Five for Forever

by Ames, Alex

  A last look around, and Louise walked toward the hall, ready to leave, then stopped, and walked back to her memento altar. She gave it a quick glance and picked out the Polaroid of the Malibu house that she had shot during her hunt for a home after the paycheck for her first major role had come in. A reminder of goals to aim for. No goal could be high enough, in ten years from fifty-five dollars to fifteen million. Beating the cancer was the goal. She was back at the beginning with a suitcase and a bad hairdo, a fish out of water, with only wits and the fierce courage to walk on a stage and tell complete strangers about life in the Midwest with sassy conviction and dry humor.

  We are back to that, Lou. Back to wits and fierce courage. And a mouth. This time not to crack jokes on stage but to swallow medicine.

  Anything else? The Polaroid would do. But no. She briefly hesitated again and then picked up the small toy that Dana had gifted to her the first time Louise had played with her. She put both items into her handbag and left the house without looking back. One way or the other, she wouldn’t come back to this house.

  Rick

  A week before Christmas, Rick got woken up by harbor security long after midnight. He squinted at his alarm watch and fumbled with his smartphone on the nightstand. “Huh?”

  “Rick, it’s Smitty from patrol. I got a situation at your shipyard.”

  Rick almost corrected him; it was no longer his shipyard, as the banks had taken over. After the first meetings, it had become clear that indeed Chapter Eleven would turn into Chapter Seven, liquidation, as Charles had predicted. But Smitty wouldn’t know that.

  “What’s up?”

  “There has been a break-in, and I confronted the guy. He is piss drunk and shouting like a madman.”

  “Call the police, Smitty, and let them deal with it. Don’t put yourself in danger. There’s not much of value left.”

  “Eh, no way, this is Josh Hancock, your client. I call the police, and all hell will break loose . . .”

  “Josh Hancock. Jesus, he’s back! You did the right thing, of course. Stay there until I come. Just don’t let him do too much damage, to the yard or to himself. Don’t let him get away, either.”

  “That car of his is going nowhere.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How do you think he got through the gate?”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  Rick knocked on Agnes’s door and briefed her about what was going on, then left her bedroom door open so that she could sleep with an ear open. He then drove to the shipyard. Josh’s beautiful old Porsche was a crumpled piece of metal, entangled with the remains of the gate fence. The car had no airbags and other security features, and Rick wondered how Josh had survived the crash. Smitty was leaning against the gatepost, smoking a cigarette.

  Josh’s voice could be heard from somewhere behind the Vera. “Such lovely leewardings! They must lead somewhere—to something else than common land, more palmy than the palms . . .”

  Rick shook his head. “What is he shouting?”

  “Melville,” Smitty said.

  “Come again?”

  “Leeward! The white whale goes that way; look to windward, then; the better if the bitterer quarter,” Josh continued, shouting over the water.

  “I think it’s from Moby Dick.” Smitty shrugged, and when Rick raised his eyebrow he explained, “Always liked books about the sea. C. S. Forester, Melville, Hemingway.”

  “Good that one of us reads books,” Rick said. “Thanks. I’ll take it from here. Do your rounds. And could I ask you to keep this out of the log?”

  “Sure thing, Rick,” Smitty said and walked back to his Segway to continue guarding the rest of the yacht harbor.

  “But good-bye, good-bye, old masthead!” Josh sang out from behind the Vera.

  Rick peered around the corner. Josh was standing close to the bow of the dark ship, a liquor bottle in hand, taking a swig. Only his outline could be seen; there was not enough light for anything else.

  “Hey, Josh, it’s me.”

  “Ishmael, is that you?” Josh looked around, confused, with apparent difficulty focusing his eyes in the hard shadows of the sodium light coming over from the street. He seemed to be completely out of it.

  “No, it’s Rick. Rick Flint. Long time no see, Josh. What brings you here?”

  “It’s memories that I’m stealing,” Josh sang. “Oh, but you’re innocent when you dream . . .” He tried a little tap dance and Joe Cocker air-guitar jerks, almost falling flat on his face, but caught himself at the last second.

  Tom Waits. Now here is a man who knows his classics, thought Rick.

  “Want company?”

  “Rick, that is you. Not hallucinating, all these bugs crawling under my skin and all those memories that I am dreaming . . .”

  “Yeah, it’s me. Come with me—we’ll get a coffee somewhere.”

  “No, I want to stay here. This is my boat. This was my boat. All those memories. All those plans.”

  “Josh, it has been your boat for less than a year. Your memories are different ones.”

  Josh looked at Rick with glassy eyes. “All gone. What would I have done to sail this boat!”

  “You’ll get on your feet, make a few millions again, and then you can pay them to me to build it for you. I completed the plans shortly before we went bankrupt, Josh. Even with this piece of cursed wood gone for good, you’ll be able to rebuild it from scratch.”

  “It’s memories that I’m stealing, but you’re innocent when you dream, when you dream . . .” Josh sang with a mournful voice. “Tom Waits sounds good while drunk, right?”

  Rick gave up and sat down on the bench beside the workshop and watched Josh’s last performance. And what a performance it was. The actor, in his prime but broken, started reciting Melville again, hesitating at first, but then building up, his best stage voice, booming through the night. It was impressive and depressing at the same time, and Rick felt a sadness coming over him. That could be me, Bella! That could be me, drunken, in self-pity and self-delusions. But you up there, guarding me, and the kids kept me sane.

  Josh stopped, as if in midthought, looked around. The bottle was a good idea once more, and then he walked slowly over to Rick and sat beside him. He offered the bottle, and Rick thought, Why not, it’s my shipyard going to hell, too, and took a swig. He rarely drank hard spirits, and the mouthful burned in his throat and made his eyes water, the alcohol hitting him instantly.

  “Well done, well done, Rick. We’ll make a man out of you. Thanks for joining the club of sad souls. A song among us two miserable beings?”

  “I am a dedicated nonsinger.” Rick looked around the harbor.

  Josh burped. “I think I am bleeding,” he stated. “The car crashed.”

  Rick sighed and used the flashlight function of his smartphone to see Josh’s face. “You are bleeding through the nose, and you have two nasty cuts over your left eye. And bruises like a boxer.” Rick winced and checked the rest of Josh’s body. Various cuts and bruises on the hands but not as bad as on the face. Definitely not all from the gate crash, either. Maybe a brawl with someone. “Let me get the first-aid kit.”

  Rick got the little box from inside the workshop and put some bandages over the two cuts. “Hey, like new!” he said and snapped the box shut. Both men sat in the dark again.

  “Thanks, man. Now another drink,” Josh said.

  “No thanks, no more liquor. I will raise beer for us.” He walked over to the Styler stash and lifted two bottles from the water, cleaned the tops with his T-shirt, and opened them. He gently lifted the liquor bottle from Josh’s fingers and replaced it with the beer. “We’re now entering the cooldown phase, buddy.”

  Josh nodded. “You are so sensible. Must be from being a father.”

  “You are a father, too,” Rick said.

  “Lousy father in spirit,” Josh explained. “And reality.”

  “Where have you been these last weeks?” Rick asked.

  Josh gave a dr
y laugh. “I have been to hell and back. Or maybe I am still in hell?”

  “You getting treatment?”

  “Getting there. Just like the last times, I need to crash and burn completely before I am ready. The burn has been a bit bigger this time, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The money—I am beyond broke.”

  “You’ve been on Forbes’s list of the top ten highest-paid entertainers for the last ten years; that is hard to believe.” Rick stared at Josh.

  “Let me tell you about money, my friend.” Josh took another swig. “Almost done with the first cooldown,” he said, looking at the almost empty bottle. He burped. “Money, especially big money with many zeroes at the end, flows through your hands. Just like that.”

  “But really, were you gambling it away or what?”

  “The Arabs with their shopping malls. The Chinese investors with their movie projects. The Macau mafia with their casino plans. Plus a lot of other guys from Chilean mines, Norwegian cruise ships, Morococon . . . Morocconian . . . Moroccis . . . Screw them, North African spa hotels. You name it, I sunk my money into it.” The listing of his financial failures seemed to sober Josh up.

  “You forgot the Southern Californian wooden boat.” Rick chuckled.

  Josh laughed. “I hate all the other business partners; they took my money and got rich. You are the only one who actually worked on something real. And went bankrupt over it. And you are still nice to me; I ruined your shop with this evil boat.”

  “Neither you nor you boat ruined anything. Our shop was already close to bankruptcy earlier this year. You helped us to prolong the inevitable. And gave us a great last summer,” Rick shrugged.

  “Good riddance! This boat and all its memories. Sorry about Louise. You and she were meant to be, and that bitch screwed it up, literally.”

  “Shut up, Josh.” Rick took a sip from his bottle. Josh did the same from his.

  Rick continued. “The kids are pestering me to contact her . . . No, honestly, where have you been, Josh? You are the most famous man in the world, and you were gone for almost six weeks without a trace.”

  “The money is gone. I fell into a heap of drugs. Went into rehab until the rest of the money was gone and my lawyers couldn’t pay for the clinic anymore. The last days they took me as a pro bono case. Still into drugs.” He lifted his bottle. “Objective of the last mission: drink yourself to death until New Year’s.”

  “You have no one to take care of you?”

  “When I am drugged, no one wants me around. I am violent, unpredictable, ugly, pissing into the fridge, stuff like that. My ex-wives know what to expect, so them and the kids steer wide clear of me.” Josh burped. “Wise, wise choice!”

  “No folks?”

  “Long gone. I am on my own, baby! And on a direct collision course with my maker. In a week, God-baby!” He toasted toward heaven. “See you in a week!”

  They sat side by side, Josh running slowly out of steam, and Rick was tired. A boat was being prepared at the opposite dock, an early fisherman leaving for a good catch. For about five minutes neither man said anything.

  “I saw Vicky Wallace a while ago,” Rick said.

  “Really?” Josh said, turning toward Rick. Sounding sober.

  “Met her in Nantucket while I was hunting down the boat’s heritage.”

  Josh stopped breathing for a moment. “Vicky. Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “She asked me not to. Not unless you asked.” Rick grinned and raised his bottle. “To screwed-up relationships.”

  “How is she? Is he happy?” Josh asked.

  “She’s doing . . .” Rick started. “Well, honestly, I don’t know how she is doing. She is working on Nantucket as a high school teacher. Living with her grandmother, Vera. The real Vera.”

  “Vera! John Scott was so crazy about her; it was pathological. She was older than him, so she must be what? Over a hundred years old?”

  “Ninety-eight when I met her.”

  “Vicky looked good?”

  “If I were into women a little older, absolutely. She’s an outdoor type, sails a lot, kept in shape, great body. Go, tiger, get her!” Rick laughed, and they clinked bottles.

  Josh also laughed. “Now the time with Vicky was a great summer. I had been admitted into Strasberg’s one-year conservatory, spent a last summer with my parents in Nantucket, and I met this great nice girl. All possibilities ahead of me.”

  “Don’t come with the big regret baggage now, please. Vicky and Vera were full of that. I felt certifiably depressed after that day.”

  “Don’t care about Vera. But Vicky . . . I’d like to see her again. We had a great time together. But drug addict actor and high school teacher is not a good combination.”

  “Then clean up first. Use her as a motivation to get sober again. And then visit her. Reinvent yourself.”

  “I am fucking fifty-one. There is no reinvention for me anymore.”

  “I feel like a psychologist here; maybe I should charge you two hundred dollars an hour for this,” Rick said.

  “Charge away,” Josh laughed and took a swig again. “I am broke. I don’t care. And my aim is . . .”

  “To kill yourself by the end of year.”

  “And you’re barreling down the boulevard,” Josh started to sing again in a low haunting voice, slurring the words. “Looking for the heart of Saturday night.”

  Tom Waits songs are meant to be sung while drunk, Rick thought.

  The morning broke slowly, turning all shadows into blue, the two men talking no more, thinking their thoughts. Josh finally fell asleep. First leaning on Rick’s shoulder, then when things became too buddy-buddy for Rick’s taste, he gently let his former client go horizontal on the bench and saw him curl up in the morning light. Rick retrieved a blanket from the office and put it over Josh. As long as he did not sleepwalk and fall into the harbor, Josh would be fine. Rick had a household to manage that would wake up soon, so he had to get back and leave this bizarre night behind him.

  twenty-eight

  We Were Here

  Louise

  Baltimore was in deep winter five days before Christmas when Louise arrived at the Johns Hopkins Hospital. They settled her into a comfortable room that had the qualities and amenities of a hotel suite. Floris sorted out the security setup, including a guard in front of the VIP corridor and mirrored glass windows that blocked telephoto snoopers. Then a young man of Indian origin greeted her; he couldn’t be older than twenty, smooth skin and short fashionable hair. “I am Dr. Singh. I’ll be your lead oncologist for the journey we have ahead of us.” He saw Louise’s skeptical look and raised his hands. “Don’t mention the D-word.”

  “The D-word?”

  “You were about to comment on my age, right?”

  “Have you ever seen Doogie Hows—” Louise started and then interrupted herself. “Oh, that D-word!”

  “I have already treated over a thousand patients, I’ve been a registered doctor for four years now, certified oncologist for two, have won eight prestigious science prizes in the area of oncology, and I am one of the lead drivers behind the new drug we are testing. If we succeed, we might cure cancer.”

  “That is impressive.”

  “I know. But to complete the Doogie Howser comparison: yes, I am still living with my mom and dad, who were so gracious as to move to Baltimore with me after university.”

  “Don’t tell me you are already married with four children?”

  Singh had to laugh out loud. “We will have a lot of fun together. I will be blessed by your beautiful presence and your wit; you will go through hell on earth in the coming weeks.”

  The next morning, Singh came for the morning round and smiled at Louise. “This will become your most prized possession.” He held up a stainless-steel bucket.

  “A wine cooler? That’s your treatment? Getting me drunk on expensive wines?”

  “We could achieve the same result on cheap wines, too, but it w
ill be much less fun. No, the experimental drug has side effects that might not sit well with your stomach.”

  “Does it come monogrammed?” Louise looked at it doubtfully.

  “After you used it once, no one else will want to touch it, don’t worry.”

  “There have been stranger things offered on eBay with my name in the title.”

  “No doubt they all fetched fabulous prices. You must be proud.”

  A lot of time was spent once more with various tests and examinations “to get your baseline and to understand what makes Ms. Waters tick,” Singh explained.

  “Years of psychotherapy and biographers have attempted that.”

  “I am only interested in your body.”

  “The boys all say that.” Louise laughed. “So that you can clone me?”

  “No, but you are participating in a trial for a new drug. Everyone is keen to know why the drug works for one person but not another.”

  “Which group will I be in?” Louise asked.

  “Tell me your age, your true age, your measurements, and your secret phone number, and in about four weeks I’ll be able tell you,” the young doctor said.

  “In about four weeks I’ll know that myself, Doctor, because I might be dead!”

  “Ah, you’re catching on, Ms. Waters. We’ll make a scientist out of you yet.”

  On day three, the treatment started. One infusion a day, administered every morning. Louise watched the drip. “Side effects?”