“You can tell me anything, Beth,” I comforted.
With blinking eyes, she studied me as if considering. Then she shook her head, “No, no. I can’t—I can’t tell you. I need to stop. I’ve already said too much, and that scares me. He scares me.” She bowed her head, “Maybe I should just stop thinking altogether—stop everything. Stop.” I paused before speaking again. The red of her clothing caught my eye. I considered her emphasis on the word “stop.” Stop what? I thought. “Sometimes I think there is only one way out of this. . .”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She bowed her head again and remained silent. Then slowly, “I am going to end it today—I am going to tell him that we are through. I want to be free.”
“Beth,” I said, “are you in danger?”
She raised her head and stared at me. “No,” she said finally. Her gaze was again far away.
“Does Roger know?” I asked quietly.
“No. No. And he won’t know.” Beth began to cry again. I watched her struggle to push the tears back. As she had before, in the waiting room, she gained control and forced a smile with a shake of her head. She appeared eager to change the subject.
“Let’s shift gears, Beth. Would you like to try something?”
She didn’t respond.
“I have something I want you to do.”
“What is that?”
“Do you still swim?”
“Not in years.”
“I think,” I said with some positive energy, “that you should go down to a health club and swim, three times a week. Do you think you can do that?”
Beth looked back at the ceiling, “I used to love swimming in the lake.”
“Well, perhaps in the summer, but for now, the club downtown has a large pool. It seldom gets used.”
“What is this supposed to do for me?”
Noting that her time was up, “I’m hoping that you can tell me, next week. It is something you loved to do. I’m giving you some homework here. Swim at least three times, between now and our next appointment, and I want you to recall all of the reasons you love to swim. I especially want you to consider these things when you are in the water. I want to talk about those things with you. Can you do that?”
Beth Winship sat up without looking at me. “I can try.” She opened her purse and produced a stack of envelopes gathered tightly by a rubber band. She stared at them thoughtfully. “I will see you again soon, right?”
“Of course,” I said. “next week, usual time. But I would very much like a phone call from you tomorrow—just to check-in. You have a difficult few days coming up with your decision to end this affair—and I’m here for you. I’d like to know that you’re okay.”
Beth nodded. “Have you and your wife been out to your cabin this fall?” She pulled from her purse a sealed, bright red envelope and a pen.
I wondered at her question. “I’ve been up a few times this season. The trees are bursting with color and it’s been awfully cold. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” she replied absently. “My life wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she said after a pause. “I wish I could redo it. Have another chance. Rewrite it.”
I stared at her.
“Goodbye, Doctor.”
After Beth had gone I began recording our session in my notebook. I felt confident that our next meeting would yield some positive results if she followed through with swimming again. I skimmed through my notes and read the line, her words, “Maybe I should stop everything. Stop.” Was she considering suicide? Then, in my periphery, I noticed the stack of envelopes that Beth had pulled out of her purse, sitting on the floor opposite my desk.
I rose to pick up the envelopes, but just as I got to my feet there came a quiet tapping on the door, then a loud, passionate call, “William Hubert Greenhame to see you, my lord.” Greenhame burst into the room with a grin. “Doctor,” he said bowing his head. He was, as usual, impeccably dressed. When he raised his head his eyes were pointed and sharp. His grin faded. “In the name of action, dear Doctor, I cannot feign madness any longer. The time has come for us to understand one another. My truth has been too long delayed.” There were no signs of his illness, though his words echoed our past sessions.
“William, now is not your scheduled time, I—”
“You have met someone, one that we have been watching over, one we knew you would eventually meet. And now the time has come for introductions.” I stared at him, my patience was growing thin.
“I have no idea what you are talking about—”
“Why sir, you do indeed. You have met the painter, Basil Fenn.”
I took a step backward and studied his eyes. “How did you?”
His raised hand stopped my surprise. “Doctor, do you know who the man is? Do you know his importance? Do you realize that he is not who you think he is?”
“Greenhame, how do you know who I acquaint myself with? My personal life is no business of yours.” My temples began to pound.
“Ah,” Greenhame said, a smile returning to his face, “but it is. You will know anon why this is true. But first, Basil is coming to see you this day, is he not?”
I felt blood rush to my cheeks, “Mr. Greenhame—”
His raised hand stopped my words again, “Is he to see you this day?” I made no response save a pointed glare. “By your silence I can see that this is true. Good. This is well.” William whisked to the chair across from me, sat down and crossed his long legs. “I know what he is coming to tell you. I merely want to assure you that everything he will tell you is true. Doubt him not. For you will, Doctor, you will. I say to you again, doubt him not. His tale will leave you clutching for reason. Your statue-like life will crack and all beneath will melt into motion.”
I’d become accustomed to hearing this reference to statues from Greenhame, and I quickly seized the opportunity to bring him to some sense. I posed two even and direct questions, “Are you still feeling like a statue, William? Have you had any more episodes?”
His lips slowly curved into a wide humoring smile. “Oh yes. Every never-ending day. But I think you may have missed something terribly important in our dialogue—you are the statue, my friend,” he said pointing his long, thin finger at my chest. “Perfect symmetry. Perfectly still and ordered. White as marble. Not a stain.
“Oh, dear Doctor, you believe me mad.” He nodded to himself, “Yes, and why shouldn’t you? I am accounted a good actor by those of my kind. You cannot see beyond my play. You are not yet wise enough to see the truth. Even now, as you sit with your brows raised in question, your finger gently touching your temple as if it were some trigger to activate your mental alchemy, to treat me, to help me. I am flattered that my skill at seeming has fooled such a captive and respectable audience.” Greenhame stood and, with the grace of a stage actor, took a royal bow. “Thank you,” he said, now melodramatic and eccentric, “oh, thank you.” He then stood straight with his arms at his sides and looked at my desk and the framed picture of my family, “Now the play is over—but the action has not yet ceased.”
He sat down again, crossed his legs and observed my expression. “Curiously enough, dear Doctor, I’ve never lied to you. I’ve merely played upon your compassion and your desires. No, nothing I’ve said has been false. I am who I am. William Hubert Greenhame, a humble guard, and you are Loche Newirth, the Poet. The Wordsmith.” The vertical stripes of the wallpaper behind William blurred and I felt a wave of confusion crash through my mind. The blood that colored my cheeks dropped into my limbs. I could tell by Greenhame’s wide, satisfied eyes that my face faded into alabaster.
My reply was weak and torn, “Poet?”
Greenhame nodded emphatically, “Yes, dear sir—Poet.”
“How did you know that I—”
Standing, Greenhame raised one arm and began reciting a piece of poetry I had begun a year earlier.
“I live between two graveyards, down below
The circling crows. Plots
dotted with grey green
Stones, symmetric as a sonnet know
That order in Necropolis is king. . .”
He lowered his arm slowly like a ballet dancer and looked into my horrified eyes. “That is one of my favorites, though I don’t think you’ve quite finished it, yet. Have you?” I made no answer. “Ah, perhaps not. I look forward to seeing it complete. Necropolis is a place that interests me indeed. It will be a sonnet, yes?”
I stepped back and away as my desk chair toppled over with a crash. Greenhame took a step closer with outstretched arms signaling me to be calm. “Please, Loche, ag shivcy, ag shivcy, do not fear.”
“Our relationship is over, William,” I stammered. “You have crossed a very dangerous line.”
“Doctor—please.”
“Greenhame, please leave!”
William bowed his head again and whispered, “Ni avu ustu ~ plecom uta veli ustu.” I shook my head angrily and began to nervously arrange some items on my desk, but the words, whether he’d said them before or I had heard them elsewhere, I seemed to know the meaning. When he spoke again he lifted his head and latched his eyes to mine, and he confirmed my thought, “At once your eyes will be opened; everything to come will be revealed to you. I will take my leave. Gallina.”
Greenhame whirled around, opened the door and paused with his back to me. “Believe what you hear today, of all days, Doctor. Basil—doubt him not.” He then disappeared into the hallway singing that same familiar melody.
My private thoughts had been seen, my writings. They have been read, without my permission, without my knowledge, without my consent. My writings were meant for no one’s eyes but my own. How could this be? All of my private journals and writings were kept in my tower office at home, locked safely away.
I sat down and drew a long calming breath. Was my home broken into? If so, when? How? The battlements I had built to keep the world out had been breached. My thoughts raced to the iron latches and door locks of my house. Helen and I keep a secure home. We guard our privacy. How then could my words have been seen? And Helen, even Helen has no knowledge of how to unlock the words in my office.
Grabbing the telephone, I dialed the number to my home. Helen answered.
“Hello?”
“Helen. . .” my voice faltered. What could I say? “Helen, is everything alright at the house?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” I stood up and began to pace, “I mean, have there been any visitors at the house today?”
“No,” she said, and in the next breath spoke to Edwin, “what have you done to your shirt, little boy?”
“Helen?” I cried.
Helen went on, “It looks like our son has been rolling in the mud outside. You go and take off those shoes before coming in here, young man. You’ll track mud all over the floor.”
“Helen?”
“Loche, what is it?”
“No one has been out to the house today?”
“No. Were you expecting someone?” she asked.
“Are the doors locked?”
“What is wrong with you? What’s going on?”
“I—I don’t know.” How could I explain? I gathered my wits. “Nothing. Nothing is wrong. I just, I just thought that a friend of mine would call today. No one has been by the house?”
“No. Who are you expecting?”
“Oh,” I squinted, struggling to deflate my anxiety, “just a client. It’s nothing. If you see anyone on the property, give me a call, will you?”
“You sound strange, Loche, are you sure you’re alright?”
“Yes, dear. I—I’ve got someone waiting and a lot on my mind. A client, I think, got wrong directions to the office and may have been sent to our house. If you see anyone, you’ll call me, right?”
“Yes, but Loche—”
“Bye.” I hung up the phone. Then there was a quiet tapping upon my door.
“Loche?” came a voice. “Loche, are you in there? There was no one at the reception desk.” It was Basil Fenn.
I looked at the door and longed to wedge a chair against it.
The metal disk in the center of the doorknob caught a gleam of light from the slanting fall sun. It would have taken but a moment to reach the door and turn that center locking gear. I could have been silent. I could have dashed to the window, raised the glass, escape into the chilly air and flown to my home. It would have taken just seconds. . . Lock the door, I thought. Lock the door.
“Yo, Loche,” came Basil’s muffled voice from outside, “can I come in?”
My hesitation was short-lived. I lifted my chair from the floor, placed it back on its legs, covered my face with my hands and took a deep, deep breath. I then rested my hand upon the stack of letters that Bethany left behind. “It’s open, Basil. Come —”
The door opened with a creak that I’d not noticed before, and Basil, carrying a large rectangular package under his arm entered with a smile. “Nice pad. Wow. Very green in here.”
I nodded. “Y—yes. It’s supposed to be calming.” I clenched my teeth attempting to gain my composure, “It works. Sometimes.”
“Hmm,” he continued without looking at me. “I like.” He set the package down, leaned it against my desk and lifted the portrait of my family. “Edwin is looking tough.”
I nodded again. When his eyes finally fell on me his expression changed. He set the photo down. “You alright?”
Clearing my throat I rose to shake his hand with a fake grin, “Y-yes. Fine. . . Just a busy day. A lot on my mind.”
His nod said that he understood—understood everything. This frustrated me, and I turned toward the window.
“You need to see this.”
“Basil, what is going on?”
“Huh?”
“A man that came to see me today warned me about you.”
“Warned? Really? Who was that?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” I asked.
Basil shook his head. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Basil, you told me when we were having lunch that you— that we were being watched.”
“Yeah, I told you that.”
“Who were you speaking of?”
He looked out the window as if he were expecting to see someone. “I don’t know who they are. I don’t know.”
“Well, I’ve got a good idea.” I circled around my desk. “Listen to me, I don’t know what is going on here, but I had a person come to me today who claimed that he has been watching you. He mentioned your name and said that you have something to tell me.”
“Who told you that?”
“I can’t share any names with you, Basil.”
“Why not? If there is someone watching us don’t you think you should share—”
“No,” I said shaking my head, “that is confidential information.”
“Well, what this person told you is true,” he said, “I do have something to tell you.”
“What is it?”
Basil stared at me. I thought briefly how familiar his eyes were. A vague, intangible feeling, like childhood growing pains, tingled through my thoughts. A gleam of golden sunlight angled its way into Basil’s face. “Well, for starters, you’re my older brother,” he said. Then he shrugged.
I took a step back. “Excuse me?” I gasped. “Basil—”
“Loche, you’re my brother.”
“What is this?” I cried, “some kind of joke?”
“Listen,” he said quietly, “crazy right? I know that this is a lot to take—”
“A lot to take?”
“You must believe me. You and I have the same blood. We share the same parents.”
“Oh, please!”
“It’s true,” he said firmly.
I turned away from him and retreated to the safety of my desk chair. Pausing beside the window, I noticed two men standing at the entrance of the office parking lot. Both were faced in the direction of my window, though they were too far away to se
e clearly.
“What is it, Loche?” Basil asked.
“There are two men—”
Before I could finish, Basil moved to my side and peered over my shoulder out the window. “I’ve seen them before,” he muttered. “Who are they?”
“Well, why don’t we find out,” I said. I threw the sheer curtain to the side, flipped the latch and opened the window. A biting chill swept into the room.
“No!” Basil cried. “Stop!”
“Why? Why shouldn’t I confront these men? I think it’s time for some answers. The only way to get them is to ask.”
“Now is not the time, Loche. Let’s talk first. Is that okay?” He moved toward the package he had brought with him, “Check this out. This will answer some things for you.”
Basil lifted the package and began to unwrap it. Beneath the brown paper was, what looked like, a large picture frame shrouded in black cloth. He set the veiled object down on the couch, propped it up with a pillow and then turned toward me.
“I am about to show you something that will change your life, Loche.”
His words came in stuttering clicks. “I-I-I am a little, a-a-a little, a-a-afraid.” He smiled a grim smile. “But, th-th-this is the right thing to do. It feels r-r-right. You and I are brothers. You’ll be okay.”
He noted my obvious confusion and he held his palms up to me. “I-I-I’m alright, Loche. This happens s-s-sometimes when I’m nervous. My mouth w-w-w-won’t let my voice work. I don’t know w-w-w-why that is. It’s just the way it is.” He smiled again, still with a strange hint of sorrow. “Would you like to see?”
“Are you sure you would like me to see?” I asked with some caution.
“Yes. I-I-I am sure,” he stated with an emphatic nod. “And w-w-what’s more, this will prove some things to you.”
The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology Page 9
