To the Max

by Julie Lynn Hayes

  Well, that’s the way that it was, obviously, not the way it is. I can’t seem to keep from talking about Richard, can I? Or thinking about him.

  Down to business. First letter. This one’s from a woman who has gotten rid of her faithless lover, yet misses him so much she is thinking of taking him back and wants to know if she is being foolish. Damn. I drop the letter in my lap and sigh. I can’t even concentrate on work. Everything reminds me of him. All roads lead to Richard.

  I am interrupted in my somber musings by a knock at the front door. Who now? I wonder as I begrudgingly answer it, only to find a floral delivery person holding a bouquet of blood red roses in a vase, surrounded by delicate baby’s breath. She regards me with a cheery smile. “Max Montague?” she asks.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  She hands me the flowers and tells me to have a good day, whistling as she returns to her delivery vehicle and exits the scene. Curiously, I look at the flowers, spotting a small white envelope in the midst of the blooms, which I pick up and peruse: “Max, I love you.” Nothing more. But I would know that handwriting anywhere.

  I carry the vase back into the library. Did you really think that maybe I’d just throw it away? Be serious. I find a place for it where I can regard it from my throne, keeping the card, as if through it I can feel the essence of him that he left there when he wrote his brief missive. Yes, I do know how to spell pathetic—M-A-X—you don’t need to tell me.

  Okay, I need to concentrate now. Maybe another letter. This one is from a man who just found out his lover has AIDS, and he isn’t sure if he’s been faithful to him or not and wonders if he should be tested. Damn. I throw that one down, too. It brings up too many unanswered questions, and it’s something that Rachel has mentioned to me before. She tells me that considering Richard’s track record, I’d be foolish not to be tested. And yet for some obscure reason which even I don’t understand, I never have. And I never discussed it with him, even in the abstract. But I know that all gay men should; it’s just a part of life. Damn him anyway, for putting me in this position to begin with.

  What the…? The door again. I lay the letters down and answer the knock. A different delivery truck is parked outside, and a young man in uniform is holding a dozen tulips, queen of the night, in fact. He hands them to me and makes a speedy departure. I withdraw into the house, find the card. “Max, I need you.” My heart lurches in my chest. What exactly is he up to?

  Whatever it is, it doesn’t stop any time soon. This same scene is repeated at various intervals throughout the day until the house begins to resemble an elaborate flower shop. Flowers of all color and description from roses to carnations, tulips to lilies, and even birds of paradise—how hard those must have been to find, I’ll grant him that. Each with a card containing variations on a theme in my Richard’s own fine scrawl: “Max, I [insert here: need, want, love, have to talk to, want to see, can’t live without] you.” I swear if I get just one more bouquet, I am going to scream.

  There goes the door, right on cue. I hold back the scream until I see what kind of flowers these are and throw open the door in exasperation. Then I swallow whatever I was going to say, for it’s Cat, not any delivery driver. And in her hands is not flowers, but candy. A big, big box of chocolate candy. “Mind some company, sweetie?” she asks.

  I hug her tightly before letting her in. “If it’s you, any time,” I reply. She gawks at all the flowers that have accumulated in the living room alone.

  “Wow, what did you do, rob the Brinks floral truck?”

  “No,” I sigh, “let’s go to the library, and I can show you more. Want something to drink? Coffee, soda, tea?”

  “Tea, please,” she says, and I leave her to make her own way there while I get her tea and my coffee.

  By the time I get back, she has gotten a good look at the blossoms that simply fill the room—to the max—and has found the pile of Richard’s cards where I have left them. Sad little me, reading and re-reading them, as if by doing so and by dint of wishful thinking, it would cause my lover to magically appear before me, a variation on rubbing the lamp and out pops the genie, I guess. But she makes no snide observations. Cat would never do anything like that.

  “Max,” Cat says abruptly, no preamble, turning to me as she takes the tea from my less than steady hand. “I think you should see Richard.”

  This is totally unexpected. Other than Maggie, everyone else has advised me to keep as far away from Richard Burke as possible. I wave her to the couch and sit down beside her. “Why?”

  “Because I think there has been a terrible misunderstanding here,” she begins, laying her unoccupied hand on my knee gently.

  “Misunderstanding? I know what I saw, Cat. How could I have misunderstood him with his hands down that little bastard’s pants and their lips pressed together as if they were trying to swallow each other’s tongues, for Christ’s sake.” I frown as images of the scene come unbidden to my mind. Nothing I really wish to recall.

  Cat hesitates, as if fearful of disturbing me. She always has such a kind heart. But she continues inexorably. She has a point to make and she is determined to make it, whether I wish to hear it or not. For my own good, I know, as that is ever her way. “Yes, but appearances can be very deceiving, Max.”

  A thought crosses my mind. “Have you talked to him?” I tremble even as the words leave my lips. “Have you seen him?”

  “Not seen him, no, but talked to him, yes,” Cat admits. “I called him, in fact.”

  That surprises me even more. “You called him? Why?” Not that she doesn’t have the right to talk to anyone she wants to, of course. But it is standard etiquette when a couple splits that friends tend to side with their original friends, and I consider Cat first and foremost my friend, not Richard’s. I know. It sounds even more childish as I write it.

  “Because I wanted to compare his perception of what happened with yours,” she says simply, “and then I talked to anyone and everyone that ever might have seen them together, as well as those people that I could find that actually know Morgan, so I could get the big picture.”

  “What big picture did you get?” I ask, my heart aching terribly.

  “Max, I don’t think Richard had any idea of what he was doing,” she blurted out, like she wanted to get the message through to me as quickly as possible.

  “What?” I can’t think of anything better to say at the moment than that, I’m afraid. Her words make no sense to me, although would that they were true.

  She takes a sip of the tea while it is still warm, sets it aside, and takes both my hands in hers. “Max, I’ve been doing some research. It’s what I do after, all, you know, besides working at the bookstore and taking care of Sebastian. And what is my specialty, Max?” she asks, as if she is giving a lesson to a student.

  “Ancient Greece, myths and legends,” I promptly reply.

  “Yes, it is,” she praises me gently. “Okay, so bear with me, because there are some who might find my story a little fantastic. You, on the other hand, Max, know better than many that there are people in this world who are not what they seem to be.” Her eyes meet mine. My heart is simply pounding a mile a minute.

  “Of course,” I state the obvious, thinking of my lycanthropy. And the vampires I have met. And I am sure there are other beings beyond my ken that I have yet to meet.

  “I know that you know who the Muses are, of course.”

  “Of course.” I nod, wondering where in the world this is leading.

  “Be patient, Max, please, I’m getting there.” Almost as if she can read my mind. “There is a legend that says that Calliope, the muse of epic poetry, mated with the sea god Phorcys and that the result of that union were creatures known as sirens.” She pauses to give me a chance to catch up, and I nod that I am familiar with what she is talking about.

  “The sirens were supposedly a race of birds who possessed the bodies of women. They lived at sea and would lure unwary sailors to their deaths, calling to them,
enticing them with their beautiful, intoxicating music. One of the most famous examples of the sirens can be found in the Odyssey. Odysseus stopped up the ears of his crew with melted wax that they not succumb to the sirens’ alluring cry, but he had himself lashed to the mast of his ship that he might listen to them, and once he heard their call he desperately tried to jump into the sea to reach them. Luckily his men prevented his doing this, and as the ship drew farther and farther from the source of the sound, Odysseus, too, was released from their spell.” She pauses again, waiting to see if I have any questions thus far. I confess I am totally baffled by now.

  “I’m pretty sure Richard hasn’t been to sea lately,” I say with a lame attempt at humor.

  “Max, that’s not what I was getting at,” she gently reprimands me.

  “I’m sorry, please go on,” I say contritely.

  “As you well know, myths and legends often contain enough real information that if you search hard enough you can find a kernel of truth in the midst of the drama. The more I listened to you, and then to Richard, and to the others, it just seemed to me—especially after that scene in the kitchen at the Fourth of July—that Richard wasn’t himself. I mean, Max, he’s loved you for over twenty years, honey, hasn’t he? Except for those times when he is absent, has he ever given you cause to doubt him, reason to mistrust him?”

  “Other than those times? No,” I say, a trifle hesitantly. Weren’t those times bad enough?

  “He says Morgan wasn’t in the kitchen with him, and yet you saw him?”

  I nod. “Yes, I damn well saw him. How could he not? He was right there, and yet he seemed to be telling me the truth….”

  “As he saw it?” Cat finishes my sentence.

  I nod once more.

  “Okay, bear with me a little while longer, please, Max?” Her eyes beg my indulgence. How can I not give it?

  “As you know, there are people with perceptions of things that go beyond what is normal for most of us. ESP and the like? And some evidence suggests that their abilities might even be a genetic trait which is passed down in certain families, like intelligence. Or lack thereof.” She grins at this, and I can’t help but smile a little bit at her humor.

  “While there may be no real ‘bird’ sirens, there are people who possess a certain power of attraction which is greater than most people, almost like a talent which they can turn off and on at will. These people often manifest these so-called powers in various ways, and they are often to be found in walks of life such as modeling, sales, and even prostitution, and film. Evidence suggests that some of them use hypnosis as part of this attraction and through generations of practice have the ability to use it as adeptly as other people play the piano or sing. It becomes second nature to them, and they can wind other people about their fingers with ease, so to speak.” Cat is in full lecture mode now, hitting her stride.

  “Cat, what are you trying to say?” I think I see the point, but it sounds so fantastic that I want to hear her say it aloud.

  “I am saying that I think Morgan Arthur is such a one—a siren—that he comes from such a family, and Amy is one, too, but a weak one, while he is an adept siren, and that he hypnotized Richard into doing what you saw,” she concludes, watching me for some sort of reaction.

  To say that I am stunned is putting it mildly. I feel as if I have slipped into a sudden state of shock. Richard might not be responsible for what I saw? It might have actually been against his will? Then why not say so? Because you haven’t even talked to him, my sensible mind suggests, you’ve pushed him away ever since it happened, never given him a chance to say one word….

  Oh dear God, am I totally in the wrong here, when I was positive that I was the aggrieved party? Have I condemned my lover unjustly? In all fairness, I had the evidence of my eyes to support my allegations. But suddenly these do not seem like near enough.

  “But why?” I demand to know. “For what reason?”

  “Max, remember when Amy set you up all those years ago in that hotel room?”

  Of course I do. “Yes, but that was Amy, and that was me.” I don’t understand.

  “Yes, well, I think after all these years she’s changed her tactics. She realized she had to get rid of Richard first, so that you would be alone and vulnerable, maybe turn to her for comfort. So who better for the job than her own nephew, who just happens to be…?”

  “A siren?” I finish her sentence for her.

  Cat nods. “It’s been Amy calling the shots from day one, I think. She recommended Richard to Morgan to take his portfolio, made sure that they got together. Probably promised that it would be worth his while to help her, I don’t know. Maybe she said he could have Richard, if he wanted. The point is, she did it to get to you. The same song and dance she’s been doing since she first met you, isn’t it?”

  I swallow hard. Thoughts whirl through my brain in an utter confusion. Amy, why does it always come back to Amy? And why does she seem to want me so bloody badly? I don’t get it. I honestly don’t.

  “Oh Cat,” I moan softly, “if what you say is true, then I’ve done Richard a great disservice. I don’t know what to say or do.”

  “Talk to him, listen to him,” she suggests, “and then let your heart be your guide.”

  She reaches out and folds me into her arms, and I sob my heart out, thinking that I have hurt Richard, and very unnecessarily.

  Feeling shitty to the max. Is this true, and if so, what am I going to do about it?

  Chapter 28

  Max’s Odyssey

  MY FIRST impulsive inclination is to take the Monte and search for Richard. Fall at his feet and beg his forgiveness. Plead with him to take me back. Swear my undying allegiance to him, and to us. To our relationship. But that is an impractical notion at best as I have no idea where he may be. Besides which, it isn’t quite that easy. There are more issues involved here than this, issues that have to be dealt with first, for once and for all.

  Okay, so maybe he’s innocent here and now, but what about the other times over the past twenty some-odd years? What about those? Nameless, formless men that haunt my heart and cause me great pain, not to mention raise vast amounts of self-doubt within my psyche. Can he explain those away to my satisfaction? And more importantly, will he?

  Secondly, I need to think long and hard about this. I need to be more rational, tell my heart to stand aside, and let my brain come into play. For once in my life. And tell my second brain to simply calm down. I can’t let my future be decided on the whim of my libido, for crying out loud.

  Why is life so bloody difficult?

  I sit back in the chair that we used to share, close my eyes as if to keep the world at bay, keep the wolf safe inside, safe from harm, safe from intrusion. Images of Richard flicker in my brain, firing across the synapses and neurotransmitters, as if the man himself is hard-wired inside of me. Dammit, I simply want him so badly, want him at any price. Whatever it takes. Twenty-five years of being together floods my soul, and I am whimpering softly, painfully, as I find myself falling asleep, hibernating in a form of self-preservation, an attempt to turn off my questing mind, to protect it from these unanswerable questions. An attempt which fails miserably.

  FOR now I find myself suddenly thrust onto the set of a well-known television game show. Camera, lights, crewmembers, cables snake everywhere around me, and an unseen audience can be heard following the cues of some stagehand who is prepping them for the main act, directing them when to applaud or when to laugh or even when to shout encouragement as needed. At what? I find myself wondering curiously.

  Just then I realize that I am not alone; I am part of a team of players. There are two teams, in fact. One team consists of me and Maggie and Cat, while the other team is comprised of Rachel and Sebastian and Mother. Each team stands behind a sort of counter or divider, diametrically opposed, while a man with distinguished gray hair stands in the middle, his back to us, at the fore of everything, facing a large board at the top of which large flashing
letters read Family Feud. The man turns, a professional smile dancing upon his lips, and of course I recognize Richard Dawson—who wouldn’t? A stack of notecards in his hand, he greets both players and crowd in his patented game show host manner. “’Ello, ’ello, and welcome to a special edition of Family Feud. The “To The Max” edition, in fact. Richard Dawson here, of course. I’m glad you all could be here with us tonight. And I hope you’re all having a marvelous time! Yes? Well, let’s get right to business, then, shall we? This is the first and also the last question of today’s show, so please pay special attention here. A survey was recently taken of our studio audience asking the question, ‘What are the top five reasons that Max Montague should take Richard Burke back into his life?’ Let’s see what our contestants can make of that question.”

  He walks over to greet the other team, beginning with my mother. “Hello, Mrs. Montague.” He kisses her in that trademark Dawson manner. Juliet giggles, but she doesn’t bother to correct him. I just roll my eyes. “What is your answer, love?”

  “Because he’s gay?” Mother asks. Good Lord, I just want to strangle her sometimes.

  Dawson turns back toward the board. “Survey says!” he calls out in his broad English accent. A buzzer sounds. “Oh, sorry, love, no match,” he says apologetically, as he turns next to Sebastian.