AT 29

by D. P. Macbeth

  At an early age Franco became fascinated by the workings of the human brain. His father was a neurosurgeon who scoffed at any solution that did not involve a scalpel. Franco had his father’s intelligence, but not his steady hands. It never mattered because he had no desire to be a surgeon. His interest centered on the way the brain works. Why it is proportionately three times larger in humans than other mammals. Why it consumes twenty percent of the human body’s energy, more than any other organ. How it is that the frontal lobes are exceptionally large only in humans and, that these areas control the distinctive human capacities for self-control, reasoning and abstract thought. Most of all, he became interested in the mind, its extraordinary capacity to control everything man encounters from his internal world to the outer world in which he lives. Unlike the other organs, few biological diseases attack the brain. The human body’s spectacular defenses block all but a few, such as Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s, Multiple Sclerosis and a handful of others, all without a cure. Most brain damage is due to catastrophic blows to the head. But depression, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder and more are subtler. Are these caused by chemical deficiencies, protein anomalies or electrical impulses gone wild? If so, why do some people respond to conversational therapy while others need powerful drugs? And, the big question in Franco’s mind, why does hypnosis occasionally reveal such odd insights to the behaviors of individuals? That was his specialty, a private one since its legitimacy is suspect in the strict world of medicine.

  He rarely employed hypnosis with his one-time patients in Manhattan. It had its temporary uses for smoking cessation, relaxation and the like, but the autonomic suggestions wore off quickly. Now, as a counselor with no license to practice, he was forbidden to use it altogether. His only role was that of confidant and guide to the sorry souls who needed him. Occasionally, he broke the rules.

  The source of Jim Buckman’s addiction was guilt, of that Franco was almost certain. Hours of discussion ruled out every other likelihood. The man was psychologically healthy in the clinical sense. Depression was mild, no other psychological afflictions and no physical dependencies other than alcohol. And, expensive alcohol at that, he smiled, single malt. Monologues, interrupted by promptings, failed to uncover some trauma that might be the cause of Jim’s guilt. He had the typical challenges of childhood, but nothing so serious that it could be called life changing. Decent social skills, creative abilities, above average intelligence, neither timid nor overly aggressive, this was a normal adult able to handle his affairs and function in the world. He was guilty about something, that’s all it could be. Or was it rage?

  Jim agreed to hypnosis as a matter of trust. Neither man expected it to reveal new information. Franco merely hoped to temporarily assuage lingering emotions so that continued talk therapy might progress more rapidly. The autonomic suggestions proved successful and, over time, hypnosis was used more often, always in secret to protect Franco from repercussion. The unexpected babbling came after a dozen sessions, without prompting and accompanied by fits of laughter, singing and one appearance of terror, all murky and lacking in context. Franco took furious notes, but when Jimmy returned to consciousness neither man could make sense of the words. It remained mysterious to this very moment as the counselor waited to accompany his charge to the gate. A woman and child left behind by a man who could not return. That’s all Franco could decipher. Jim was skeptical of the counselor’s conclusion. Franco was skeptical as well. The knock brought him back.

  Jimmy came into the office. “I’m ready.”

  Franco rose and came around the desk with the list of AA centers. “Take this. I’ll help you with your bags.”

  “The list?”

  “Yes. Keep it with you wherever you go.”

  They carried his bags to the door and down the steps to the gate. A black Lincoln idled at the curb. Both men set the bags down and shook hands. Then Jimmy drew the counselor close and gave him a hug. “Thank-you for everything.”

  “Remember to attend the meetings. No matter where you are you’ll always be welcomed. If you need to talk call me anytime. My reach numbers are in the pamphlet.”

  Miles McCabe came forward and smiled at both of them. “I’ll put your things in the trunk.”

  Jimmy turned back to Franco. “I won’t let you down.”

  Franco put his finger to his lips. “Shssh. Don’t let Jim Buckman down.”

  He went back into the studios at Blossom Records with a new set of songs. He didn’t write them for himself. Of the fourteen creations, painstakingly constructed on the keys of Daylight Center’s console piano and late at night on the Gibson, six were meant for Nigel Whitehurst’s powerful lungs, three for Kate and five for Jimmy’s former band, now led by Sonny. The songs needed work. Nigel wasn’t due to return to Millburn for another month, Kate was still on tour, but Sonny was eager to get started. His debut album disappointed. McCabe quietly pulled it from the stores and brought the group back from touring to find a better sound. The executive still had faith in the guitarist. He was confident that Jimmy could find the right formula. And, since touring and performing were out, the best option was to focus Jim’s talent on helping others.

  His return was greeted with little fanfare. Everyone smiled and welcomed him back, but no one made much of his four-month absence. The fall of one of Blossom’s big three was common knowledge. It created a wall of courteous hellos and light conversation, but nothing deeper, nothing that might suggest judgment, doubt, pity or desire to know more. There was too much work to do, many new artists in the funnel.

  Each morning he joined Cindy in her office with a cup of coffee to discuss the plans for the day. She was five months along and showing the full bloom of her pregnancy. Her face glowed. She had gained a little weight, cheeks fuller, legs and arms a touch thicker, but the morning sickness was over and her color was back. Cindy Crane McCabe was as beautiful as ever.

  “We’ll run Sonny and the others through the tracks. We can finish the mixes after the band is satisfied.”

  Jimmy nodded. Cindy explored his face, looking for the man she once knew so well. He was the same in most ways, but quieter, more compliant than before. The songs were good, like the ones he wrote for Nigel in Australia, but with a harder edge, perfect for Sonny’s guitar. They left the office and headed for the studios. As they came out into the sunshine, she took his hand and leaned in close. “I like the songs, Jimmy. They’ll all be hits.”

  He attended meetings at an AA center five blocks from his apartment. Once he felt himself slipping and called Franco. They talked for two hours. Les entered his thoughts from time to time, but not like before. He no longer felt the weight of her loss. Abstinence, sleep, exercise and better eating habits, combined with a single-minded focus on music helped. He thought about calling her parents, but it had been more than half a year since his last call. Another unsatisfying conversation was not going to help. Better to forget.

  “Closure is hard to achieve.” Franco departed from his normal silence when he offered this opinion about Jimmy’s relationship with Les. “Some of my former colleagues have built their whole practice around it. All those self-help books spend chapters on closure. I have my doubts. People and situations come and go. That’s the way of life, fade in and fade out. Sometimes it’s abrupt, sometimes it’s gradual, but it happens to us all. The brain eventually finds a way to let go. Memories grow dimmer, the good remains in a kind fantasy that has little resemblance to reality. The bad is more often cast into the dustbin.”

  He finally contacted George. By then McCabe had communicated the truth of his relapse. The two older men were fast friends, yet to meet in person, but conversing by telephone on a regular basis.

  “Smart fella,” George commented. “Cares about you.”

  Three weeks of hard work in the studio produced the first signs of the new sound McCabe wanted. Sonny and the band were excited. Jimmy found satisfaction as well. He drew energy from his new songs and the way Sonny’s guitar brought them
to life. Ted was experimenting with the clarinet. It worked well. Melinda did much of the vocal work. That’s where the new sound emerged. She was the opposite of Kate, low with a pretty voice and a sense for the key changes that Jimmy developed just for her. C to F and then to G without a miss, blending with Sonny then drifting away as the hard electric sound of the Stratocaster took over. Nice, he thought to himself, very nice. A month or two of practice and they’d be ready to cut a better album. Take the best tracks from the original debut, add the five new songs and put out a new release. Cindy was already making the preparations.

  The summons to McCabe’s office came as he was preparing to arrange the first of the six songs he’d written for Nigel. It was the middle of the fourth week and Sonny had enough confidence to work the band on his own. Whitehurst was scheduled to arrive in a week. Jimmy assumed that McCabe wanted to talk about the new material. He stopped by early in the evening. McCabe still maintained his routine of staying late. Jimmy was in the habit of doing the same. Better than going back to the empty apartment. McCabe gestured to the sofa in his office then took a seat further down on the soft cushions.

  “How’s it going?” Jimmy gave the executive a quick synopsis of the band’s progress. McCabe listened, but appeared to be thinking about something else. “I just got off the phone with Nigel. He wants to postpone.”

  “He’s not coming?”

  McCabe sensed the confusion in Jimmy’s reaction. “I don’t think there’s a problem. He said he has some things to tidy up before he gets on a plane.”

  “When?”

  “Another week, maybe two. That depends on you.”

  “Me? What do I have to do with it?”

  McCabe shook his head. “Typical Nigel. I have no idea. He wants you to fly over for a meeting. Then the two of you will fly back here together and start working.”

  “He didn’t tell you what the meeting is about?”

  “No, and I didn’t ask. I’m more concerned with you at the moment. Taking a long trip, is that something you should be doing right now?”

  “The addiction is with me no matter where I am, Miles. A plane ride won’t make any difference.”

  “AA?”

  “There are centers all over the world. I won’t miss a meeting.”

  “So you’re willing to go?”

  “I’d like to know more.” He avoided mentioning Les. Maybe she was back in Melbourne. Would he try to find her? The longing crept in.

  “He wants you to call him.” McCabe got up and walked back to his desk. “There’s something else.” He opened a drawer and retrieved a white envelope. Then he returned to the couch and handed it to Jimmy. “I want you to have this.”

  Jimmy opened the envelope and immediately dropped his jaw when he found a check for six million dollars made out to him. “Miles…”

  “I’m not buying you out of your contract and it’s not a gift. You earned that money.”

  “How?”

  “While you were getting yourself straightened out I reviewed all the numbers since I arrived here at Blossom. I looked at the money I invested and did a calculation of how it has grown. I realized that I wasn’t the only one who put money in. It dawned on me that you also invested when you gave me the money to release Nigel’s album.”

  “You paid me back for Yarra. In fact, you gave me more than I originally lent to you.”

  McCabe waved him off. “Blossom’s video division is bringing in almost as much as the recording side. I put out a music video of that encore you, Nigel and Kate did in Melbourne. It’s been selling like hot cakes ever since MTV put it on the air. Three quarters of a million copies so far. Also, that last song you wrote, Number Twelve, on Yarra, it’s the best selling single we’ve ever released after Peg.”

  “Six million dollars? That’s hard to believe.”

  “I have other videos on the air and in the stores and a dozen more in the planning stages. MTV has been phenomenal for sales, but that’s not the point. This morning I fielded an offer of one hundred and fifty million if I was willing to sell. I’m not. That means my original investment of five million has grown by thirty times. Your fifty thousand to me for Yarra is worth one and a half mil.”

  “That’s still far less than this six million. Miles, its too much money.”

  McCabe leaned forward and cast his eyes toward the floor with his hands cupped between his knees. He seemed to gather his thoughts. Then he lifted his head and looked at Jimmy. “One hundred and fifty million is also far more than Blossom is worth. The offer has a catch. I’d have to sign a contract to stay on as president for five years. That’s where the perceived value comes from. The people behind the offer really want to buy me. They think I have a special talent and they’ve placed a dollar figure on it. Of course, they don’t know all the facts behind our success. No, I’ll never sell out. I’m having too much fun and I’ve come to realize that I have always needed to be my own boss. I’ve done some things, yes, but in my mind Blossom might have failed without you. As a friend I must tell you that in my humble, untrained opinion, you are the finest songwriter in the business. I’m giving you this money because I’m a businessman and business is all I know. It’s who I am. When I come upon a commodity, whether it’s tangible or something I can only feel and admire, such as you and your talent, I immediately attach a value to it. Almost always that value is in dollars. At our current rate of growth, and with the plans I have in the works, six million comes out as a fair valuation of your impact on Blossom’s success. Without you nothing I have accomplished to date and none of the plans I have for the future would have had a chance to succeed. I want you to accept this money for no other reason than that.

  ***

  “Are you on track, mate?” Nigel sounded strong and confident. Nothing like the last time Jimmy spoke to him a year earlier.

  “Doing fine. How about you?”

  “Splendid.”

  “You were supposed to be here in a couple of days.”

  “Like I told McCabe, we’ve got a few things to do then we can fly to the States together.”

  “What things and where do I fit in?”

  Nigel let out a booming laugh from the other side of the world. “Do you like secrets?”

  “No.”

  “But you’ll come?”

  Jimmy was pleased by the Australian’s relaxed, happy tone. If he was still fighting his demons, it didn’t come through over the telephone.

  “Why not fill me in?”

  “I can tell you this much. Come to Melbourne. Then we’ll head out to the Great Ocean Road. I want to show you some things.

  “What things? I’m still waiting for an answer.”

  “Think about that night on the rocks at Bells Beach.”

  The night hours can be long for an alcoholic, dark and lonely in that tempting way that beckons one to fill the void. Sleep, of course, that’s what serene people do, their minds and bodies unhampered by cravings so deeply felt that peace cannot be found. Others certainly have their fears, but the strong-minded can shut them away, enabling restless, semi-conscious if not perfect, slumber. Nowhere is the lengthy dark more perverse than on a lumbering behemoth droning through the black sky above the Pacific with a dozen hours to go.

  “First class,” McCabe insisted, “you’ll be comfortable and the food’s better.”

  Three hours out, the dinner service was over. Some of his fellow passengers still nursed a glass of wine or cup of coffee, but the flight attendants had already closed the window sliders. A movie started, but the glow barely penetrated the dark as the last of the aisle lights were dimmed. The cocoons began to form; a young woman adjusts a small light and curls her legs under her body with a paperback close to her eyes. An older man up front is already asleep, snoring mildly. Another man steps out of his seat to retrieve a blanket from the overhead bin then slips back and reclines the seatback. A lone flight attendant makes one final sweep down the aisle, peering closely at the waist of each passenger. She stops to
nudge a dozing businesswoman to fasten her seatbelt before continuing on. A moment later, she disappears behind a curtain to take her break.

  Jimmy slid the window curtain open just enough to look out at the night. In the distance he could see wisps of cirrus clouds. He pictured the endless waters far below, a massive ocean filled with mystery and creatures of the deep. Soon, the Hawaiian Islands would come and go, likely unseen, either too far north or missed in the failure to look down at the right moment. He slid the shade closed and settled back, pressing the button to drop his seatback a few notches. He closed his eyes in a useless effort to relax. He had little fear of flying, just the scotch. It called him.

  An hour later the craving passed. He dozed, letting his mind travel through time to the places he’d been, the things he’d experienced. So much had changed, but nothing gave him the tranquility he expected. What did Franco say? “Few people realize the dream. Those who do, expect to be transformed. They become disillusioned when they discover they’re still the same.” Franco was right. Jimmy reached his pinnacle that night on the CBS stage. Here he sat, almost two years later, the same person he was before the roller coaster took off. Sleep eventually came and with it she was there.