The Debt

by Tyler King

  “Just a minute, lady. I can claim many vices and personality disorders. Take your pick. I’ll own it. But narcissism isn’t one of them.”

  “With few exceptions, you tick off every characteristic on the list,” she informed me with an even tone. “Excessive preoccupation with control, personal adequacy, prestige…” She paused, looking me over. “Shall I go on?”

  “You’re on a roll. Don’t stop now. I love hearing about myself.”

  “Within the general population, you believe you’re better than others, fantasize about power, refer to your past achievements with conceited hyperbole, and expect constant praise and admiration from others. If you don’t get it—for instance, not being publicly recognized at the seminar—you rationalize away the expectation and then resent the perceived adoration.

  “You state that you have no fear of consequences, which was brought on by a lack of adequate punishment for infractions during your childhood. You miss the emotional cues of others—Hadley most of all—in favor of your own misguided notions. You take advantage of the tolerance of others. You’re jealous and assume you are highly envied, have fragile self-esteem, and when you’re not assaulting or physically attacking another person, you default to a state of unemotional stubbornness.”

  “That was a mouthful. Feel better?”

  “No,” she huffed. “Because it isn’t real, and you know that. You really are too smart for your own good. So smart you’ve conned yourself into believing the lie.”

  “Which is what, exactly?”

  “That for all your ill-conceived endeavors to rectify or normalize your behavior, you are still essentially a victim. You’re terrified, Josh. You are more the scared five-year-old boy curled up on a dirty mattress, discarded and crying, than a grown man and a survivor.”

  My fists clenched and my jaw locked. It took great concentration to keep my knee from bouncing.

  “Name one fear you’ve overcome in the last eighteen years.”

  “Sex,” I hissed through my teeth. “Rabbits fuck like me.”

  “And you can’t ejaculate without curling into a ball and regressing to that same little boy.”

  She revealed no pride in pulling the trigger on that well-aimed shot. Instead, she resembled an owner putting down a dying, pathetic animal. I stared at her in silence. As if every second I didn’t tell her to fuck off and then slam the door behind me proved her wrong.

  “I dress the way I do,” she added, “because we’re here to discuss your sexuality, not mine. You’re obsessed with the topic. With good cause. What you endured was abuse, Josh. Not sex. Subjugation. But what if you could change the way you think about your trauma? Let’s work toward that goal.”

  It all came back to fear.

  My natural instinct when confronted with fear was to demonstrate power, to exert control over the situation. Depending on the circumstances, control manifested as manipulation, retribution, the need to inflict harm—physically if possible.

  “You wouldn’t hit a woman, right?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Why?”

  That struck me as an unusual question. The answer was obvious, though she wanted something else. I didn’t understand what.

  “Proper manners aside,” she continued, “why not hit a woman who has threatened you or someone you want to protect? You’ve struck men for less.”

  “Because…” I was stuck. I didn’t have a good answer.

  “Would you hit a child or an elderly person?”

  “No.”

  “What do they have in common in your mind?”

  I rubbed my hand through my hair and slumped sideways on the sofa, exhausted. “You don’t pick on someone smaller, weaker.”

  “So you view women as weaker.”

  “No,” I groaned. “Don’t make me a chauvinist.”

  “Not at all. But consider that for a moment.”

  I did. Closing my eyes and laying my arm over my forehead, I went round and round in search of the response Reid intended me to offer.

  “I was the only one. I don’t know if that’s in the notes. Other kids came and went from that foster home. Including Hadley, there were three or four others at any given time. But I was the only one—at least I’m pretty sure—that he abused while I was there. I was also the smallest. It wasn’t until I was thirteen that I started to grow into my body, you know? All this”—I gestured over myself—“happened all at once. One day I woke up six inches taller than everyone else. Until Hadley got there, I was also the youngest.”

  “Go on.”

  Sliding back farther on the sofa, I exhaled and took a minute to gather my thoughts in some kind of logical order.

  “He picked on the runt. And what could I do, right? I had no choice but to take it. And I hate the word helpless. So one day I wake up and I’m not so helpless anymore. I got in a lot of fights when I was a kid. Sure, I had anger issues. Have anger issues,” I corrected, “but that wasn’t the only reason. I picked some of those fights. I started a few. I was the bully. Because I could. Because one great fucking day I woke up and realized I was bigger and stronger than the other guys my age and I didn’t have to take shit.”

  “You ran from Gregor the first time he touched you,” Reid said.

  My eyes still closed and my cast resting over my face, I nodded. “I was still a kid back then and he was an adult. Not so much the second time around.”

  I opened my eyes and dropped my arm to the side. It was at that point I realized I’d gone horizontal on the sofa.

  “Breaking his jaw wasn’t impulsive or an act of sudden rage. I told myself a long time ago I’d make that bastard pay if I ever saw him again. I was just making good on a promise.”

  Reid closed the cover on the iPad and set it aside. “I neither approve of nor condemn your actions. That’s irrelevant. What’s important to discern is if you understand where the motivation for violence in these situations originated. Logically, you do. You also understand the difference between rage and reasoning.”

  “I’ve got a headache and I haven’t slept for shit,” I groaned. “Give it to me straight.”

  “You don’t have an anger-management problem, Josh. Neither are you prone to excessive violence as your sole means of conflict resolution. You know what is considered acceptable behavior but do not temper yourself when there are no consequences. There are specific circumstances under which you feel frightened, threatened, or motivated to protect. When you are afraid or perceive a threat, you get angry; that is not unnatural. Rather than treating the symptom, you would be better served by working to eliminate the fear while also retraining your brain to mediate your anger response. Medication can help.”

  “Right,” I exhaled. “I’m just a big pussy.”

  “So,” she continued, “as far as I’m concerned, you can walk out that door a free man. I’ll write up my evaluation and recommended that your enrollment continue.”

  I sat up, wary. “That’s it?”

  “Not nearly. Unless I told the disciplinary board that you were likely to come back with an assault rifle and five hundred rounds of ammo, you were never in real danger of expulsion. You know that. We’re all going through the motions here.”

  “So what now?”

  “Keep our appointments. Come back for our next session and let’s really go to work. Commit to meaningful therapy and digging into the topics we’ve skimmed so far. Do it for yourself and not because anyone is forcing you.”

  I placed my elbows on my knees, studying Reid as she swiveled back and forth in her chair by the tip of her shoe, just a couple inches to each side. She was too damn excited by the prospect.

  “And why do you care either way?”

  Reid smirked and then let out a heavy breath. The pretense came down. Like this whole time—weeks now—I’d only met a character she played on TV. A persona she put on just for me.

  “I like you. You’re fascinating. And I want to help you. More than that, I know I can help if you’re willin
g to work at it.” Her back-and-forth swiveling became more animated, teasing and excited. “What’s your answer?”

  “Well, if I’m so fucking fascinating…” I stood and gathered my stuff.

  Reid raised an eyebrow.

  “See you next week.”

  Chapter 26

  Thursday evening I stayed late on campus while Hadley went out to dinner with Asha and Trey. When I’d asked my Jazz Composition instructor what it would take to win some time in the music department’s recording studio, I thought it was a major favor. Instead, he said he’d sit at the console and give me a few hours.

  “Come on in and I’ll play it back,” Professor Monroe said through the intercom.

  I set my acoustic guitar in the stand. In the control room, I took a seat on the couch.

  Charles Monroe was a legit jazz and blues authority and underappreciated legend. Though he wasn’t a household name outside the scene, the sixty-year-old had played with or mentored some of the greatest contributors to the genre since Art Tatum and Benny Goodman were at their peaks. Basically, the man was a certified badass and a seriously wicked musician.

  He leaned back in the rolling leather chair behind the vintage Neve recording console. Together we listened to the recorded playback of the tracks I’d just laid down. Monroe wore about six different varieties of the same plaid shirt with dress pants and leather loafers. Every day. He was a little guy, too. About five foot three and maybe a hundred pounds dipped in solid gold.

  When Monroe laughed, which he did often, the sound was harmonic and infectious. His cheeks crinkled up so high his black eyes were nothing more than tiny slits below thick eyebrows. In class, I always preferred to picture him behind a piano with a blue spotlight sparking off the lacquer top and a lit cigarette resting in an ashtray beside a shot of bourbon.

  He swiveled in his chair to face me with a hard look. I fidgeted, flicking my tongue piercing between my teeth. One look and I was a nervous fuck.

  “Why are you bringing that weak shit to my class when you can write music like this?” he asked with not an ounce of humor.

  I was at a loss. In fact, I just stared at him like a deaf moron until he spoke again.

  “That”—he pointed toward the recording stage on the other side of the window—“is some serious passion, man. That is music. I’m sitting in here getting chills and thinking about girls I kissed in tenth grade and thirty years ago when my pop died. Where does that come from and why ain’t you bringing it with you every time I see you?”

  “I...” No, that was much better. A full syllable that time. Frustrated with myself, I ran a hand through my hair. “I’ve been stuck.”

  Monroe rolled his chair toward me and leaned forward on his elbows. “It ain’t stuck, son. What you laid down in there is all heart and hate and deep soul-searching questions that only have answers in the notes. That sterile bullshit you shill in class is—”

  “Bullshit,” I stated for him. “Yeah. I know.”

  “So?”

  I leaned back, stretching my legs. “I am stuck. I haven’t written anything halfway decent in weeks. But this stuff is old.”

  “Written for the piano.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It shows.” Monroe relaxed back in his seat and crossed one ankle over his knee. “But that’s how damn good it is. Because those songs still rumble your gut on six strings. What changed?”

  I looked up, debating whether to answer the loaded question. Ordinarily, I would have dismissed the topic and shut down. Telling Monroe to fuck off would have made me an ungrateful prick.

  “My mom died,” I said. “She taught me to play. And some other bad shit happened around the same time. It was a rough period.”

  “So you quit?” His brow furrowed and Monroe looked at me like I’d told him I’d cut off my own nose to appease the Lord of Daffodils that resided in my anus.

  “Well, uh, yeah.” My knee bounced. I forced it still with my broken hand and went about tonguing my lip ring instead. “She died on the bench while we were playing together.”

  He exhaled, shaking his head. “That is rough. I get ya. And grief like that is the best damn reason to keep writing, keep playing. Man, we all got shit. I grew up in the South in the fifties,” he told me. “You don’t think I got sadness? The world is fucked. Life’s a bitch. And music makes it worth repeating every day. Damn, Josh. The best music is written from sorrow. If you don’t know that,” he said while shaking his head again, “I ain’t taught you nothin’.”

  “It’s this.” I held out my left hand. The right was no different except it was wrapped in a cast. Suspended in midair, my hand vibrated. “Thinking about my mom, thinking about playing, remembering how she died, this is what happens.”

  Monroe watched me shake with a critical eye until I dropped my arm in my lap, defeated. I wasn’t a musician if I couldn’t control my hands.

  Following a long silence, he spoke again. “Rusty Grabe said he couldn’t play sober. He had stage fright so bad he tossed up in a mop bucket until he passed out before his first set at The Cooler. The man threw fists and would have bit your ear off rather than get dragged onstage without three shots of whiskey. So, one day, the boys and I mixed up some nasty shit. It was black as tar, tasted like charred pig turds, and shoved it down his throat.” He laughed, making me smile despite myself. “He got up there and killed.

  “And Joey Connor developed Parkinson’s. Shook like a leaf from head to toe. So he comes to me after fifteen years and says he can’t play live anymore. He can cut records, the engineer can always piece together the good takes, but Joey was too embarrassed to get up in front of a crowd. Well, I told that sumbitch that we’d put his piano on springs and get some big fellas to shimmy the floor underneath him. That way the whole thing balances out.”

  Monroe turned around and faced the console. “Come by my office after two tomorrow. I’ll have this ready for you.”

  * * *

  I missed my father the most when he was home. That logic was all backward, yes. I rarely thought about it during the months we spent talking on the phone. When he came to visit, it was then that I recalled how good it was to have him around. I missed the gleam of fatherly pride in his eyes. The way he hugged me as if every time I let him touch me was a gift. The sincere tone of his voice when he said he loved me. Every time he got on a plane to return to New York, I almost went with him.

  My fingers pressed to the frets and my cast-wrapped hand strummed across the strings. I played the same incomplete, disjointed bars of the song that had consumed me for weeks. The chord echoed off the cement wall of the garage, mocking me.

  I felt Simon standing behind me in the doorway.

  “You can come in,” I said. “I’m just messing around.” I set the acoustic guitar aside and cleared off a chair for my dad. It was well past midnight. I’d left Hadley asleep in her bed upstairs an hour ago.

  “Actually,” he said as I turned to face him, “I was hoping my son would have a drink with me.” My dad smiled, leaning against the doorway. “Perhaps a cigar.”

  “Doctor,” I said, “I’m surprised at you.”

  “Little vices, Josh. They’re good for the soul.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me.”

  With a bottle of brandy and two cigars, we retired to the back patio. The air was crisp, a slight breeze carrying the fragrant smoke away. We reclined in the matching Adirondack chairs.

  “That one is new,” he said. Simon nodded at the tattoo over my ribs.

  “Yeah. Got it a few weeks ago. What do you think?” I raised my arm, leaning forward so he could examine the image in the glow cast by the security lights.

  “It’s…creative.”

  I laughed, resting back in the chair. “I figured as much.”

  “Hadley drew it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Any new holes I should be aware of?” The corner of his mouth turned up in that way he had, trying not to appear too amused with his eccentr
ic son.

  “Nope. All accounted for since your last visit.”

  Telling my father about piercing my cock had been the most awkward part of the entire episode. I must have asked him a dozen times over the ensuing months if it would ever fully heal. I blew a ring of smoke, watching the circle of opaque particles widen and dissipate as it traveled. The brandy burned my tongue and warmed my throat, the perfect complement.

  “Hadley seems well,” Simon said. “She’s happy.”

  “She’s glad you’re home. It’s been a tough week. Some days are better than others.”

  “I might have noticed a few new dents in the walls.”

  “There’s that. But she’s trying really hard. She’ll get there.”

  “And you?”

  “I believe in her. I know she can beat this thing. I’m just working to keep it together, you know? Be supportive.”

  “I have no doubts on either count.”

  That right there was perhaps the most significant of all the many reasons I loved my father; he had an unwavering faith in me, even if I didn’t believe I deserved it. That sort of faith has a way of influencing a person. A man as good and honorable as Simon inspired me to be a better person, if only because letting him down was such an unappealing prospect.

  “I’m happy you’ve agreed to therapy.”

  “Let’s not make a thing of it,” I said. “It was a reasonable course of action, considering the circumstances.”

  “You made the right decision.” Simon puffed on his cigar, closing his eyes as his head tilted back. “I miss it here the most when I return.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  We sat in comfortable silence until our cigars were only stubs between our fingers and our glasses held more air than liquid. My headache, which had been a constant annoyance lately, dissipated with the tension in my shoulders. I felt relaxed for the first time in a while. Enjoying my father’s company, appreciating the serenity of our remote property, was just what I needed.

  “Is this a private party?” I looked over my shoulder to see Hadley stepping out to the patio in those damn little shorts and my sweatshirt. Bless that girl. “Menfolk doing men things and all that.”