“He’ll get sued for breach of contract,” Alison said. “And it will ruin his reputation. No one will want to insure him.”
“We may have to talk to Seward,” I said. “Maybe we can get him to work with us.”
“Doubtful,” Lindsey said.
Alison sat down and looked up at us. “We may be doing more harm than good here,” she said.
“No,” I said. “You have to believe we’re doing the right thing. Whatever harm this may do to his career, it won’t be as bad as what he would have eventually caused himself.”
“He’s right,” Lindsey said. “We have to think long term here.”
“I just wish he would talk to us.”
“He will,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. He’s in there somewhere.”
“It’s almost as if he doesn’t want to get better,” Alison said.
“That’s why we aren’t giving him a choice,” I said, wishing I was as confident as I sounded.
That evening the three of us watched the news. None of us said it, but we were checking to see if Jack’s disappearance was out yet. I was so relieved to see that it wasn’t that I almost forgot to follow the body count, which was six. A power plant explosion in Monticello killed five, and an armed suspect was shot by a cop in a standoff over a domestic abuse call.
Afterwards, I went upstairs with Lindsey to bring Jack his dinner. Since our return from town, we were both doing our best to pretend that our earlier argument hadn’t happened. We were lousy actors. I checked through the peephole and saw that Jack was sprawled out on the bed asleep. I continued to watch as Lindsey unlocked the door and, convinced that he was truly out, I slowly pushed the door in. Jack didn’t budge. I took a minute to examine the room, which looked like a swarm of locusts had mistaken it for a wheat field. Torn and bent books were haphazardly strewn all over the place, and there were glass fragments everywhere. The mahogany desk was turned on its side, a feat of which I wouldn’t have thought one man capable, and two of the curved legs had been broken off, giving it the appearance of some disfigured mythological beast. Behind the door in a pool of glass splinters was the television we’d heard Jack throw, a jagged crack running up the back of the black plastic casing. Little white electronic components were scattered around it on the carpet like dandruff on a dark suit.
Seeing this destruction was like looking into a truly tortured soul. I felt an icy breeze in my intestines when I looked back at Jack’s prone form. I never would have believed that somewhere within him existed the pure and dark rage that had inflicted this damage. Looking at Lindsey, I could tell she was equally shaken. She was squeezing her lips with her right hand, her eyes wide with shock. “Jesus, Ben,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Why’d he have to do this?”
“I have no idea,” I said dumbly. I placed the tray containing a turkey and cheese sandwich and a thermos of pea soup on the floor, scooping up what scattered remains of Jack’s last meal were within arm’s reach, and backed out of the room. Lindsey turned the key and replaced it on the doorjamb. I followed her somberly downstairs, wondering once again if we had taken on way more than we could handle. I wished that Chuck were there, to explain it all away as a symptom of withdrawal. At that moment, his unassailable confidence would have been a welcome antidote to my gnawing doubts.
By tacit agreement, Lindsey and I didn’t mention the state of the room to Alison. She’d witnessed the same pandemonium we all had that morning and probably had a good notion of the extent of the damage, but a firsthand description might still be unsettling.
“How’s he doing?” she asked when we joined her in the den. She was curled up in the corner of a large, burgundy couch, taking slow sips from a mug of hot cider. On the huge leather couch she looked like a little girl in her sweatshirt and leggings, and I wanted to curl her up into a ball and hug her. Instead I took a sip of her cider and sat down on the floor in front of her.
“He’s sleeping,” Lindsey told her. “With any luck, he’ll sleep through the night.”
“Good,” Alison said softly, cradling the mug tightly between her hands as if she were fighting a chill. “Look what’s on HBO.”
I grabbed the clicker from the glass-topped coffee table and hit the power. And there was Jack, bleeding from a fake gash on the bridge of his nose, shooting an automatic pistol from the top of a baggage conveyor belt in a crowded airport. It was the opening scene of Decoy, one of the disappointingly average, highly profitable action films Jack had made after the wild success of Blue Angel. Two bad guys went down, and two more fled up the stairs. Jack dove headfirst over a pile of suitcases in pursuit, knocking extras out of his way. He stopped briefly to help up a little girl who been knocked over, handed her the fallen doll she’d been searching for and flashed her a wide, white-toothed smile. “There you go,” he said, and then turned to run up the stairs three at a time in pursuit.
“He hurt his knee filming this,” Alison said in a monotone, staring at the screen. “He insisted on jumping off that baggage carousel himself, and he ended up twisting his knee so badly they had to shoot around his scenes for a week while he recovered.”
“I remember,” I said. “Jackie Chan was always one of Jack’s heroes because he does all his own stunts.”
“Didn’t Harrison Ford hurt himself filming The Fugitive?” Lindsey asked.
“Yep. Same kind of injury,” I said. “Jumping off a bus or something.”
“Hey,” Lindsey said. “Harrison Ford to Jack Shaw in four movies. Not counting the one they were in together.”
“Easy,” Alison said. “Harrison Ford was with Anne Archer in Patriot Games. Anne Archer was with Michael Douglas in Fatal Attraction. Michael Douglas was with Andy Garcia in Black Rain, and Andy Garcia was in Blue Angel with Jack.”
“Good one,” Lindsey said. “But I can do it in three.”
“Do tell.”
“Harrison Ford was with James Earl Jones in Patriot Games.”
“And Star Wars,” I chimed in.
“Good point,” Lindsey said. “James Earl Jones was with Eric Roberts in The Best of the Best and Eric Roberts was in Decoy.”
“Julia Roberts to Jack in three,” I challenged.
“Amateur,” Lindsey said. “Julia Roberts was with John Malkovich in Mary Reilly . . .”
And so it went, well into the night. We played the game, we talked and reminisced and sipped our hot cider while basking in the soothing, blue-green glow of the television as if it were a fireplace. At some point I got off the floor and joined Lindsey and Alison on the overstuffed couch, the three of us splayed out in a tangle of throw pillows and the heavy, handknit afghan that had lain in a basket beside the couch. The smell of the leather couch mingled in my nostrils with the aroma of hot cider and feminine shampoo. I closed my eyes and leaned back, embracing all of the comforting sensations that surrounded me. For the first time in years, it felt like time was finally slowing down, at least for a little while. At some point we began drifting off to sleep, but rather than go upstairs we just pulled closer together under the blanket, like three newborn puppies, finding warmth and security in our proximity. I slept better than I had in months.
The next morning I awakened at what we used to refer to in college as the butt crack of dawn, disentangled myself from the sleeping forms of Lindsey and Alison, and, pulling on a jacket from the hall closet, took a walk down to the lake. Behind Alison’s Beamer, there was a new looking Taurus in the driveway painted an electric blue that screamed rental. Chuck was already at the lake, sitting on a wooden bench beside the Schollings’s dock and smoking a cigarette.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m just lost in thought,” Chuck said.
“I can see where that might be unfamiliar territory.”
“Ha.”
“When did you get back?”
“Around two or so.”
“We didn’t hear you come in.”
; “I know. I peeked in on you guys.” He gave me a conspiratorial grin, blowing out a funnel of gray-white smoke. “Not bad, dude. Two of them at once, eh? You’re a wild man.”
“Your nose looks much better,” I said.
“Yeah,” he replied, rubbing it absently. “I had it set. Guy I know in ortho did it.”
“It’s a shame. I kind of liked the way it hid your face.”
“Nice.”
The sun was just coming up on the far side of the lake, a hazy, nebulous orb casting an orange hue on the surrounding blue. The mist rose lazily off the lake, seeming to muffle all sounds save the occasional belch of a bullfrog. I wondered where frogs went in the winter. Did they hibernate? Did they die?
Just then we heard a loud, whooshing sound from above and looked up to see a gaggle of geese coming in for a landing. There were about fifteen of them. In unison they circled the lake, flying across to the far side, and then came gliding down onto the lake, their webbed feet extended before them like landing gear. Within seconds, the once-still lake was bustling with activity. Chuck and I watched in wonder.
“That was pretty amazing,” Chuck said, stubbing out his cigarette. “I feel like we should hear some British guy’s voice-over telling us about the migration cycle of the speckled goose.”
I smiled. “I guess for us, nature is just another thing you see on television.”
We heard a door slam behind us, not from the Schollings’s house but from the one next door, and turned around to see a young boy around eight-years old walking down toward the lake with a large golden retriever following at his heels. He looked skinny in his red and black flannel shirt and blue jeans, with dirty blond hair that had been recently cut. He hesitated when he saw us, but then snapped a leash on the dog and continued to come in our direction.
“Hi,” he said, approaching our bench.
“Hello,” I said, and Chuck waved.
“Are you staying at the Schollings’s?”
“We’re friend’s of Alison’s,” I said. “I’m Ben and this is Chuck.”
“Oh,” he said, scratching the back of his dog’s head.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Jeremy,” the boy answered. His dog came forward to sniff us, and I gave it a friendly scratching on its chest. “That’s Taz,” he informed me.
“Taz?”
“Yeah. Like the Tasmanian Devil. You know, the cartoon?”
“Sure,” I said. Taz, it seemed, was a sucker for chest-scratching, and sat himself right down in front of me to get as much as he could, his eyes closed in pleasure. “Did you name him?”
“No, my father did.” At the mention of his father, his eyes shot to the ground for a moment, and then came back up uneasily. “I came down to see the geese,” he said. “They come every year at this time.”
“Is that right?” Chuck said.
“Yeah. They’re Canadian Geese, on their way to Florida. They stop here for about a week or so, and then they go. They also stop here on their way back in the spring.”
“That’s pretty cool,” I said.
“What happened to your nose?” he asked Chuck.
“I got hit by a friend,” Chuck said.
“You?” he asked me.
“Not this time,” I said. “We all take turns hitting him.”
“It looks like it’s broken,” Jeremy said. “You should go see a doctor.”
“I see one every time I look in the mirror,” Chuck said.
“Which is usually quite often,” I added.
“You’re a doctor?” Jeremy asked, skeptically.
“Sure am.”
“Do you ever take care of people who have conas.”
“What are conas?” Chuck asked.
“It’s when you sleep and you can’t wake up for a long time,” the boy said earnestly. I noticed that his eyes were a startling blue, and that his left one sometimes winked shut and open again involuntarily.
“That’s a coma,” Chuck said. “C-O-M-A, coma. What do you know about comas?”
“My father has one,” Jeremy said.
“Really,” I said. “That’s too bad.”
“Yeah,” he said, automatically. “He got hit by a truck while he was jogging. He’s been asleep for almost three months now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Chuck said.
“He never knew what hit him,” Jeremy said, clearly repeating something he’d heard said before.
The back door of Jeremy’s house swung open again, and a girl of about twelve came out onto the deck. “Jeremy, what are you doing?” she called to him.
“That’s Melody,” he informed us. “She thinks she’s the boss now, because my dad’s not around.”
“Jeremy!” she called again.
“I’m just walking Taz,” he called back to her.
“You have to come in for breakfast,” Melody persisted.
“I’ll be there soon.”
“Mom says now.”
He rolled his eyes with disgust, and gave Taz a slight pull with the leash. “I gotta go,” he said.
“Sisters,” I said with a sympathetic smile.
“You have any?”
“Uh, no,” I admitted.
“You’re lucky,” Jeremy said, then turned to face Chuck. “Do you think you could help my dad?”
Chuck’s eyes met mine for an instant. “I’m sure his doctor’s doing everything he can,” Chuck said. “Besides, I’m a pretty young doctor. I bet your dad’s doctor is older than me, and much more experienced.”
“I guess,” the kid said, turning to go back up to his house.
“Hey, Jeremy,” I called to him.
“Yeah.”
“See you around.”
“Yeah,” he said, pulling Taz closer to him as they headed up the hill. “See you around.”
“That poor kid,” Alison said later, when I told her about our encounter with Jeremy over breakfast. “I had no idea. I didn’t hear. We’ve known the Millers for years. I used to baby-sit Melody, when she was, like, two years old. My dad and Peter used to fish together.” No one had felt like cooking, so we were eating Cheerios and milk, which I would undoubtedly suffer for later. Another symptom of my having turned thirty was a sudden increase in what had always been a very mild lactose intolerance.
“It doesn’t sound good,” Chuck said, gulping down some juice. “If he’s been in a coma for three months, the statistics are not in his favor.”
“I should go over and see Ruthie,” Alison said. “She must be going through hell.” She got up, threw on a sweater, and headed for the door. “Don’t forget to give Jack breakfast,” she called behind her.
When Chuck and I brought Jack his breakfast, we found him sitting up in his bed, still wrapped in his blanket. Because he didn’t appear to be ready to make a leap for the door, I held it open a minute to talk to him.
“How’s it going, Jack?”
“Okay,” he said, without really looking me in the eye. “You guys going to let me out today?” He was bathed in a sheen of sweat, with little droplets forming on the bridge of his nose and at the corner of his eyes. His eyes were bloodshot, their lids rubbed raw.
I looked at Chuck. “I don’t think so,” I said.
“Jack, the first thing you’d do is go score some coke. It isn’t even out of your bloodstream yet,” Chuck said.
“I need something, man,” Jack said. “Can’t you give me anything? I don’t feel good.”
“You’re going through withdrawal,” Chuck said. “You’ll feel much worse by tonight.”
“Nice bedside manner, Chuck,” I said sarcastically.
“You know,” Jack said, shivering slightly under his blanket, which he pulled more tightly around him as he sat up. “You’re doing some pretty serious damage to my livelihood right now.”
“We’re more concerned with your life right now,” I said. “Try to get some sleep.” I started to close the door.
“Ben,” he said.
�
�Yeah?”
“You can’t keep me here much longer.”
“I know, Jack,” I said. “But I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t try.”
He was quiet for the rest of the day. I found it kind of eerie, picturing him just sitting in that bed, shivering, the blankets wrapped around him like an Arab, but Chuck said he was most likely sleeping. “His body is shutting itself down,” he explained. “Coming off coke is an exhausting ordeal. Once the source of your strength is gone, the abuse you’ve been inflicting on yourself catches up with you. Some people sleep for weeks.”
Later that afternoon I stepped out onto the Schollings’s front lawn to get some fresh air. I saw Jeremy Miller shooting hoops in the Schollings’s driveway and walked over to join him. I judged from the knapsack by the side of the court that he’d just returned from school. “How’s it going?” I said, grabbing a rebound and dribbling out to take my own shot. Swish.
“Okay,” said Jeremy, grabbing the ball and tossing it back to me for my courtesy shot. I noticed he was wearing a Blue Angel T-shirt that showed the movie poster, Jack on a motorcycle with a building exploding in the background. My next shot hit the back of the rim, but still managed to bounce in. “Friendly rim,” Jeremy said by rote.
“You a big Jack Shaw fan?” I asked, taking a jumper that hit the front of the rim and landed in Jeremy’s hands without a bounce. He dribbled it through his legs and back out to the foul line. He shot it the way little kids do, bringing the ball up from his belly and pushing it with both hands as he jumped. Swish.
“Yeah,” he said, in answer to my question. “Blue Angel’s my favorite movie of all time.”
“Did you see Decoy?”
“Yeah, that was good, but I liked Blue Angel better. You know, Alison’s friends with him.” He shot again, same motion, same result.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Are you also his friend?”
“Yeah,” I said, tossing him the ball.
“That must be so cool,” Jeremy said wistfully.
I thought of Jack sitting up on Alison’s sofa bed, sweating in his blankets between puking jags. “Real cool,” I said.
Plan B: A Novel Page 13
