tidy. Why is it disheveled now, Loche? Are you changing some things around?”
“No,” I replied uneasily, “I’ve left some work out on my desk that I’d rather not have anyone see.”
“What sort of work?” Basil asked.
“Loche writes,” Helen answered. “He’s a writer, though it is very doubtful that he’ll share it with you or anyone.”
Basil turned to Helen with interest, “Have you read his work, Helen?”
“Of course,” Helen beamed. “Not all, but most of it. He’s wonderfully talented. Loche will at least share his work with his wife.”
Basil’s eyes seemed puzzled. He was about to ask a question when Helen changed the subject.
“How’s Howard?” she asked. Her face shadowed.
Basil’s gaze fell to the floor. His tone was unconvincing. “He’s getting along great. He’s still able to make the trip to Olympia to teach in the summer. His right leg is able to run the pedals on his van.”
Helen interrupted, “Basil’s adopted father has been in a wheelchair for close to fifteen years.”
“Yeah,” Basil nodded, “An accident. He’s getting along fine now.”
“I couldn’t help but notice your leg, Basil. What happened?” I asked.
“Oh,” he said with a smile. He reached down to his outstretched leg and assisted bending it up to a normal position, “I was in a car accident when I was a baby. My leg never healed properly. But, at least I can walk.” He took a last sip of his drink.
Helen quickly rose and took his glass, “Another?”
“Sure, I’m not afraid,” he said.
“Loche?” she asked, “another?”
“No thanks, dear. I have an early appointment in the morning.”
“Well, I’d love to have one more,” Helen stated, looking at Basil. “I’ll go check on Edwin and be back. Dinner should be ready in a few minutes.” As she left the room she called for Edwin.
Basil lit another cigarette and looked out the window. He seemed to see something out in the dark.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he replied. “I just, well . . . this is strange to say, Loche,” he turned his gaze back to me. His expression was suddenly somber, “I need to talk to you.”
I leaned toward him. “What?”
“Do you ever feel like you’re being followed? Watched?” he whispered.
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” he looked back to the window and then toward the kitchen. “Again, I’m sorry if I freaked you out the other morning. Seeing Helen freaked me out a little. And even bumping into her today was weird—although it felt right to accept her invitation for dinner.” He paused and added, “Maybe this isn’t the best time to—well, you know, to talk.”
“Talk about what, Basil?”
“This isn’t the right time. I think it would be best if we were alone.” He glanced out the window again.
I turned to see if Helen was in the kitchen. I then heard her upstairs. “Is there a problem?”
Basil leaned toward me. “I feel like I’m being followed,” he whispered.
“Followed? By whom?”
“I’m not sure. Every so often I see, or I think I see, someone outside my studio. Or when I’m walking down the street.” He shook his head with a smile, “I must sound like a paranoid freak.”
“No,” I replied, “not at all. I suppose I need to know more before we come to such conclusions. Have you notified the police?”
He scratched his head, obviously uncomfortable. “No. I’ve considered it, but no. I’m totally sure it’s really happening. You see, I have some things to share that might seem—well, unbelievable—and—”
“Why don’t you come down to my office and we’ll discuss it there?” I could sense that he was genuinely concerned about one of two things, either he was truly being watched, or he was teetering on the edge of delusion.
“No,” he said shaking his head, “I don’t think I can do that. I was hoping to talk to you in a place that isn’t so office-like. Besides, it’s not like that. I don’t need therapy.”
“Well, that’s where I’m most comfortable,” I said. “I do a lot of listening there. You’d feel—”
“I’d rather both of us just talk.”
“Tell you what, I have a meeting tomorrow out near The Floating Hope and if you’d like we could have some lunch?”
“That would be great,” he said.
“But I would rather wait to discuss anything that might require my professional opinion—save that for my office.”
“Done,” he said.
“Am I invited?” Helen asked as she placed a fresh gin and tonic on the table before Basil. She had come in quietly.
He looked up at her, “Thanks, Helen. But—but I can’t stay for dinner. I’m so sorry. Can I get a raincheck?”
Helen’s eyes widened in surprise, “Well, of course, Basil. Are you okay?”
“Oh yeah. It’s just that I remembered I need to take some things over to Howard’s—and I should do it before it gets too late.” He stood up and limped around the couch. I followed him to the door and handed him his coat. “It smells tasty, Helen— sorry I’m going to miss it.”
Helen shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. Next time. Please tell Howard hello from me, will you?”
“I will,” he said. “And I’ll see you tomorrow, Loche.”
“Tomorrow,” I said.
The sky was one even wash of grey. Below, Pend Oreille Lake matched perfectly except for the cresting tips of white caps from the shore to the mountains. Floating fifty yards out, attached to the shore by a wide boardwalk was The Floating Hope. High pilings poking up out of the water surrounded and held it in place like thin wooden fingers. I stood in the parking lot and studied the route as if it were a tight rope from the shore to the front doors. The old dread of large bodies of water started my hands quaking. I took a deep breath and remembered myself and my strides toward mastering the phobia. I stepped onto the boardwalk and traversed the distance with my right hand clenching the rail with every step.
Opening the front door I turned and looked back. I was terrified, but I had made it.
Inside I was met with the warm smells of bacon and coffee, and the low chatting voices and tinkling china of the lunch crowd. There was a long counter with high stools and ten or so single place settings. As I sat, a woman turned with a coffee pot in hand. Her long reddish brown hair was woven into a thick braid, and her smile—warm and genuine. “Coffee?”
“A cup of tea would be wonderful,” I said, a bit taken with the brightness of her eyes.
“Right away,” she replied and turned.
“Has Basil been in yet today?” I asked.
She placed the teapot and teas before me. “Not yet. You must be Loche.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“My name is Julia Iris.”
Again, her eyes—amber brown, lit and glowing. I lowered my gaze to the delicate angle of her nose and down to her full, smiling lips. Framing her face were soft ringlets that had loosened from the braid.
“Pleased to meet you, Julia.”
“Last night he sa
id he’d be in for lunch. Noon was it? That means twelve thirty or so. He’s always a half hour late. That’s just Basil.”
“I see,” I said. “Always late?”
“Yes,” she replied, “I even went to the trouble of changing his work schedule, starting his shifts earlier to see if we could shake him from the habit. Didn’t work. But, I must say, he’s never been more than a half hour late nor has he ever missed a shift.”
“You manage the crew here?”
“No,” she said flatly, “I own the boat.”
“That’s fantastic. The place is beautiful. Quite a view,” I said, nodding to the window—shuddering at the grey waves. “My wife and I will have to come back for dinner. We haven’t been here before.”
She smiled. “I would have remembered if you’d been in before. I have a good memory for faces.”
A couple at a table near the counter had placed their menus down.
“Excuse me,” Julia said, “Basil will be along soon.” She then went to take the order.
The braid dangled like a rope of dark woven silk. She was dressed simply, in a long, cream colored tunic. A faded red and green scarf tied loosely about her throat.
“Hey, man,” came a voice. A grinning Basil plopped down beside me. “Careful, Loche. Looking at her too long can cause serious damage to one’s marital relationship.”
He wore a Beatles T-shirt and headphones hung around his neck. He grinned at me. His eyes looked as if he hadn’t slept, red and lazy.
“Now I know that it’s like totally inappropriate to meet with a psychologist while thoroughly hell-baked, but I thought I might be able to speak a bit more freely.” He was stoned, and his heavy lids and twisted smile irritated me. My disapproving expression was obvious to him, and he leaned a bit closer and whispered, “Now, Loche, don’t be angry. Prozac, weed, what’s the difference? I choose to self-medicate, and I happen to like the pot.”
The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology Page 7
