“Listening to everyone today, I’m starting to see friendship in a different light. I still don’t get it, but I have more to think about. Maybe the answer will make me a better man. Say, I saw that your refrigerator is empty. Would you like to go grab something to eat? Or, we could bring it in. It will make the scotch go down better.” Jimmy moved for the first time in minutes. He shook his head without speaking. Miles put down his glass, stood up and went for his coat. “I’ll go see what I can find. Maybe you’ll change your mind when I get back.”
It was six blocks before he found a place on the corner. He went to the counter and ordered a large take out pizza. He spent the twenty-minute wait talking on a pay phone in the corner. When he returned the apartment was completely dark, except for the low light from the kitchen. Jimmy remained slouched in his chair, clutching the unopened fifth of scotch. It didn’t look like he’d moved. McCabe switched on a floor lamp then removed his coat and placed the pizza box on the coffee table. He went into the kitchen and came back with plates and napkins. With a large slice in his hand, he returned to his seat on the couch.
“Now, where were we?” He took a bite, speaking as he chewed. “Friendship, yes. Maybe later. It occurred to me as I was walking back just now,” he swallowed. “I know more about you, but you probably don’t know very much about me.” From there, McCabe proceeded to tell Jimmy about his upbringing, his career and his first marriage. The one-way conversation lasted for an hour, interspersed with more slices of pizza and offers to pour a glass of scotch. McCabe filled his own glass with more Jack Daniels, but sipped slowly. Jimmy neither ate nor drank.
“She was the most beautiful woman you ever saw, my first wife. Not the same as Cindy’s beauty, but equal. Her heart was solid gold. She could stop me cold in mid-sentence with just a smile. As all lovers are, she was my confidant and my advisor. She understood my weaknesses and she helped me compensate, although she never quite got me to be more diplomatic. After she died I couldn’t let her go. It had always been the two of us. No children, she had physical problems.” He stopped briefly to swallow a final bite of pizza.
“You probably wonder why we didn’t adopt. That’s hard to answer. It occurred to us, but we never acted on it. I think I was her child as well as her husband. It never happened. The secret to our love was talk. We shared everything, no secrets, no long periods of silence harboring an imagined slight or grudge. If we had a problem, we talked it out. If I had a problem, she helped me solve it. If she had a problem, I listened until she decided what to do. In that relationship she was the boss, always two steps ahead of me. I learned early that any solutions I may have thought of, she’d already analyzed three ways to Sunday. Best leave her to help me with mine while she took care of her own.
“I talked to her even after she passed away. I knew she was with me or I hoped it was true. I drank heavily during that time, hearing her scolds. I tried to work through the pain with a succession of dead-end jobs. She helped me get through it. After all, with her gone, work was all I had left. First, I’d speak, and then I would hear her guidance in my mind. I would hear her voice and see her as she was before the cancer, radiant and cheerful. I suppose this is boring. You probably think I’m nuts. In retrospect, I probably was nuts. Losing someone that important instills a kind of craziness. The roots of your existence are torn out, half of you gone. The better half and nothing is the same. How about that drink? The pizza’s cold, but I can warm it up for you. What do you say?” Jimmy sat still. Two hours and he hadn’t moved.
“Obviously, I don’t need to describe Cindy to you. I will say that she changed everything for me. Blossom was good. It kept me busy. It was a fresh start and I was full of ideas. You were the key, although you were dealing with your own problems at the time. Just as well because I needed time to get my act together.
“With my first wife it was love at first sight. With Cindy it was different. Her beauty intimidated me, but if she knew, she never took advantage. During those first months, we worked closely together. I began to have feelings, but I didn’t acknowledge them, not even to myself. She was too young for me. I still think that and I worry for her. What happens if I get sick? I’ll be an old man in the blink of an eye and there she’ll be, a young, beautiful woman stuck with an old guy to take care of.” He stopped briefly, studying the glass in his hand.
“We started sharing dinners, working meals. Gradually, the conversations branched out and that’s when I felt the way my first wife made me feel. One night, I told her I was only going to be around long enough to get Blossom ready for sale. It was the way she reacted, like she didn’t want me to go. That’s when I realized I never wanted to leave. I went out on a limb to buy the label so I could be close to her.
“That’s where you come in. Without you and your songs, the Grammy Awards you won, I would have lost it all. I never would have been in a position to marry Cindy.” There was a gap in his monologue. He stopped staring at Jimmy and raised his eyes to the ceiling. Thirty seconds went by before he returned his gaze. Jimmy didn’t meet it.
“It’s always a woman. They’re kinder than men, softer, more perceptive, and wiser in the ways of the world. We need a woman in our lives to make sense of it all. Otherwise, it’s a useless waste.” He paused. “She’s pregnant.” Jimmy stirred. “You’re the first to know. We’ll call her sister with the news tomorrow.”
He took a sip, sat back and began again. “I’m ambivalent about having a child. Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking. How can anyone feel that way about having a baby? Here’s the thing, I just turned fifty-nine. I’ll be pushing eighty or pushing up daisies before the kid graduates from college. I’m guilty about all the things I won’t be able to do with my child, like playing ball and hiking or skiing. You know what else I’m guilty about? That I spent the first thirty-one years of my adulthood married to another woman and I never saw her with the kind of excitement and pure joy Cindy had on her face when she told me. I’ve had two magnificent woman in my life and one of them got short-changed.”
Another pause, this time longer as Miles shifted his eyes from Jimmy and appeared to lapse into deep thought.
“I know about Les.” Jimmy lifted his head for the first time. Their eyes met briefly. Then he lowered them again to the bottle in his hands. “I only met her twice, at the Grammy Awards and my wedding. She’s a lovely woman. Cindy mentioned a tragedy involving a child at the orphanage in Australia. She said Les disappeared after it happened. I take it you haven’t seen her.” He hoped for an answer, but Jimmy didn’t speak. Miles changed the subject.
“Nigel is doing well. I spoke to him yesterday. He leaves rehab in another week. He wants to return to Aireys Inlet to test his progress. If all goes well he said he’d be ready to come back to work in a month or two. I’m not so sure. There’s no hurry. A fresh start early next year might be better.”
The clock clicked past seven. Both men had been sitting for a long while. That Jimmy hadn’t taken a drink was not lost on McCabe, but he didn’t know what else to say. He left the couch and took the pizza box, plates and glasses into the kitchen. On his return he walked to the window and looked out at the city lights. He let his eyes drift from building to building and down to the streets where cars inched from block to block.
“I’ve been speaking with a friend of yours.” He turned from the window. “A fellow from Germany.” Jimmy raised his head, this time peering hard into McCabe’s eyes. “He called six weeks ago, looking for you. He said there was no answer here at your apartment, so he called the label, thinking we might tell him how to get in touch.” Jimmy looked away. “You were traveling around the country at the time. I mean I think that’s what you were doing. You never told anyone. Anyway, that’s what I said to him on that first call. I suggested he call back once a week until you returned then I’d put you in touch.
“He’s an interesting guy, rough around the edges, but a real pleasure with that sense of humor of his. Our last call went an hour. He had me laughin
g most of the time. I called the operator to make sure the charges were reversed, worth every penny.
“He wants to know if you’re okay. So far, I’ve been saying just fine. He’s savvy though. I think he sees through my lies. He’s aware of your success, but that’s not who he really cares about. A Kendall boy, that’s what he calls you. I don’t know what that means, but that’s the person he’s calling for. What should I tell him when he calls again?”
No answer.
“Earlier, I told you I was beginning to rethink my views about friendship. Listening to everyone today, Peggy, Cindy, Sonny and the others, one with no ties to the music business, the others working with you and me. It reminded me of what you did for Blossom Records and, of course, that means what you did for me. It started with the time Ellis was ready to leave after I said I couldn’t pay anyone for a few months, if ever. You held him back. Then, a little later, you came up with the money so I could release Yarra. Kate explained what you did for her at the Beacon Theatre. Nigel told me what you did in Australia, saved his life, he believes, Miami, too, although I don’t know exactly what happened. Felix says it’s better if I’m in the dark on the details.
“And, today with Peg. You should have seen the way she came into my office, looking for blood. She demanded that we come to her aid, help her help you. That’s a real friend. George is also a real friend. I can tell by the way he talks about you.
“So that’s the mystery. Peggy was outraged. Cindy was angry, too, at me, mostly. What is it about caring so much for someone that you become enraged when they’re hurting? What is this bond that prevents them from walking away? I know the frustration that comes from feeling helpless. I felt it as I watched my first wife waste away, but that was my wife. You’re supposed to feel that way when the love of your life is dying right before your eyes. But, a friend, that kind of commitment between people? How special it must be.” He turned away, searching for his coat on the couch. He reached out and picked it up. Then he stood and put the coat over his arm. He took a step toward Jimmy and looked down.
“Everyone wants to be liked, Jim. From the noblest to the most despicable, we all want to be liked by the people we meet. This need can get in the way of saying and doing the right things now and then. I’ve found that only the toughest among us can see the difference between stalling on principle in order to be liked and keeping this most basic human desire at arms length so right can prevail. In business I’ve always prided myself on being tough like that. Never more so than in the early months when I was trying to make something of Blossom. I was hard on you and even harder on some of the others I had to let go. Except for lawyers and Cindy I wasn’t liked by anyone. That’s why this is so hard. When I look at you, I realize I have never wanted to be anyone’s friend as much as I want to be your friend right now. In the next few months, if you do what I’m about to ask, there will be days when you will hate me and I truly don’t want that. Call it friendship, the things you have done for Blossom, traveling to Australia, doing that painful interview on that television show, finding Nigel and writing his first songs, fixing what was wrong with Rebellion and Weak Knees, lending me the money to get Yarra in the stores, giving Kate her confidence, giving my marriage your blessing, everything you have done for me. Yes, I get it now. I want to be your friend like you’ve been to me.” He stood still, waiting for Jimmy to acknowledge his presence.
“But, we both have to be tough. Something needs to be addressed and we both know what it is. After, Jim, after we face this problem, when you find your way again, then we’ll build our friendship. I promise you that with all my heart.” He reached down and gently took the bottle from Jimmy’s hands. “Please son, please come with me.”
***
Early in the morning, Illa positioned his Ute on the other side of B-100, opposite the dusty entrance to Nigel’s surf shop. Whitehurst was coming home. The decision was made. His ancestors granted his wish. Once more he had built a fire. Once more he had danced around the flames. This time it was not a dance of thankfulness. Now, he beat his breast and raised his arms in petition until he fell exhausted to the sand and slipped into a trance. Then the answer came, the answer that lifted the burden of generations from his shoulders.
As Nigel and Reina boarded a plane for Melbourne, the Singapore Subordinate Court sentenced Benson LaSalle and Chase Barone to be publicly caned, followed by twenty years in prison. Their American lawyers expressed disappointment and vowed to appeal. The Singapore attorney, hired to guide them through the city-state’s complex judicial system, breathed a sigh of relief. Hanging was the alternative both men had escaped.
Seventy
Both men influenced my life. I thought about them constantly as I wrestled with my conscience and all that had happened during the tour. I was restless on the farm, the recuperation all but complete, such as it could be with the fear of death always lurking. I decided to move to California and take up screen writing.
- Alice Limoges
Franco fingered the two items on his desk. One was a file, the other an inch thick booklet with the single word, LOCATIONS, printed on the cover. He opened the file first. Inside, were pages of notes, separated by date and tabbed, the sum total of Jim Buckman’s four-month stay at Daylight Center in Adams, Massachusetts. He read a few paragraphs, mostly to pass the time while he waited for Jim to arrive. He didn’t expect to learn anything new. After all, he’d written the words. He closed the file and took up the booklet. This was more important. A dozen more copies rested on a shelf behind his desk. Every patient received this booklet on the day of departure. It contained the address and telephone number of every Alcoholics Anonymous center in the world. That’s why it was so thick. There are many recovering alcoholics. Therefore, there are many AA centers. Inside, before the list of addresses began, three telephone numbers were printed in extra large type. These were the ways to reach Franco anywhere, anytime; his office, home and brand new car phone numbers. He set the files to one side and picked up the phone message from Peggy. He’d call her later, after Jim was on his way. He smiled when he thought of her.
The counselor and the farmer’s daughter went way back, Dartmouth, when he was in his third year of medical school and she was an undergrad studying economics. He had night duty at Hitchcock Medical Center. She came in with the flu. Sick as a dog, she still issued witty remarks and teased her novice examiner about his fumbling assessment.
“It’s the flu. Half the school has it. Just give me something so I can study.”
“You should have gotten a flu shot last fall. Now that you have it there’s no cure except rest and fluids.”
Later, he called her for a date. They went out a few times, but she wasn’t interested in romance. Not with him anyway. Some guy back home, a singer. She was fun though, eager to debate current issues and plenty capable of backing them up with facts. Franco was very smart. He found her repartee stimulating, a relief from the drudgery of books and the hospital even if it would never lead to anything more than friendship.
He went on to psychiatry. She kept in touch as women do. His practice thrived in Manhattan. Rich men and women flocked to his couch for a chance to divulge every detail of their lives. They forked over lots of money for needless reassurance and placebos. He took their money and became wealthy. Nice cars, a nice apartment and not a few fast women later, he began to prescribe drugs for his friends, and for himself. He got hooked. Then he got nabbed. He lost his license. Daylight Center cleaned him up. He called Peggy when he was released, spending a week at the farm until she sent him back to Adams.
“You may have lost your license, but you still have your skills. Who better to help others than someone who’s done the drill?”
The money wasn’t very good. Nor were the surroundings, wasted men and women struggling to tame a lifetime of self-destruction in a forgotten western Massachusetts Polish community, its heyday long past. Up the road was a nicer town with a collection of Williams College academics and well-heeled studen
ts. Franco attended the community theater, patronized the college library and sometimes dated an assistant professor named Agnes. It was a quiet life, far removed from what he expected, but occasionally rewarding.
Most of his patients failed. That was to be expected. The causes of addiction are as disparate as they are elusive, deep seeded insecurities, physical or emotional damage, guilt, bad genes, who could uncover the real cause? Franco tried, but he was a realist. Even if the cause could be identified, only the individual could overcome it. Success was not a singular cure. It was a lifetime of vigilant self-control that few could sustain.
This one was different. Jim Buckman, he fingered the file again, came with the apparent desire to change. He had powerful friends. Not the rich and famous kind that fawned with transparent concern, although the famous singer must have plenty of those. No, he counted real people among his supporters; Peggy, for one and the distinguished looking older man who brought him here in the early morning hours four months earlier. They called often, visited from time to time, and stayed far longer than other well-wishers. Friends like these could make the difference.
Jim put in the hours, too. He never missed a therapy session, spoke when it was his time and left nothing out. He accepted his responsibility. “My name is Jim. I’m an alcoholic.” Franco was suspicious at first. Plenty of the new ones put on a front, only to see it unmasked when the therapy began. The first two weeks were always trying. Years of artificial stimulation were hard to break. That’s why caffeine was permitted. Lots of coffee and nicotine, too, for those who needed it. No surprise there. Tobacco will kill you, but it takes longer. Fight one addiction at a time. So imbibe as much as you please, but only for the first two weeks. At the start of week three the weaning process began. Coffee was gradually reduced. Three cups a day, then two, then one and none. Cigarettes, cigars, pipes, they all had their weaning process as well. Exercise, therapy and time to think and heal came next. Fifty percent checked out by the end of week three. Another twenty-five after a month unless there by court order. Only ten percent finished the four-month program, ready to face the world, which meant facing themselves. Different, Franco mused. Yes, you could say Buckman was different. It surfaced in their private sessions. The singer was guilty about something, not so unusual, but not easy to identify, either.
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