Y Is for Fidelity

by Logan Ryan Smith

  I’m cursed! I’m really truly cursed!

  I even went to Madelyn, determined to get myself back on track. I was doing so well!

  I didn’t have an appointment, so it didn’t surprise me to see how shocked she was when she answered her door and there I stood, a wreck of a man, hat in hand, begging to be let in.

  But would Madelyn let me in? No, she walked out onto her porch, closed the door behind her, and said, “Ian, this is a surprise. What are you doing here? I’m in a session with a client.”

  I tried to peek into the window of her den that’s just to the right of the front door, but she stepped in front of me, protecting that whole doctor-client privilege thing. Ha! Doctor. She’s no doctor.

  “I need to see you, Madelyn. My burgeoning mental health requires it,” I informed her.

  “Look, Ian, I told you the last time you were here that too many boundaries had been crossed and too many trusts had been broken.”

  “What? What are you talking about?” I whined.

  “You invaded my home, Ian! You hacked my emails!”

  “You knew about that?”

  “Ian, we had a long talk about this. Over at least three sessions.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do—”

  “Did you give Dr. Ryan a call?” she asked, crossing her arms. At all of five-foot-one, she’s quite the imposing figure when she chooses to be.

  “No,” I said and stamped my foot down.

  “Well, that’s about all I can do for you.”

  “But… but what about Ben?” I nearly yelled.

  “Who? Oh, your supposed roommate.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, Madelyn?”

  “Nothing. What about him?”

  “You saw him, but you won’t see me? That’s… that’s… that can’t be legal, or something!”

  “I never saw your roommate.”

  “What? Of course you did. He told me all about it. And you, you salty dog you, you helped him regain his memory!”

  “I never saw your roommate. No Ben ever came to see me.”

  “What? Oh, well, maybe he gave you his full name? Benoit Jones?”

  “Benoit Jones? Seriously, Ian, that sounds like a made up name.”

  “It is, sort of,” I mumbled.

  “Look, I have to get back. I’m working,” Madelyn said, stepping through the door of her big Victorian home, making sure to keep the door open just enough to get herself through. “Give Dr. Ryan a call,” was all she said before shutting the door on me, leaving me helpless and hopeless yet again.

  “I’ll burn your house down,” I whispered to the closed door.

  “Just try it!” the door answered, which sent me scurrying away, realizing it was Madelyn’s house and not that one in Logan Square that’s truly haunted.

  CHAPTER 31.

  It’s been three months, Thanksgiving is almost here, and I have to wonder if I don’t need to consider Ben dead. I of course googled his supposed given name, Sean McGovern, numerous times, trying to find any information on the man, but it was impossible. When I plug in “Sean McGovern,” Google gives me more than seven-hundred-thousand hits and most of them are LinkedIn profiles. So, I’m left to no other deduction than Ben, my very best friend in the whole wide world, is perished. I mean, what other explanation could there be? If his plans for righteous revenge had all gone as planned, he’d have hopped a plane back to me, lickety split! And if there were some hiccups along the way, I’m sure I’d have gotten an email or phone call by now.

  A phone call.

  That has my anxiety sprouting icicles in my veins.

  What if he lost my cell number? What if he lost my email? What if he lost our mailing address, but managed to still have my work phone number? What if his only way to contact me was through my work number?!

  My god!

  There’s no way I’d know. You see, about three weeks after he left, I was fired from Inmerica for taking too many leave of absences. I tried to explain to them that I was going through a rough time and that all the days I’ve taken off had been completely justified. But for those three weeks after Ben left, I was inconsolable. I simply couldn’t get myself out of bed. I couldn’t get myself out of bed to even send an email or make a phone call to let them know I was terribly, terribly sick and unable to go into work. When I walked into work after those three weeks, my supervisor was shocked. She immediately pulled me into her office and informed me that my time at Inmerica was over. She said my last paycheck had already been sent to my Pine Grove Avenue address. I told her to call my psychiatrist, Madelyn, and that she would confirm for them that I had been suffering from clinical depression and something Madelyn once called “fantasy prone personality disorder.” I hoped they wouldn’t actually call but that my prompting them to do so would simply validate the mental stress and hardship I have been under for… well, for my whole life!

  I was heartened, however, that Mr. Hollander made an appearance during my dismissal. Well, a virtual appearance. My supervisor got him on Skype and I watched him shake his head at me on that laptop screen and tell me how very very disappointed he was in me. He said he was disappointed and that he had once had high hopes for me.

  “I’m sorry, dad! I’m sorry!” I blurted out, then covered my mouth, embarrassed. Security was soon there to escort me out. They were really rough, too! I thought they might carry me by the shoulders all the way to the river and chuck me in!

  Now, with no savings, and only unemployment checks to sustain me, I’m practically living in rags and surviving off cans of vegetable broth! It’s the sacrifice I must make during these fiscally tight times in order to keep a roof over my head, the electricity on, and the water flowing, as well as my Netflix, Hulu, and Apple TV subscriptions current.

  Returning home from my termination that morning, I had a great shock. Adrenaline boiled my nerves, leaving me lightheaded when I realized it. In my catatonic state of depression, I’d completely forgotten about poor little Annie’s funeral!

  And you don’t have to tell me, believe me. I know it. I know what a complete jerk that makes me. I get it. I am a jerk. I’m terrible!

  And while I know my mom and dad had made several calls to me over those three weeks I was bound to my bed with the chains of a broken heart, I simply didn’t put two and two together. In fact, through my tear-stained eyes, I could barely make out the “MOM & DAD” on the phone’s screen when they called. I was in a complete state of mental arrest and confusion. I didn’t know why they were calling and they were the last people on Earth I wanted to talk to at that time. I mean, their house didn’t even burn down! But that’s just like them. Always trying to make me look the fool.

  I called mom that morning intending to apologize, profusely, but also to seek solace in mom and dad as my life crumbled down around me.

  “Ian,” a gravelly, stern voice answered in place of my mother’s falsely cheery one. It was dad.

  “Dad…” I said, at a loss. I couldn’t remember the last time we talked. Probably last Christmas.

  “Ian, son, you have some nerve,” dad said.

  “Dad, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, dad!” I wailed, experiencing déjà vu.

  “You… you goddamned good for nothing…” dad said, and I could hear mom in the background asking who he was talking to. “Your goddamned good for nothing son,” he told her.

  “How could you?” he continued.

  “Dad… I’m sorry! I’m a wreck. I’m going through a lot right now. My roommate was recently murdered and my girlfriend, Katharine, left me for a Notre Dame philosophy professor! The kind that has elbow patches on their sports coat! Times are rough, dad!”

  “Yes, yes. Of course, it’s always about you, isn’t it, Ian? Ever since you were four-years-old and we moved you out of your room so we could put your baby brother in there.”

  “It was my room, dad! Mine!”

  “It was right across the hall from our bedroom, so we could see right into it when we left the doo
rs open. We explained that to you then, and, god help me, countless times over the last thirty-one years.”

  “I didn’t mean to miss the funeral. I really didn’t!”

  “You’re out of the will, son. Out of the will, entirely.” I believe I heard my mom offer a feeble protest in the background, which surely he quieted with a rough hand gesture and steely glare.

  “What? No! You can’t! I just… I just lost my job, dad! I just got laid off!”

  “What’s this?”

  “Cutbacks. Budget cuts. They laid off ten percent of staff just this morning! I need help, dad!”

  “That you do, indeed. But you haven’t been a part of this family for countless years, and you’re no part of it now. If I have to spell it out for you, son, we’re disowning you. We want nothing to do with you anymore—not me, not your mother, and certainly not Noel and Ashley. You’re on your own, kid, like you’ve always wanted. Hopefully you’ll learn a thing or two.”

  “No, goddammit! No! I’ll burn your fucking house down! I’ll turn your old crinkly disgusting ugly faces to ash! To ash, do you hear me?! Ash!”

  But he’d hung up at his last word spoke.

  CHAPTER 32.

  I’m having a very special Tofurky Thanksgiving with James Heriot and Tristan Farnon. All this time and still no word from Ben. I’m so very worried about him. He could be lying in a ditch (or a dumpster) somewhere! But now I have to get dinner served. James and Tristan have been delighting me all evening with tales of saving animal lives in the quaint country hills of Darrowby in Yorkshire, England.

  “A fascinating place,” I tell James and Tristan, whose face is already ruddy with drink. “I’ve always wanted to visit Darrowby. Always. I hope to one day.”

  “This… Tofurky you call it? It’s divine, Ian. As for your visit to Darrowby, we’d love to have you visit someday, Tristan and I. Of course, it being a fictional village may make the journey arduous, but you’re made of stern stuff and I’m sure you’ll find your way just fine.”

  “Absolutely!” Tristan adds. “We’ll even introduce you to the old man, Siegfried. You say you have experience in animal hospitals?”

  “Oh yes,” I tell Tristan, giving him my winningest smile while pouring him a fresh glass of chardonnay (whiskey was great when enjoyed with Ben, but I’m glad to be back to my old ways). “I am a big fan of… well, of all creatures great and small, you might say! As you’ll note, I’m such a fan that I don’t even consume animal meat. I hope you’re enjoying your soy-based imitation turkey. Please do try it with the cranberry sauce. It’s homemade! Made with my very own hands!”

  “Wonderful!” Tristan says, shaking his blond bangs from his forehead and helping himself to a heaping glob of red goo.

  “Yes, indeed, Ian. You must come to Darrowby,” James says. “We’ll be sure to set you up with hearty, soul-fulfilling work in no time. Siegfried will be so grateful.”

  “Superb!” I beam. “Now, eat up and enjoy your wine because I have the most perfect desert ready to finish off our meal. You’ll never guess what it is.” I grin like an absolute buffoon, looking between the two with the utmost anticipation.

  “Yorkshire pudding!” they both shout in unison and we all laugh laugh laugh the night away.

  This morning I called United Airlines and tried to book my flight to Darrowby in North Yorkshire, England, and they told me there was no such place. I laughed and said that they were of course correct and hung up on them. It’s just as well because I forgot to ask James and Tristan for the loan to cover airfare before they left a few days ago. And I’m darn near penniless.

  It would have been ideal, however, since North Yorkshire is just a hop, skip, and a jump from Scotland. I could have gone and seen the Holy Land then done a little scouring of the Scottish Highlands in search of my long lost pal, Ben.

  Geeze, I hope he’s OK. I hope he’s on his way back to Chicago this very minute.

  But things have been going well, all things considered. I actually bumped into my old girlfriend, Kelly Bundy, yesterday when I was walking around the Magnificent Mile’s long line of fancy shops and beautiful old buildings. An early snow had fallen and collected on tree branches and in the gutters but had melted away from the sidewalks.

  I took a seat on a bench near the old Water Tower (the only surviving structure of the Great Chicago Fire—not the one I’m soon to set, the other one!) and took in the thawing city, overwhelmed by its beauty, when she strutted by. She had aged but was just as beautiful as the day we met. Of course she was excited to see me and we popped over to the Starbucks for a couple Pumpkin Spice Lattes, which thankfully they still had even though Thanksgiving was over.

  I told Kelly everything that was going on and she was nothing but the dearest sweetheart ever. Having lost her own family when Bud, in a fit of blind rage, murdered their mother and father before stabbing out his own eyes and bleeding to death, she understands the loss I’ve endured when my own family turned their back on me.

  Anyway, we hugged goodbye after finishing our Pumpkin Spice Lattes and promised to keep in touch.

  Such a good girl, that Kelly Bundy. Seeing as how she’s from Chicago, I’m surprised it’s taken this long to run into her.

  Will wonders never cease?

  CHAPTER 33.

  So much is happening since Ben left! This morning I had breakfast with Taylor Townsend. She was in town from Orange County trying to convince some promising young football player at Northwestern to let her represent him. And she called me up! It was really great to catch up with her as I had with Kelly. It was doubly wonderful to hear that she forgave me for doing a little bit of sneak-about in her email. Taylor said, “Oh, you! Let’s let bygones be bygones.” It was such a relief to hear those words come from her mouth and it really left me wondering why other people, in general, really have such a hard time letting bygones be bygones. The world would be so much better if we all did!

  Let’s see, who else have I been catching up with lately…? Oh, yes, there was of course Ralphie. He’s not doing so well (ugh). Serious heroin habit. He was a downer so I didn’t stay on the line long with him. To counteract that, I had a nice chat with Rose Tyler about the time we went traveling together. Rose is a regular companion of the Doctor’s. Our time hitchhiking through Barcelona before catching a plane to Sydney, Australia (where she was contracted to record a pop record) are some fond memories, indeed. She’s terribly busy, but did answer the phone when I called. A wonderful lady. She said she’d give the Doctor my best. I also gave Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced “bouquet”) a call because she’s always been so welcoming any time I had any questions about etiquette. I didn’t have any current questions, but I wanted to run my Thanksgiving dinner with James and Tristan by her. She agreed that I played the perfect host and served an exquisite meal. When I needed fashion advice recently, I called that wonderful, eccentric (although a bit effeminate) Mr. Humphries. He suggested I acquire a casual yet serious look. He said grey trousers, white shirt with rolled sleeves, and suspenders. A pair of unpretentious burgundy loafers would complete the ensemble, Mr. Humphries assured. “So manly!” he quipped. “Just like you,” he finished. “Oh, you,” I said, but when I asked him if he could throw together a few outfits for me and put it on my tab he gasped, asked me what kind of a man I took him for, and slammed the phone down.

  This put a damper on my mood so I decided to take a walk. It was chilly and the skies were prepared to drop a load of icing all over our faces, but a walk was what I needed. I walked along Lake Michigan for a time and before I knew it I was in Uptown at the hallowed door of Fisters. Of course I knew what drew me here. No matter how many days pass, no matter how many old acquaintances come back into my life, only one thing is truly on my mind, and that’s Ben.

  But, no matter how much I huffed and puffed and threatened to blow their whole house down, no one in Fisters would let me in. I asked through the door if they’d heard from Ben but I received nothing but silence. Just when I was walking out of
the alley, who should I bump into? No, not my old friend Arthur Fowler from Walford in London’s East End, but Dennis. Dennis! From work! From my old job! Good old Dennis!

  “Dennis! From my old job! Good old Dennis!” I exclaimed out loud when running into him at the mouth of Fisters’ alley. I grabbed his hand and shook it heartily.

  Snow began to fall at that very moment. Dennis was inappropriately dressed for the weather. He wore a long, tan raincoat and white tennis shoes, but seemingly nothing else. I attributed his poor choice of attire to his fidgety, nervous demeanor.

  “Off ta ye ol’ Fisters, are ya, matey?” I asked, aiming for levity for the sake of his nerves.

  “Fisters?”

  “Yes! Fisters!” I said, still shaking his hand, which was cold and damp. He removed his hand from my firm grasp by dislocating his thumb, I believe.

  “I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking… talking about…” Dennis said, shivering in the snow.

  “Fisters! The place where everybody knows your name and they’re always glad you… came! Ha! Oh, that’s clever what I just did there. I’m naughty sometimes. Just like you!”

  “Look, mister, I don’t know you, and I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dennis said, attempting to shuffle past me, but I stopped him by grabbing hold of his shoulders.

  “Dennis, it’s me. Me! Ian! From work!”

  “Uh…”

  “Look, no need to be embarrassed. I used to frequent the place, myself. You should know that. You saw me in there some months ago! We totally made eye contact. In fact, I thought that was the reason things got awkward between us at work. But, nah! That was probably just my imagination, right, Dennis?”

  “I, uh… I gotta go,” Dennis said, again trying to get past me and into the alleyway.