by Dan Mooney
“Even Eva, our daughter, when she needed things she went to Lucey with them, not to me. I did nothing. But at least I had Lucey, you know. And I had cousins, and neighbours and friends, not many, but I had them. And they went. One by one they went. Some moved, most died. Then I just had Lucey. And when she was gone, I thought I had nothing left. And I got so bored of having nothing, and being useless and doing nothing and I just…”
He paused, he could see the empathy in her; there was something in her eyes, some hint of recognition, some part of what he was saying was familiar to her. Maybe it was the idleness and pointlessness, maybe it was the relentless sense of loss, or perhaps that grim and terrible feeling that you might be next, that ever-invasive thought.
He had run out of words regardless and stood, stupidly, waiting for her to say anything.
“I know,” she told him sympathetically. Her eyes had softened, and she rested a hand on his forearm.
“I’m sorry to burden you with all this,” he said quietly.
“It’s no burden, Joel, I promise. Do you still feel like you want to?”
“I don’t know, Una. I honestly don’t know.”
“You’re a dear, sweet man. Please don’t leave us, Joel,” she said, tears standing out in her eyes; she reached one hand out to brush his cheek with it.
The intimacy of it, the physicality… it was almost too much for him. He felt dizzy in it. Had he become such a stranger to affection that it could have such a profound effect on him?
He knew in that moment that she cared for him, cared deeply. Maybe she even loved him. He stepped in to her and wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her. She wept softly against his chest and hugged him back. He thought that maybe he should feel guilty for it. For the affection and the warmth of holding her. Like he might have been betraying Lucey’s memory somehow. He didn’t, though. He didn’t feel a single bit guilty.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The following morning was a Tuesday, and though it brought no more optimism and hope in all the world for Joel, he still woke feeling better than he had the day before. He reckoned it was because he had gone to bed happier. Frank was still not speaking to him, but it was nice to know that Una was down the corridor, and just as he was dozing off he thought of her and smiled. A guilt-free smile. Which was uncommon when he thought of Una.
When he woke, Frank was already gone again, off to the common room. He was such a habitual early riser that it bothered Joel a smidgeon. In Joel’s view of the world order the actors and creatives and their ilk were all late sleepers, and the morning was time for the productive people and the tradesmen like himself.
Someone at some point over the previous weekend had discovered the piece of paper in the window catch, and the previous night Nurse Karl had come in and checked the windows thoroughly before he gave them their tea. It made Joel smile and wince at the same time. He and Frank were unlikely to be trying to escape again any time soon.
As he nibbled on his breakfast and contemplated his own impending death, or his impending visit to the therapist, a fate worse than death, he also pondered the problem of Frank. He didn’t want to be mad at him, nor did he want Frank to be mad at him. He wanted things to go back to the way they were. When they talked and laughed with one another. He wanted Frank to look at him as he had when they had sat in the broken-down theatre, like a friend, a real one, a kindred spirit for all their differences.
Bad enough he was facing the possible end of his days; he didn’t fancy doing it all alone. Not after he’d made such a good friend. A friend who might be able to help him decide if he really wanted this death after all.
In the early afternoon his day was ruined entirely by the arrival of a boy.
Joel was certain the boy would argue that he counted as a grown man, but to Joel’s eyes the thing before him in its nonthreatening suit pants and shirt with rolled-up sleeves was a boy. He could have all the qualifications he wanted, and Joel was sure the wee thing would have bags of them. With a whole alphabet of letters after his name. Joel cared little for the letters that a psychologist might have. He looked at the cool, calm smile and loathed the creature in an instant.
Into who else’s life had this boy walked? What untold damage had he done elsewhere? Where else had he gone, unwelcome, and imposed himself?
Nurse Liam showed the boy into Joel’s room and pointed him at Joel. A weapon, a gun, another prison guard, maybe an executioner.
Joel could practically hear his Frank telling him he was being overly dramatic.
He clammed up as the boy dragged over a seat and smiled his most nonthreatening smile.
This boy, this adolescent creature, held the power to lock him up. To have him sent from Hilltop to some other place. A place for the mentally unwell. To take him away from the last room he had shared with Lucey. The room he shared with Frank.
“Joel, how do you do? I’m Martin. We’re just going to have a little chat today if that’s okay?”
Condescending ass.
It was not okay. Not that anyone was consulting him about it. He didn’t want to talk to the boy. If Frank was here he’d know what to say.
Smart-ass.
Then it hit him.
Joel was inspired in a moment.
Frank would know exactly what to say. All Joel would have to do was channel his inner Frank. He tried to imagine what the old popinjay would do:
“My dear boy, I hope you’ll keep it brief since I find this entire charade somewhat unnecessary.”
He thought that sounded pretty Frankesque.
The boy adjusted his tie, still smiling his stupid nonthreatening smile. Joel thought his hands might get greasy just touching the boy.
“I’ll try not to take up too much of your time. Now, first of all, is there anything in particular you feel like talking about?”
Inside Joel’s skull the words repeated: “Don’t say killing yourself, don’t say killing yourself.”
Frank had once told him that he had no sense of calm. Joel felt like this was an examination in calm. His face betrayed nothing, and in fact, he thought he was managing a fine job of Frank’s enigmatic smile. The one that made him look like he knew a joke you didn’t.
“Happy to converse on a wide array of subjects, young man, but I’ll let you pick the topic since you’ve come all this way to see me.”
Inside his head; “Don’t mention Mr. Miller’s little skeleton being pounded to death in your wife’s bed.”
In his Frank voice: “I should hate if you came all this way and I monopolised the conversation.”
It was an effort not to affect Frank’s drawling performative accent. The one where his voice went up and down, dropping to almost a whisper at times, yet never so low that he couldn’t reach his audience.
“Okay,” the boy said, a little confused. “I understand that you’re none too fond of this nursing home, for starters?”
Joel recognised the need for care here. Too blasé and they’d know he was lying. Too vehement and he’d be locked up as a threat, or shunted away into some corner of a psych ward for being too angry at being old.
As if everyone else wasn’t furious about that.
“Something of a misunderstanding there, old boy. I’m feeling a touch unheard.”
Now that sounded very Frank. He should be wearing a scarf for this.
“I don’t have a problem with Hilltop. My problem is being constantly cooped up in it. Their problem, of course, is that I’ve flown the coop a couple of times.”
He tried for the sly smile that Frank was so fond of when he knew he was being clever. He worried that it might look wretched on him. Lack of practice smiling was half his problem. He wondered if he might look crazy if he got up and stole one of the scarves?
“And, do you think that’s unreasonable of them?”
Inside his head; “You’re god damn right, I do.”
His Frank voice said: “This is an unreasonable world, no? And these are unreasonable times. What I’d
like is for them to just grant a little bit of leeway.”
They wanted to throw him out because he wanted not to spend his last moments in a prison? Fair enough that they didn’t know how close he was to the end. He wasn’t even sure, but that wasn’t the point. The power they held over him. It was unfair.
The boy looked at him, and then at his notes. Something wasn’t matching up. The Rhino, or Eva, or someone had told the boy what to expect, and it wasn’t this. Joel was winning. He was beating the trumped-up little ass, with his stupid suit and patronising face.
Could he keep it up?
“Tell me about Mr. Adams?” the boy asked.
Inside his head: “Popinjay. My best friend. A jackass. The loveliest man you ever knew.”
His Frank voice said: “Now there’s a man in need of a doctor. Certainly a little bit of crazy in that one. To be honest I’m worried about him. He needs to get out more. He needs some friends. He needs to learn to display some affection.”
Joel stopped when he realised he was talking about himself, and then reminded himself that he wasn’t Frank and the name of the game here was just not to mention that he might want to kill himself. Most importantly, not to get evicted.
He smiled at the boy. The boy smiled back. His face was extraordinarily punchable.
“I see,” the boy said, still smiling. “And do you think you’re helping him?”
“I think I’ve done everything I can for him. Kept him going, you might say.”
Frank had done everything for him. He had kept him going. Maybe he’d kept him going too long. Maybe just long enough.
Joel desperately missed his friend. Missed his company. He wanted Frank to be here. Sitting with him. Just watching TV or reading quietly.
The boy continued to question him, probing, lightly of course, never too heavy, and Joel channeled his inner Frank to divert the questions.
The questions varied. His childhood. His father, the vicious bastard that he was. Joel dodged those ones with an airiness that Frank might not have even been able to pull off. The de Selby mask, Joel found, was a powerful way to avoid showing your feelings. His wife. His daughter. Clearly the boy was prepared.
After a while he found himself enjoying the game of it. He watched the boy scribble things down on the paper in front of him and nod encouragingly whenever Joel spoke, and as they wound to their conclusion, Joel fancied that he had gotten the best of the boy. Eluded him with a de Selby display.
“Okay then, Mr. Monroe. I think we’ll call it a day there…”
Joel’s heart leapt.
He had defeated the dreaded psychologist.
“…Same time next week?” the boy told him.
Joel’s heart sank.
He’d foolishly thought this would be a once off. It must have shown on his face.
“Mr. Monroe, it’s not a death sentence, just a little chat,” the boy told him, with what Joel considered to be his most punchable look of the day. “See you then.”
Joel stared bitterly at the boy’s back as he made his way out of the room. He had been an idiot to think that they’d do this all in one go. There was always going to be more. And now he’d look properly crazy because there was no way he was going to be able to keep up the de Selby routine. When the mask dropped the boy would know, and then he’d really be in for it. How on earth was he going to talk his way out of that one?
Time was all he had bought himself. Perhaps time enough to get the job done. Though there was doubt now, doubt that was growing inside him. The thought of leaving them behind was becoming increasingly difficult to imagine. Una stood out in his mind. And Lily and Chris. And Liam. And most of all, Frank.
Frank, his friend, who might have saved his life. He didn’t want to argue anymore.
The problem, of course, was how to apologise? Joel Monroe knew little enough about apologies. As everyone seemed to be at pains to remind him, he was an infuriatingly stubborn man, and these things had simply never been part of his makeup. For that matter, neither was talking, which made both apologising and therapists problematic. He considered the problem for a while that morning, and by midday he had come up with his solution.
That afternoon, Joel made his way to the common room. Inside, spread out among various tables in the wide-open room, were the various residents of Hilltop, but sitting on the large couch in front of the television, patiently waiting for the start of his soap operas, was Frank. Joel walked directly up to his friend and sat down on the seat next to him. There was plenty of room farther up the couch, but Joel opted to plonk himself down directly next to Frank, practically hip-to-hip.
Frank grunted, and glanced sideways at Joel. It was a touch frosty, the glance, but not overly so. Joel was looking straight at the television. He pretended not to see the glance. Or Frank’s narrowing eyes. From his little table behind them and to the left, Mighty Jim saw them sit, and with a gleeful, almost mischievous smile, he dropped into the remaining seat on the couch.
“There is no sun without shadow,” he told them as he made himself comfortable.
Joel nodded in agreement, but still said nothing.
For the first two hours they watched game shows. No one said a word. Frank’s face was unreadable. Joel’s, too. He hoped and leaned into that hope, that Frank knew what he was about. Una sat nearby; Joel could almost feel her worry and her curiosity. She sat there and watched them and hoped that the gulf between them hadn’t become too big to bridge.
Sometime later Nurse Liam brought them their lunches on the couch, on the trays he typically reserved for their bedrooms. He was clearly and unrepentantly trying to stifle a laugh.
They both murmured their thanks without ever saying anything distinguishable.
For the next two hours they watched soap operas. Painful, dull, extravagant, over-the-top soap operas with irritatingly dramatic performances. For the pure hell of it, Frank even flipped on a foreign soap, so Joel would have to read subtitles as well as watch people overact. Mighty Jim abandoned ship at that point. Even Jim had limits, apparently.
Joel wasn’t permitted limits. Not in this game. So he continued hoping that Frank knew what he was doing. A growing sense of amusement that he couldn’t show came from the belief that Frank knew what he was up to, but was going to push the boat out as far is it might go.
They continued to say nothing to each other. Una continued to watch them.
In a stiff test of Joel’s resolve, Frank fetched the Glory Days box set from the DVD shelf and slipped it into the tray. As he retook his seat, a single eyebrow arched in a challenge. Joel met the look with calm acceptance, and into hours five and six they sat in silence and watched episode after episode of the early nineties soap opera. It was painful, but Joel had to admit, his friend was the standout performer of the bunch. The scene stealer.
Shortly before dinner, Frank played the episode where he died. To Joel’s amusement, his friend drastically overacted the part, the heart attack dropping him dead before he could reveal the climactic secret about how many women the local bar owner was sleeping with. When it was finished, Frank’s hand hovered over the remote control.
“Had enough yet?” he asked casually.
“No,” Joel replied blandly. “By all means, continue.”
“Oh, for fuck sake,” Frank grumbled. “Even I’ve had enough. Dinner?”
“Dinner,” Joel agreed, trying not to let his relief show.
The two took their places next to Una and Mrs. Klein.
Una looked at the two of them in horrified turn.
“So that’s it?” she asked incredulously.
“That’s what?” Joel replied innocently.
“That’s all? That’s all you’re going to do? Just sit there watching TV and then it’s all done?”
“Do you have any idea what she’s talking about, old boy?” Frank asked, as his dinner was placed in front of him.
“None,” Joel replied, being obtuse.
“Are you honestly telling me that after all
that, after all of the… with the other day, and the…” she trailed off, her jaw working furiously.
“She seems upset,” Frank remarked.
“She does. Do you think we’ve done something to bother her?”
“Can’t think of anything, old boy.”
“Una,” Joel asked, as sweetly as he could manage. “Is there something the matter?”
Una reached for her newspaper and frantically swatted at Joel and Frank. They kept their arms up for protection and weathered the onslaught until Una ran out of gas. She sat there in front of her dinner, the rolled-up newspaper discarded.
“Can I have the salt, Frank?” Joel asked.
Una returned to her dinner and ate her food furiously, grumbling under her breath. Mrs. Klein beamed at them both, but deliberately avoided looking anywhere near Una.
Chapter Twenty-Five
It was a victory for Joel, but by no means a perfect one. The amiable silence between the two men that evening was infinitely preferable to the frosty one of the previous three days, but mixed in that silence was a great or terrible thing not being said. They didn’t speak of it, because Joel reckoned he didn’t know how, and Frank couldn’t think of a way that wouldn’t smash their uneasy friendship into smithereens.
And so throughout Wednesday and Thursday, what the two shared was an awkward, hopeful, but tense friendship. Gone was the easy camaraderie of the previous days and weeks. The banter and ribbing were out and in their place casual chitchat. Joel was not a fan, but the alternative was not something he was yet willing to contemplate.
“An old game show or something?” Joel offered politely as they sat watching TV in their room that afternoon.
