Meeting Max

by Richard Brumer

  Something was beginning to bother Rick. Even though Bill talked about Eric’s deep-seated anger, his love for Eric showed through. Still, Rick was uncomfortable with the flow of the conversation, and he couldn’t quite pinpoint why. Something was wrong.

  “Eric talked about you, Mr. Newman, and how difficult it was for you to find him. He told me that you asked him if he ever wondered about his beginnings. He knew he was adopted from an early age and told me he did think about his beginnings, but because his adoptive parents were so good to him, those thoughts didn’t consume him. I thought otherwise. He had to think of where he came from and who gave him life.”

  “He’s a complex person with many facets to his personality. Having you as his best friend says a lot about you as well.”

  “Mr. Newman, Eric told me about the long talk you had on the phone. Eric loved his adoptive father, but when he spoke to you, it made him feel that he was in touch with a part of himself he never knew.”

  “What’s this India thing, Bill? Why are you here? Why is he here?”

  “Well, we’re both here for some of the same reasons. What I was doing in the States was boring, and I needed a different setting. The money is better here too.”

  “Has the move helped?”

  “It has. I love India. When I walk down a street in Bombay, I feel an energy I never experienced before. Everything that surrounds me is a distraction and keeps me constantly in motion. I never had that feeling in the States.

  “Eric’s reasons for coming to India were a little different. He was running away from his life. His broken marriage plagued him because he still loved Sarah, but he was angry with her for not allowing him to spend enough time alone with Max. Also, there was a declining job market in the US for good sound engineers, and music groups were not willing to pay the high price for quality work.

  “I stayed in touch with Eric after I got here, but it wasn’t until six months ago that he asked if he could come and stay with me. I had heard there was good money for first-class audio engineers. I was thrilled at the idea.

  “There’s only one Eric: smart, adventurous, imaginative, caring, fun, and totally outrageous. Plus, no one knows more about music than he. I recommended Eric to the owners at Black Cat Audio because his work was beyond excellent. They checked his album credits and offered him a job, sight unseen.

  “I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but he changed his last name to Weber to hide his tracks. He needed to be far away from the things that were eating his insides out. His first name was spelled incorrectly, too, but I’m not sure who made that change.”

  “What did you do to keep your life going? It sounds like you didn’t plan ahead.”

  “Oh, but I did plan. I teach English at the Teacher’s Training School here in Bombay, and I play the clarinet for Indian bands at nightclubs in the evening to earn a few extra bucks.”

  Rick sat back, listening, totally mesmerized. Eric appeared to be a special person with eclectic tastes and a deep sense of what music was all about. His tragic flaw was his drug habit. Rick could almost understand the process of addiction, thinking of how alprazolam eased his pain and anxiety after losing Elena and how much easier it was to pop a pill than to confront his heartache.

  Bill continued talking about Eric, but said nothing about when Rick would meet him, increasing Rick’s discomfort.

  “When Eric arrived in India, he had tons of money saved from his jobs in the States. He paid for our Belgian ale, our pot, and even a trip to Kathmandu, where we hiked to the Mount Everest base camp and went for a plane ride around the summit. We trekked in other parts of Nepal, drank, smoked joints, and laughed. We had a great time. Eric turned me on to Belgian ales. When he handed me a La Chouffe eight percent, I loved it. Only Eric knew about the distinctive pleasures in life.”

  “Look, Bill, this is all very interesting, but I’m anxious to meet him. Could we get to that?”

  Bill sipped his drink. He hung his head and stared at his feet. He went on talking. “Eric was filled with anger in the States and he found peace in India, but it didn’t last. I’ve talked enough. I don’t think I can anymore.” Bill looked up, his eyes filled with anguish.

  Rick’s body tensed as a horrific thought crossed his mind.

  Something’s happened to Eric. An accident, perhaps.

  He pushed the thought out of his mind and refused to accept that possibility. “When do you expect Eric?”

  Bill excused himself without answering the question about Eric’s whereabouts. He opened two more beers and then sat down next to Rick.

  Why is he stalling?

  “Mr. Newman,” Bill ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Is Eric okay?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Newman.”

  “What?”

  Nothing could have prepared Rick for Bill’s next words.

  “I don’t know how else to say this,” Bill hesitated. “Eric is dead. He took his life, right here in this house, two days ago. I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh my God!” Rick was stunned. His eyes squeezed shut as pain tore through his body. His heart raced erratically. He sat with his head in his hands, sobbing.

  This isn’t happening. It’s not, it’s not!

  His emotions shut down. He closed his eyes again. Tears dripped along his cheeks. Rick felt Bill’s arms around his shoulders. They sat, their heads touching, crying together, Bill mourning the loss of a dead friend, and Rick, the son he would never meet.

  Bill went into the next room, brought out a picture of Eric, and handed it to him. Rick saw his own silly grin and Julie’s eyes staring back at him. He was a good combination of both of them.

  Rick sank into a chair, his head down as tears fell onto his knees.

  “And his body?” The words barely escaped Rick’s throat.

  “The coroner’s office released his body to Mr. Anderson. Eric was flown to Buffalo yesterday.” Bill’s voice cracked as he spoke.

  They said nothing for awhile, Rick sobbing. He asked Bill to be honest with him about how Eric died, to tell him if there was any possibility that the death was an accident.

  “Do you really want to hear the truth, or do you want me to soften it? Let’s save it for another time. I don’t think it matters how.”

  “It matters to me, Bill.”

  Bill heaved a deep sigh.“It was not an accident, Mr. Newman, but I don’t want to paint a morbid picture for you. It’s not necessary.”

  “Please tell me,” he begged.

  Bill paused, shook his head, and sighed deeply as tears filled his eyes. “After he took a lot of drugs and drank half a bottle of whiskey, he used a belt to hang himself from a door.”

  ***

  Rajit took Rick back to Bahula’s homestay. As he sat next to Rajit in the car, he envisioned Eric hanging on a door with a belt around his neck. He tried to push the picture out of his mind, but he couldn’t. He tormented himself with that vision and knew that sleep would be impossible.

  The pain Eric must have felt invaded Rick’s mind, a pain so great that it was unbearable. Eric’s death was a deliberate action, but how could he do this to his friends and all the people who loved him? How could he do it to Max, his son, whom he loved with all his heart?

  The ones left behind were the ones who felt Eric’s pain. Now his pain was theirs. Rick drank the cognac that Bahula had placed in his room and fell into a deep sleep.

  He awoke four hours later, drained. Rick wanted to know everything about Eric, meet more of his friends, sit and talk with them, and listen to stories about Eric’s life. It would be the closest he could ever get to him now. He promised Julie he would find him. Julie was gone, and now, so was Eric. Maybe they were together at last.

  I waited too long. I missed him by two days. Maybe I could have saved him.

  He called Cheryl Sanders and told her about Eric. She was shocked and tried her best to console him. She encouraged him to meet Maxwell, his grandson, the only one left who carried his bloodline.
<
br />   I have to meet Max. I’m his grandfather.

  Rick needed time to himself, away from thoughts about terrorism, death, and his sorrow. He wanted a diversion from his pain. He decided to leave Bombay and be out in nature, alone with his thoughts. When he returned, he would join Bill and talk some more. Bill agreed that it was a good choice and offered to call Eric’s friends and ask them to contact Rick. He gave Bill his e-mail address and told him he would check it every few days from a cybercafé.

  Rick remembered Elena telling him about places she’d visited before they had met. Magical names like Goa, Colva, Kerala, and Munnar sprang to his mind. He wanted to walk in Elena’s footsteps before he left India.

  With determination, and his heart heavy with sorrow, he prepared for his trip, knowing Elena and Eric would be by his side in spirit. That thought comforted him.

  Chapter 24

  Rick waited in line at the train station near the Fort area of South Bombay to get tickets for the overnight train to Margao. From there, it would be a short auto rickshaw ride to Colva, a beach town in Goa.

  The line was long. It moved slowly, which allowed his mind to wander. His heart told him to get three tickets, one for himself and the others for Eric and Elena, so they could walk the beach at Colva together and leave their footprints in the cool, wet sand at the edge of the water.

  Colva had a narrow paved road that ran through the town a short distance from the Arabian Sea. On each side were restaurants, cafes, and shops that sold beachwear. Some stores sold expensive clothing and jewelry. It was a picturesque beach town, similar to coastal towns that could be found in other parts of the world.

  Most of the people in Colva, except for those who lived and worked there, were on holiday. Rick heard the laughter and joy of the tourists, then thought of Elena as he looked at the jewelry and fashion shops, knowing she had looked at them too.

  He walked to a stretch of beach, past the swaying palms, strolling musicians, and food stalls. The sea breeze carried the scent of the delicious food sold by the beach vendors, which hung in the air like perfume for his soul. There was nothing that would bring a meal alive like Indian spices.

  He stopped at a vendor for his favorite, a hot and crispy vegetable samosa, then spied a liquor store, where he bought a bottle of gin.

  Rick found a beach house where he could rest his weary bones. It was painted yellow with white trim, and it sat neatly on a small hill overlooking the Arabian Sea. He settled into his room and closed his eyes. He had a headache and his vision was blurred. He gulped a few jiggers of Bombay gin, which brought him to a dream state and an easy escape from his pain.

  Even in this alcohol-induced state, his feelings pulled at him. He wanted all the people he loved to be with him, surrounded by the beauty of this quaint seaside town.

  Old friends came to mind from childhood. Each flashed by in an instant, swirling in his mind. Childhood friends, their names just memories, such as Norman, Danny, Lisa, Marvin, and Peter. Their smiling faces flashed through his mind one after the other.

  He reminisced about Elena and thought of them laughing together as they sat next to each other on the plane. He sighed and saw her again in agony surrounded by flames, feeling the agonizing pain of a bullet in her back. His heart ached as he went through the scenarios of how he could have saved her. He didn’t think of the possibilities then, and now she was dead. He sighed again and then pictured Eric with a belt around his neck.

  If I had been with him, I could have saved him. If I only knew.

  ***

  He awoke hours later, still groggy, his eyelids half closed. He walked down a well-worn narrow path that led to the beach. It was late afternoon, almost dark. Strips of dark blue clouds sat under the setting sun. He passed the food stands and the musicians who played the catchy exotic music of India. It added levity to the beach scene and enraptured tourists, who took pictures of them.

  After walking for a long time, he stopped at a food stand where an elderly woman was cooking. The air around her was filled with the tempting aroma of spicy Goan fish curry. He couldn’t resist. The curry gently streamed its spices into his mouth and he carried away the taste of coriander and turmeric.

  Parasailors filled the sky with colorful parachutes, zigzagging their way until they landed on the beach, their blazing colors subdued by twilight as the sun sank into the sea, leaving only the golden glow of sunset sweeping across the sky.

  Night fell. The evening stars peeked out of the sky. People on the beach slowly disappeared until he was alone in the night.

  A few moments later, the sky was filled with brilliant twinkling stars, brighter than he had ever seen, and the sea was lit with a glistening pathway from the beach to the full yellow moon that hung on the horizon.

  Rick stood and looked at the sky, hypnotized. Soon, he noticed another light, a different kind of light. It was quite a distance from where he stood and appeared to be a small circle of white light. At first, it seemed stationary. Then it moved. It became brighter as it came his way.

  He guessed it was a lantern of sorts because the light was shimmering and swinging in an arc as it got closer. The bright white dot became larger and more noticeable as it wobbled its way toward him.

  He stared at it, spellbound. He saw no one carrying it. It was just the bright white light of a lantern swinging its way across the beach in the darkness. The brashness of its white light changed to a soft, yellow glow that matched the color of the moon, which was sitting low on the sea.

  Before he knew it, the shimmering yellow lantern was upon him. He looked at the face of a frail, elderly Indian man dressed in a white dhoti with black trim and a red stain running down from his chest. The man held the lantern in one hand and an irregularly shaped wooden walking stick in the other.

  He looked up at Rick with red-rimmed, tired eyes.

  It’s Gandhi!

  “Come, come walk with me,” he said. “We will talk.”

  Gandhi guided him along the yellow pathway of moonlight on the Arabian Sea, toward the full moon. Rick was silent.

  “I am glad our paths have crossed,” Gandhi said.

  “Yes, of course. It is a pleasure for me to be with such a great man.”

  “I am an ordinary man. It is good to see someone else on this beach. I thought I was alone and now it is my good fortune to find you. I feel your sadness. Why is it?”

  “I am in pain. I lost the woman I love. She was killed in a terrorist attack in Jaisalmer, and I recently lost my son, who took his life.”

  “Bhagwaan, my dear God. Please, I am so sorry.”

  The lantern floated away. He put his arms around Rick and held him close in the darkness. Rick felt the man’s bones against him. He was as frail as a bird.

  “I am terribly sorry for your loss, but where there was love, there is life,” Gandhi whispered. “Keep those you love inside you and their lives will go on.”

  “They are always with me, Mr. Gandhi, and always will be.”

  “It is sad. The only way love punishes the living is by giving them suffering. I am sorry for your woman and your son.

  “I object to violence. Even when it appears to do good, the good is only temporary. The evil it does is permanent, and as a result, your pain will be everlasting. Killing anything that is alive is wrong. First, tell me about your woman.”

  “Her name was Elena. The deep love we shared is now gone and what you said is true. I am being punished through suffering. I hope that I meet her and Eric somewhere in eternity, but, for now, only the pain I feel for them is very much with me. Thank you for being here. I needed you. What do I call you, Mahatma?”

  “Some call me Bapu and others Mohandas. Either is all right, and your name is Rick?”

  “Yes, how did you…”

  “Rick, you were fortunate to be in love with a woman and share your lives for the time you had. Love is God’s gift, and it is the law of love that rules humankind. Had violence and hate ruled us, we would have become extinct long ago
. Love brings humans together in a good way, and it is what all of us need. Did you plan to be married?”

  “Yes, Bapu. We wanted to be together forever.”

  “A love marriage is the best kind, but arranged marriages, as we have in India, are good too. I was only eight when my bride was chosen for me, and we were married when we were thirteen. There was nothing I knew about sleeping in the same bed with a girl, and I became a father when I was sixteen.”

  “I’m not sure it is good to be married so young. It is a nice night, Bapu. I have never seen the moon so beautiful, so full and yellow, like a gold coin.”

  “The glimmering path on the sea that leads to the moon is a road we can take together, my son.”

  “Yes, I believe that tonight we can do anything. Life has never been more magical for me. I know you are a man of deep conviction, Bapu. The world knows your politics and efforts. But I think people know you best as a spiritual person, and certainly as a religious leader. I don’t know if I believe in Him.”

  “It is not a matter of believing, but a matter of knowing Him. For me, I just know. My belief is to always search for the truth, and for me, the truth is God. He is the indefinable mysterious power that pervades everything. I feel it, though I do not see it. It is this unseen power that makes itself felt, and yet, defies all proof, because it is so unlike all that I perceive through my senses. It transcends the senses.”

  “Bapu, it makes me uncomfortable to say this to a man of God, but I am an atheist, and that is my truth. Am I wrong to think that?”

  “You are never wrong to know what is true for you, but it amazes me sometimes when an intelligent person tries to prove something that does not exist. It is not a matter of proof. It is a matter of knowing.