Julia snaps her eyes toward the doctor. “Do you always talk to yourself?”
Marcus does not appear to hear her. He says, “There are things that will change—”
Julia interrupts. “My life has already changed. It feels like my life began when I met him. I don’t know of any other way to explain it.”
“Julia, when I called you to help me find Loche it was because you seem to be the only one other than myself that he could trust. This journal told me that, but I’m afraid Loche wouldn’t approve of my involving you in all of this.” Rearden shakes his head, “But I couldn’t do it alone. I’m too old for this sort of thing. There are a great many people looking for Loche right now, and I’m afraid we may be the only ones that are friendly.”
“I’ve gathered that much,” Julia says impatiently. “You seem to know why I want to find Loche—why do you want to find him?”
Rearden does not answer.
Julia’s reply to his silence is both a question and a statement, “The existence of God?” she says. Rearden bows his head.
“No,” he says. “I know the answer to that.”
“What then?” Julia asks with eyes wide.
Rearden forces his weary voice to say, “I want to know if love is truly tragedy.” The old man does not give Julia a chance to respond. Instead, he begins reading aloud again with slow, hoarse precision.
The next morning I watched Julia Iris lock her car and throw her heavy bag over her shoulder. It was a quarter to six, the air was brittle and the night had left an icy frost on the pavement. I thought of running to her and demanding the address of Basil, my so called brother—demanding that she give me his telephone number, at least. But then, I noticed something about Julia. Her purposeful stride and her elegant movement forced the immediacy of my chaotic circumstances into my periphery. I leaned closer to the windshield and watched her unlock the front door to The Floating Hope and step inside. Once the glass door closed behind her, she paused and stood motionless. She turned around. I could feel that she sensed a presence nearby. Julia spotted my car parked across the street. My stomach leapt into my throat. I turned the engine off, opened the door and called out, “Good morning,” as casually as I could muster.
“Loche?” she said, as she opened the door. “I thought that was you. You gave me quite a chill.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I should have said hello when you drove in, but I—I’m waiting for Basil. Does he work this morning?”
“Yes,” she said with a bright smile, “he’ll be in at six.” She gave a bit of a laugh and then corrected herself, “Six thirty, I mean. Would you like to wait for him? I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
I nodded and followed her inside.
She sat me down at the counter—the very place we had met for the first time. I could smell the frying bacon and hash browns from the back kitchen. Julia immediately started a pot of coffee for me as two waitresses arrived at the front door. They took little notice of me as they began their preparation for the breakfast crowd.
“Loche,” Julia said, “I’ll be right back to join you for that cup of coffee. I have to drop some things off in my office.”
I sat with my head bowed and traced the lines in the counter top tile with my index finger. After Greenhame had disappeared the night before, I took Edwin downstairs and tucked him into bed. Between waves of paranoia, the distraction of Basil, and Greenhame’s invasion of my home, I spent the rest of the evening trying to understand just why Bethany left the stack of envelopes behind. Within each was a typed letter, some two and three pages long. They were love letters to her, but not a single one was signed. In fact, in a few of the letters, the author wrote that leaving a signature would be dangerous to both himself and to Bethany. I wondered just what he meant by dangerous. There was a lovely tone to the letters, compassionate, kind and genuine, but there was also a brooding obsession. A controlling passion. Something sinister just below the surface. I remembered the red envelope that Bethany had pulled out of her purse just as she was leaving. I wondered why she didn’t leave that behind.
Helen found me before dawn with my hands flat against the window and my eyes wide with horror. The touch of her hand brought me back. When I turned to her she must have reflected my expression for her face suddenly turned from concern to terror and then amazement. “Loche,” she said, “don’t worry so much about Bethany Winship. It wasn’t your fault.” She reached to touch my cheeks and pull my face into the safety of her embrace, but I recoiled.
“Leave me be,” I cried. “I need to be alone right now.” My words were like icicles and I could see them stinging her. Her arms dropped to her side and her hands clenched into fists.
“You’ll never be alone,” she stated. “Not as long as I live. Talk to me.” Again, Helen’s features twisted into something that I cannot describe. Her words were not pleading, nor were they sympathetic, they were orders.
I drew in a deep breath. “Helen, you know I can’t discuss any of this with you. It is against the law.”
“Law?” she cried. “I’m your wife! If something is tearing you apart no law will stop me from helping you.”
“Don’t,” I yelled. “I can’t. . .” The words of Greenhame and Basil combined with the tragedy of Beth Winship’s suicide were colliding. My voice halted.
Helen relaxed and her face softened. “Talk to me,” she said gently, “tell me about it.” I fixed her with defiant eyes and remained silent.
“I’ll find out sooner or later,” she said.
“Leave me be, Helen,” I commanded.
“I can’t go on much longer with you like this.” My wife turned and walked up the stairs. As I watched her ascend I felt an irrepressible desire to flee.
“Are you okay?” came Julia’s voice from right beside me. “You look like something heavy is weighing on you.”
The flash of my gold wedding band immediately filled my sight. I lazily looked up to see Julia standing before me. The mirror across from the counter told me that she was quite right. “Yes,” I replied, “I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound so certain,” she said. Her tone was comforting.
When I brought myself to look at her—her almond eyes and the fair slope of her cheek—I couldn’t respond. I stared at her. I stared at her and forgot everything—Basil, William Greenhame, Beth, and Helen. There was something in her face that silenced all the voices in my head.
“I know we don’t know each other at all, but I’m a good listener if you need one.” The invitation was gentle and quiet. If there was ever a time that my loyalties strayed from my wife, it was that moment. As I think back on that early morning with Julia, just a few days ago, I knew that some line had been crossed —a crossing that I will never understand. Of all the recent chaos, her nearness was an anchor. A house of light on a rocky shore. I suddenly became aware that several seconds had passed. She still fixed me with a caring expression.
“N-no,” I stammered looking down, “I appreciate you asking, Julia. I’m afraid that I can’t.”
She nodded sympathetically.
I forced my eyes to remain fixed on the steam of my coffee.
“Basil’s not in trouble is he?”
I shook my head, “No.”
“It would be much more dramatic if you said I was in trouble,” came Basil’s voice. He lurched into the seat beside Julia, and nodded to one of the waitresses for a cup of coffee. “Good morning,” Basil said politely to Julia. “Hey, bro,” he nodded to me. “I had a feeling you might be here. You had quite the day yesterday.” He pulled the coffee mug to his lips, took a loud sip and sighed, “Ah, yes, coffee.”
“Well, Loche tells me that the two of you need to talk,” Julia reported.
“That we do. But I will be at my post at six thirty,” he assured his boss, “Can you pretend you didn’t see me until then?”
Julia stood and smiled, “I can turn the other way, Basil.” Julia then placed her hand on my shoulder, “I hope that you�
�ll stop by again, Loche. I’m sorry that you’re having tough times.”
“Thank you, Julia,” I said without raising my eyes.
“Julia,” Basil called as she walked away, “did you find a safe place for that package I brought over?”
“I did,” she replied disappearing through the kitchen doors. “Don’t worry. It’s safe.”
Basil and I sat with a stool dividing us. Neither of us spoke. Basil reached into his pocket and producing a cigarette he flipped a Zippo lighter open to ignite it. He clicked it shut and placed it back into his jacket—a brown corduroy jacket from the 1970s. His shoulder length hair looked as if it hadn’t been washed in a few days. He smelled of patchouli. I looked at him through the mirror on the other side of the counter. He glanced up into the mirror and smiled at me.
“This is really happening, isn’t it?” I said.
“If you say so. You don’t look so good,” he said.
“A man named William Greenhame broke into my home last night,” I said without hesitation. “He claims to have been watching us for quite some time. Do you know who he is?”
“I don’t know him,” Basil said. “Did he threaten you?”
“Not exactly.”
Basil nodded taking another drag from his smoke. “Well,” he said at length, “you know what this means, don’t you?”
“What?” I asked.
“It looks like we are going to have to go.”
“Go?” I exclaimed, “Go where? What are you talking about?”
“Listen, if this Green-ham or whatever his name is, is watching us, I expect it’s because of what we possess, and he wants a piece. I can’t allow that. What’s more, I don’t like being a pawn where my art is concerned.” He stabbed his cigarette butt into the ashtray and turned toward me. “And if the son of a bitch is breaking into your house—Jesus, Loche!” He broke off and continued to stare at me. “Do you think the man will just go away?”
“What exactly do we possess?”
“You haven’t discovered anything about your gift yet?” he asked incredulously.
I began to laugh. A laugh laced with madness.
Basil gave a sort of nod and furrowed his brow. “You’ve not noticed a Center?”
“A Center?” I asked.
“A pinhole, a window? Like an eye.”
“Basil,” I cried, “I have no idea what you are—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know.” His face became serious and his eyes shadowed. “It’s difficult to explain, and to be honest, I’m not completely sure what our gifts are all about. My dad, he knows more about it than I do. Or at least he has put some frame around it. Prepare yourself for a new world.” He paused and looked around. “My dad is convinced that you and I have been given the ability to render the magic of the human condition, whatever that means. Not for anyone’s eyes but for, well, for the gods. For the deathless souls that can no longer intervene in our lives. For the gods, Loche, for the gods. The big—deep—heavy.”
My coffee was the most comforting sight so I dropped my eyes into its steam. “For the gods, you say? Oh, fine. What in the hell are you talking about Basil? This is too fantastic. This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever—”
“Yeah, It doesn’t seem natural, does it? I care very little about who or what my talents are for. I paint for myself, and no one else. But, I guess there is something that we’ve been given that’s not of this Earth. As I’ve said, my dad has his theories.”
“And how did he come by this knowledge?”
Basil replied quietly, “He’s seen one of my works.”
“Oh,” I said sarcastically, “that explains it.”
“Loche, you don’t understand. But you will. You’ll understand soon. Listen, we are brothers. If my father is right, we’ve been chosen to provide a very dangerous service. We’ve been commissioned to show them the passion of being human.”
“Are you saying that these gods, as you call them, don’t understand our plight as mortals?”
“I don’t know. How could anyone know that? My dad thinks they can’t feel like we do, emotionally I mean. They can’t feel mortality. They’re deities. Why do you think every mention of God or gods in our written language has something to do with them messing with us?”
I sighed, “So we could understand ourselves. We created them to make sense of the universe, and ourselves—”
“Yeah, yeah, right. Just stories to help us in the dark. I once thought that. But once you see one of my works your rational point of view won’t mean shit—and you’ll be forced to look again at these so called fairytales.”
“Basil, you can’t expect me to believe—”
He interrupted, “We think they want what we have. Take Greek mythology. Every story is filled with how this god or that god came down and did this or that—they couldn’t stay away in those days. We have something they can never have—a limited time to live. And it is this limit that fascinates them—and what we do with the time. Nothing is more powerful than what we feel in our lifetimes. Eternity, infinity, immortality, everlasting life, all nothing compared to the beauty of our tragedies and the stuff we love. We’re figuring that they want to feel like they’re human without having to be human—wanting nothing more than to live within the ultimate creation—within our lives. We think they can do that through you and me. Through my paintings and your words—our art.”
“Basil, deities were created by man in order to make sense of existence. Do you really believe all of this?” I asked.
“What does it matter what I believe? I’m an artist. I am my own artist. I create for the sake of creating. Whatever theories my dad and I come up with are really secondary to my craft. I don’t care much about his ramblings. I do care about my work, though. That’s all I really care about.” Basil stood and repeated, as if trying to convince himself. “All I care about.”
I looked up at him and was enveloped in his serious sentiment. “Let’s hook up at my studio later and we can talk more. It should be slow here, so I’ll be there around eleventhirty-ish,” he said. After a gentle touch on my shoulder he turned and walked into the back kitchen. He paused halfway through the door and turned his head to me, “And bring some of your writing.”
Upon entering Dr. Marcus Rearden’s office I could sense that I was expected. It was nine o’clock in the morning. His secretary’s usual, “Good morning, Dr. Newirth,” didn’t ring with its usual cheer. Over her shoulder I could see Rearden, bent over a table of file folders with one hand searching and the other balancing a cup of coffee. He turned when he heard my name. His face was grim.
“Loche,” he said, “come with me.”
I obeyed.
Marcus opened the door to his office and let me pass through first. “Sit,” he said. I, again, obeyed. He didn’t take his usual place behind the couch. Instead he placed a chair directly across from me and sat down. He looked tired.
“How long have you been treating Beth Winship?” His voice quaked. “Tell me what went wrong, Loche. How did this happen?”
My face told him that I was at a loss.
“Did you record all of your conversations?” he asked, and then leaned in, “did she ever mention suicide?”
“Not in so many words, but there was a tone that—”
He nodded his head, let out a freeing sigh and looked away. “Did you file a Suicide Assessment Report?”
“No, I didn’t.”
Rearden’s eyes snapped back to me.
“I didn’t think it was necessary,” I explained. “There was no suicidal ideation prior to our last session, and her—”
“You should have filled out a form,” interrupted Rearden. “You should have told someone!” I’d never seen Rearden react in this way, angry and sad at the same time. “You should have shared this with me.”
I squinted. “You, Marcus? Why?”
He waved his hand as if trying to erase his emotion. “I just,” he stammered, “I mean—I wish I would have known. I hate seein
g you go through this.”
I let it go and agreed. “Yes, I should have filled out the forms, but she voiced it in a way that I didn’t deem to be serious. My gut told me she would never cross that line.” I paused and thought. “We discussed suicide once before—very early in our relationship.”
“How did she respond?” Rearden asked gravely.
“She told me that she loved her family too much to follow through with such an act—but she had thought of suicide, yes. I sensed she didn’t have it in her—her disposition didn’t alarm me. I felt that her thoughts on the subject were normal. Several of my clients answer similarly to that question.”
“You recorded all of this I suppose.”
I nodded, “I record everything, Marcus. You know that.”
Rearden wanted more information, but we both knew that legally I could only share so much.
“And did you implement a precautionary list?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t.”
“You did alert the family, at least?” Rearden’s eyes pleaded.
“As I’ve said, Marcus, we spoke of suicide once before. There was no time to—”
The confused expression on Marcus’ face stopped my voice. The old man shook his head in disbelief. “You? Neglecting the steps for this client’s safety? She was calling for help. You know that! Loche, what were you thinking?”
Beth’s voice suddenly echoed through my mind, “Maybe I should stop thinking altogether—stop everything. Stop.” I remembered thinking, Stop what? Stop. That word, that single word, didn’t seem to be enough for me to take action. But I should have.
“No time?” Rearden continued, “A phone call to the family for a meeting takes but a few minutes. It could have saved her.” Rearden drew his fingertips across his forehead and added darkly, “And you, too.”
I knew what Rearden feared. When a client makes any reference to suicidal behavior it is the therapist’s duty to take every necessary precaution. Failure to do so could lead to a malpractice suit, a revoked license and in the worst case, manslaughter charges.
The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology Page 12
