“I was looking to heal her, Marcus,” I said quietly. “I never felt as if her reference to suicide was a threat.”
“That sort of response doesn’t mean a goddamn thing right now, Loche.”
“I know,” I admitted. “I’m not defending myself, I’m just telling you the truth. I missed something along the way.”
“I understand she had a scheduled appointment with you today,” he ventured.
“Why, yes,” I said. “But how did you know that?”
“Well, the paper for one. And your receptionist, Carol, as well. As soon as I read the paper I called and she shared with me how she learned the news and when she informed you. She’s quite upset.”
Marcus leaned toward his desk and pulled the Daily Bee newspaper out. “Have you seen this?” he asked, offering it to me.
I shook my head, eagerly unfolded the paper and held it up like a wall between Rearden and myself. The headline sent a tremor down my spine. Family Mourns Drowned Mother.
I quickly skimmed the article.
Bethany Leona Winship was found dead on the shore of Lake Pend Oreille late yesterday afternoon.
Suspected suicide. Still under investigation.
Husband Roger Winship blames tragedy on maltreatment.
Lawsuit pending.
Therapist, Dr. Loche Newirth.
“The family is making a hell of a lot of noise over this, Loche,” Rearden grumbled. “They want it all, and it seems that they are going to use every possible weapon. Believe me, I know how this game works. Back in the day, during the height of my career—all of those terrible murders—there were ten people at least looking for someone to pay for each death. And the media will stir the pot and they’ll get the general public whipped into a frenzy. I can’t tell you how many major interviews I’ve given to attempt to repair the damage they can do to a community.”
I couldn’t wrench my eyes from the article. I read my name over and over. Rearden’s finger hooked over the top of the paper and pulled gently down.
“So, Beth didn’t mention anything about suicide when she saw you yesterday?” He asked quietly.
I shook my head. Stop. Stop. Stop thinking altogether—
He held my gaze. He finally came to some agreement within himself and he nodded. “Fine. We’ll do what we can to figure this out. Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“She left behind a stack of letters. Fifteen letters.”
“What?” Rearden hissed.
“I don’t know if it was by accident or not.”
Rearden stood suddenly, “What did they say? Who were they from?”
“They were unsigned, but they were clearly letters from someone she was having an affair with.”
Rearden’s face twisted with lurid disbelief. But as quickly as the look came, it faded. “So have you read them?”
I answered, “Yes, but I’ve said all that I should, Marc.”
He nodded and glanced down at the newspaper article in my hand. “Have you spoken with your lawyer yet?”
“I have.”
“Good,” he said quietly.
I folded the paper slowly without looking at the doctor and rose from the couch. I crossed the room, stopping in front of his chessboard. Our game had been going on for quite some time. Pawns were scattered over the board and his royalty were preparing to surround my king.
Rearden sat staring out the window with eyes that aged by the second.
Five beautifully ornate frames displayed Rearden’s academic and professional achievements, his Harvard diploma, along with his masters and doctorate. I caught my vague reflection in the glass and turned away.
“There is no going back after this,” Rearden said.
“I could have prevented it,” I replied.
He looked down at his hands and in a monotone, distant voice he mumbled, “It was her choice,” He then turned toward me. “There’s always two. A client told me once that he couldn’t live without his wife, and it wasn’t until his wife divorced him that he truly began to live. Strange business, fate. All of these what ifs.” He lifted the framed portrait of his wife and held it up for me to see. He sighed. “Elanor. Isn’t she lovely?” He turned the picture toward himself and stared at it. “Her greatest fear is dying before I do. She told me—now when was it? Just last night? Yes, it was last night. She said, ‘Marcus Rearden, who is going to listen to you talk when I’m gone?’” He shook his head, “Can you imagine that?” he asked me. “Afraid that I won’t have anyone to talk to. Then she said, in that cute way she says almost everything, ‘You’ll go crazy when I’m gone, sweetheart. You know it’s me that keeps you sane.’” Marcus placed her picture back on the desk and angled it just so. “Crazy old bird,” he said with sad, smiling eyes, “she doesn’t know that I’m crazy already.” Rearden looked back to me and said, “I guess what I’m getting at is this. We can’t be responsible for another’s thoughts.” He turned back toward the window, his eyes darkened and he added, “Or another’s deeds.”
Pine trees lined the path to Basil’s front door. At the crest of the hill there was a view of sprawling subdivisions that cluttered the valley.
Basil had converted what was once a large storage shed into a passable living space, and it stood relatively secluded despite the large mansion below. The property owners were a wealthy California couple. Basil was the groundskeeper.
I paused at the door and inhaled the brisk noon air. My hand shook.
Before I could knock, the door latch rattled. “Wait a sec—” came Basil’s voice from inside. “Just a second.” The peephole in the center of the door darkened. I knew he was looking at me. Then, I heard rustling sounds and quick footsteps. The lock rattled again and the door opened. Basil stood in the doorway. He wore what I would later find to be called a thobe, a middle eastern garment that resembled a western dress-shirt, only instead of ending at the waistline the length stretched to the floor. The thobe was a deep grey, and the breast pocket held several wet paintbrushes. On his head sat a tilted, white felt top hat splattered and smeared with many bright and subtle colors. He looked down at my side and saw that I carried my brown leather document case. As he lifted his eyes back to mine the weight of the case in my grip seemed to double, as if it held gallons of water.
He didn’t speak, but instead nodded for me to enter. Relaxing music played at a low volume. The smoke of incense and the fume of oil paint was in the air. A space heater cheerfully glowed beside the door. A window at the opposite end of the room had been cracked open to allow a faint breeze of cool air to drift in. He pointed to a vintage wooden dining chair to the right of the door and said, “Sit for a second, Loche.” As he closed the door I saw two feet, low to the ground, jutting out from a small kitchen nook. The feet were framed inside of a wheelchair. “This is my father, Howard,” Basil said. “Pop, this is Loche. I’ll be right back.”
Basil turned and grabbed hold of a ladder that led to a loft above the door. In a moment he had disappeared from view.
Howard rolled out from around the corner. He wore a blanket across his knees and a green and red flannel shirt buttoned tightly at the collar. I nodded politely, and he nodded back. His complexion was frail and weathered, and the lines along his cheeks and crows feet framing his eyes told me that he had spent a good deal of his life laughing.
“Good morning,” I said. Howard nodded again, but remained silent. The old man held a newspaper opened to the article that Rearden had just shown me. Uncomfortable, I moved to the chair Basil had pointed to, sat down and placed my case between my feet. I could feel the old man’s gaze follow my movement. Ignoring his stare I looked around the room.
Five wood easels stood near the center of the room in a circle. The paintings faced inward, but they were all covered in black fabric. There was another shrouded easel backed into the far corner. Three rolling tables crowded with paints, brushes and other painting supplies were beside the works in progress. A substantial collection of records and compact discs,
a stereo, three work tables, two freestanding shelves packed with books, microwave oven, a mini refrigerator, a few articles of clothing, five bright floor lamps, a couple of rickety chairs, his frame pack, and all of his painting supplies were packed within the space. Beneath one of his long tables was a pillow and a few Earth colored wool blankets. The studio was certainly being used for everywhere I looked was clutter.
I could still hear Basil rummaging above. It sounded as if he was searching for something.
“Do you like music?” Basil called.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Why don’t you choose something,” he suggested. “Feel free.”
I looked at the stereo. “No, thanks,” I said politely.
“Come on, Loche,” he insisted, “let’s switch it up. We need something bigger than Yes right now.”
I stood up and reluctantly approached the stereo. The volume was low. I lifted the needle off of the vinyl and slid the record back into its jacket. I then scanned the impressive collection. Very few of the names were familiar.
“Well, if you’re not going to play anything, I’ll choose for you,” Basil said, still hidden from view. “How about some Wagner?”
“Richard Wagner?” I asked. “Where will I find that?”
“Under W,” he said.
I scanned the collection again. All the CDs and albums were in alphabetical order, like my own music collection and books at home. I smiled and thought, Well, we have that in common. When I found Richard Wagner I noticed there were several records. “Which one?” I called.
“No need to yell,” Basil said, standing beside me.
He pulled the LP Das Rheingold from the shelf and placed it upon the turntable. “I love this record,” he said looking at me. “And its probably the best soundtrack to what you’re about to see. Either this or Red Fang’s Prehistoric Dog.”
Basil twisted the volume knob to a moderate level. The needle crackled on the vinyl, then there was a low drone of bass. Haunting. Slowly, soft horns began to weave the texture of a chord. He then looked at me and said, “Come and check this out.”
He took me by the arm and turned me around. Upon the easel in the corner of the flat a shrouded rectangular form had been set up. Placed before the monolithic shroud was a folding chair.
“Please,” he said, “sit right there.”
I picked up my leather bag and moved to the seat.
He pulled another chair beside mine and we both stared at the shroud. Wagner’s prelude was still lilting and rising. Howard wheeled his chair across the cluttered room and stopped to the right of the easel. He rotated himself into a position where he could face Basil and me, making a conscious effort to keep his back to the black shroud. A smile drifted slowly to his lips.
“Hello, Loche,” Howard said quietly.
The sound of his voice startled me and I looked at Basil. Basil faced his father with a quiet understanding.
“Look at me, my boy,” the old man said. He grinned at me. A pleasant smile that reminded me of Dickens’ old Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas Day. I suddenly felt at ease. “You are awfully quiet for a wordsmith,” he said. “Have you anything to say concerning what you are about to see?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but no words came.
“You still have no idea, do you?” Howard clapped his hands on his dead knees and laughed. “Of course not!” he cried. He threw his hands in the air and spoke as if I wasn’t present. “A perfect life, married, has a child, beautiful home, lucrative profession all bound by a chain of orderly conduct. A man who has studied his entire life to help the mentally troubled and yet has no inkling of what real trouble is. By the book—that defines Dr. Loche Newirth. Even with all the current anomalies, newly found brother, mysterious eyes watching him—the death of a client—” He broke off and looked down at the newspaper folded over his legs. “You seem to be controlling this chaos quite well,” he muttered to himself. “You are living a life of fear. Afraid to really live—you—”
When I interrupted, the old man’s eyes grew very wide. My voice was raised, “I didn’t come here to be lectured. Yes, you are correct, I have much to consider. Many things have happened all at once and I’m having some difficulty assessing the situation, but I’ll get to the bottom of all of this. I came here to see a painting—a painting that is purported to prove that we are brothers. I have searched through what few records I have of my childhood, and I found nothing that points to having a brother. All I’ve heard are wild claims, dreams and theories, but I am here to find out if proof exists.” I suddenly noticed that my voice was raised, and I felt Basil’s hand on my shoulder. When I turned to him his face said, Easy, Loche, take it easy. I sighed heavily and apologized. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m very tired.”
“I see that you’re beginning to crack, after all,” Howard said.
His arms rolled his chair a few feet out into the middle of the room and he spun slowly back toward me and stopped. “Some years ago I met with a terrible accident. Coming home from work early one day I entered Basil’s bedroom looking for a pair of pliers that had disappeared from my workbench. After glancing about the room I noticed a black cloth covering my young son’s desk. Looking at it my curiosity got the better of me. Without considering what might lay beneath the black shroud I lifted a corner only to discover that Basil had been painting. Removing the shroud completely, I beheld the entire piece.” Howard frowned. His face held the expression as his voice fell to an earnest whisper. “It flashed upon my naked eye. In an instant, I was unconscious and lying like a crushed, twitching insect on the floor—the entire universe, the infinite speed of time, the sight of eternity charged through my brain. My life changed forever.” He glared at his motionless legs. His hands knuckled the blanket.
“Basil found me lying on his bedroom floor that afternoon. He screamed for me to answer. I only moaned, a terrible and wretched bellow of pain. The shroud had been removed from his table and Basil suddenly knew that his instinctual precautions were now foiled. He had always hidden his work. He was never sure why. Certainly, the power of his art he could feel, but not to such a degree—not in the way I felt it. He feared that his art was dangerous to others—his fears had now come to a bitter reality. I was proof. I had looked into his work and witnessed that which only a god could discern and feel. My body was employed in the whole, the center, the godhead, for a fraction of an instant.” The old man loosed his grip on the blanket and brought his hands together gently in his lap.
“Doctors guessed. They diagnosed psycho-trauma, a stroke, diabetic seizure, schizophrenia, manic depression—bullshit, and yet, all of them matched my state. I spent my first few nights at the hospital in a coma. During that time, I lost the use of my legs.
“Several months were spent in the bin—a psych ward, that is—after I woke. The coma had left its wretched hands strangling my voice and my reason. Basil scarcely left my side, anguished at what he still to this day claims is his fault.” Howard looked at Basil and reached out to touch his face. “But we’ve been through all that,” he smiled.
“Then, one evening in May, Basil made a connection with me. He brought a painting when he came to see me at the hospital. He asked for permission to visit me alone.”
“No,” Basil interrupted, “I brought John Whitely with me.”
“Yes, yes,” Howard agreed, “But I don’t remember him being there. Basil propped up on the bed a painting he’d been toiling over for the last month and called to me. ‘Pop. Pop. Look up here.’ Basil pointed. It was a portrait of me. My pupils immediately dilated, and I swooned sleepily.”
Howard fell silent as Basil picked up the story, “It was like a thread—or a spider’s silk—a thin line of light shot out of the Center of the painting. It went directly for his right eye. It was fast. If you blinked you would have missed it. There was a bright flash and this weird sense of fear—like you were being watched or observed. Then the light quickly funneled back through the Center. Howard looked a
t his legs and then at me, blinking his eyes. John stood behind the painting and witnessed the whole thing. He nearly fainted.”
“I slowly made progress from that day,” Howard said, “by July I had the strength to return home. But I will never regain the use of my legs. I still suffer from the experience—nightmares and bouts with a horrible fear. I often say of myself, I’m nutty as a shit-house rat,” he chuckled darkly. “But I have been laughing more and more these days.”
“Like the old days,” Basil agreed.
As I listened and observed the two, I noted a genuine and close bond. Their connection was familiar in some way, and I found that my wonted diagnostic mind was not fully present. I was captured by their chemistry and harmony. Their caring. But the story was too vague to grasp—too many holes. I wasn’t believing it.
Howard went on to tell me how he tried to console his son, and went to great lengths to take the blame of the accident away from him. After all, it was Basil that had saved him. Even so, Basil’s anguish had never faded. Guilt coursed through his heart every time he put one foot before the other. He wished to give legs back to his father, and if he had the power to trade his legs for his father’s wheelchair, he would have accepted it as a blessing. Howard wouldn’t have it, and as the years passed he struggled to turn Basil’s guilt toward something much more important: Basil’s meaning and the reason for his paintings.
Howard couldn’t describe his experience within the Center to anyone save Basil, he told me. But even when attempting to communicate it to Basil, he fell short, and often his words trailed off to a distant, horrified stare. He had come to terms with a very important issue, however. Basil had a power not of this Earth, and Howard did all he could to assist Basil with its grave repercussions. He called it a gift, occasionally a curse. The two spent many evenings in Howard’s study trying to gather answers. There had to be some reason for Basil’s existence. A reason that could only be stabbed at in a vast, pitch-black universe.
Basil had a purpose. Howard was sure of that. “Some metaphysical purpose. He is the icon for a new spiritual phenomenon. I have spent endless hours researching the connection of mortality and eternal life. Infinity. Mathematics. The delicate line between science and spirituality. Between magic and technology. Myth and fact.” Nutty as a shit-house rat, I thought, and he has the research to prove it.
The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology Page 13
