Panacea
Page 9
“What? I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to understand son. The Army doesn’t need you. Best of luck.”
The Sergeant picked up his box of materials and quickly paced across the gymnasium. The Hen Pecker chased after him, but he ignored her completely and disappeared through the exit doors. Jimmy stood dumbfounded, his mouth agape.
“Mister Porter! What happened?” yelped Hen Pecker as she scampered over to Jimmy.
“I – I don’t know.”
“Well? What did Sergeant Austen say?” she asked impatiently, fists on hips, her nose jabbing at him with each syllable.
“He said the Army didn’t need me,” Jimmy said quietly. “Then he just packed up and walked out.”
“Sergeant Austen has been attending my Career Day every year for the past ten years, Mister Porter. And I can assure you he would never just up and leave like that. You must have said or done something! You tell me this instant what you did to run him off!” Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared in anger. The gym quieted as onlookers began to take notice.
“I didn’t do anything.”
She huffed and stepped closer, her hard, beady eyes glaring at him over the top of her glasses. “You’re such a disappointment,” she said. “This was your one chance to make something of yourself. But you’re going to end up just like your father.”
The words hit like a ton of bricks. The wounds from his father’s abandonment lay just beneath the surface, and it didn’t take much digging to uncover them. His eyes welled up, his throat became dry, and his ears turned a deep shade of red.
“Miss Monaghan?” said Jimmy, fists clenched and voice shaking. “You’re how old? In your forties I would guess? And still single.” Jimmy nodded to her ringless finger. “Go screw yourself. Nobody else wants to.”
Hen Pecker and the entire gymnasium gasped. Jimmy bolted for the exit, with Hen Pecker’s words still ringing in his head. He had to get outside, away from her and the hundreds of piercing eyes now absorbing the whole ordeal. Jimmy furiously thrust his full weight into the door, which collided with something heavy on the other side. He stumbled into the corridor to find an old man sprawled out on his side, the unfortunate victim of Jimmy’s rage. Jimmy reached out a hand, his voice trembling.
“SSSorry, I…I didn’t see you there.”
“An old man like me should take more care not to root himself in front of oncoming traffic. No need to apologize, I assure you.” The man sat up and grabbed his fedora, straightening his white hair with his fingers before putting it on. Despite his years, the man was surprisingly agile. He sprang to his feet with ease.
“Besides, I’m no worse for the wear.” His finely trimmed mustache curled eloquently around his smiling lips. He straightened his tie and brushed off his suit jacket, extending his hand to Jimmy.
“Jimmy Porter! Get back here!” Hen Pecker’s jarring voice came from the other side of the door.
The elegant old man turned his head towards the door, exposing a milky-white left eye. Jimmy was taken aback; the repugnant eye in juxtaposition to the man’s elegance. Beautiful, yet ugly at the same time. Beautifully ugly.
Hen Pecker crashed through the door just as Jimmy had done, her face boiling crimson with anger. She gave the man a quick double take before settling her attention on Jimmy. “Just wait until Principal Rollins hears of this,” she said, her head bobbing more intensely than ever before. “You will be expelled!”
Jimmy stared blankly at the Hen Pecker for a moment and then turned to the old man. “Are you sure you’re alright sir?”
The man was seemingly oblivious to Hen Pecker’s presence. He stood entranced, searching each inch of Jimmy’s face with his one good eye.
“I am absolutely fine, Jimmy,” he said in almost a whisper. “Right as rain as they say.”
The man’s smile deepened the vast network of wrinkles that lined his forehead.
“Okay. Well, I’d better go then,” said Jimmy, slightly uncomfortable with the way the man was staring at him.
“Yes you’d better,” he said, still smiling sheepishly. Jimmy turned and marched towards the exit.
“Oh, and Mister Porter?”
“Yeah?” said Jimmy.
“I see a bright future in store for you. One day you will realize that your experiences will define you. They will mold you into who you are to become,” he said, taking a step closer. “And the trials and tribulations that seem so significant today will one day become inconsequential.”
Jimmy stared back, puzzled.
“Mister Porter – What I’m trying to say is - what’s past is prologue.”
Jimmy backed out of the door, watching the old man stare back at him. He took the long walk home, quickly putting the strange conversation out of his mind. On the walk, he prepared his story; rehearsing how he would tell his mother his side of the Hen Pecker Incident. She would in all likelihood be receiving the call from Principal Rollins at any moment, notifying her of her son’s expulsion. Jimmy sat on the sofa awaiting his mother’s return home from work. He imagined her angrily storming through the door, demanding an explanation for the phone call she had received from Principal Rollins. Cooper took full advantage of the opportunity; even skipped his favorite after school TV show just to torment his brother while they waited.
“Heard what happened at school today,” said Cooper upon returning home, tossing his backpack to the floor. “Your ass is grass when Mom finds out.”
“Shut up, douchebag.”
Cooper grabbed an apple, a mischievous grin on his face as he took a huge bite. “You have a potty mouth, James. Think Mom will wash your mouth out with soap like she did that time you called her a lesbian?”
“I was ten, dipshit,” said Jimmy. “And I didn’t know what ‘lesbian’ meant.”
“Yeah, well I guess you found out, didn’t ya?” laughed Cooper.
Jimmy tried to suppress a grin but couldn’t. He grabbed Cooper by the neck and put him in a headlock. Just then, the back door creaked open. The boys released their grips on each other and jumped to attention.
“Mom’s home,” whispered Cooper. “Ass grass time for Jimbo.”
To the boys’ great surprise and to Cooper’s great disappointment, their mother was whistling when she walked through the door. In fact, she chirped like a songbird.
“Well hello my two wonderful, handsome sons!” she said.
“What the hell has gotten into you?” asked Cooper.
“Cooper Porter! Watch your language!” she said. “I swear, that mouth of yours…why can’t you be a fountain and not a drain?”
Cooper rolled his eyes. Emma frowned and made a motion dismissing him. Her face brightened as she prepared to deliver her good news.
“I had a great day at work.” She paused and looked at each of her boys. “Well? Aren’t one of you going to ask me what happened?”
“What happened Mom?” asked Cooper unenthusiastically.
“Rosemary finally announced her retirement, and it was decided I would take her place as Office Manager. That means an extra $100 a week for us!”
“That’s great Mom!” said Jimmy, doing his best to get on his mother’s good side.
“Yeah great,” muttered Cooper.
Later on, after their mother had left the living room, Jimmy punched Cooper on the arm and said coldly, “You say anything to Mom and I’ll knock you out.”
“James, I’m your brother, why would I do that?” said Cooper sarcastically, belting out his best evil laugh.
The boys waited the rest of the evening for the phone to ring, anticipating the inevitable call. But it never came. The next day, when Jimmy returned to school, the students were abuzz with gossip, and Jimmy was at the center of it all. Not only would Jimmy not have to face the repercussions from his encounter with Hen Pecker, he would never have to deal with her again. Margaret Monaghan had been fired. Effective immediately.
***
Jimmy put the revolver down on the c
offee table and immediately picked it back up. A part of him yearned for relief, to be free from the pain, depression, and ache that filled him up. A simple squeeze of the trigger and it would all be over, he thought to himself. He stared into the black barrel of the gun and realized he wasn’t serious. He’d never pull that trigger. Something inside of him simply wouldn’t allow it. He exhaled deeply, leaned back into the sofa, and thought of his father. He wondered how things would be different if he hadn’t left. He thought of Cooper, and how his accident had been the final blow. And then, for some inexplicable reason, the words of the old man he encountered after The Hen Pecker Incident popped into his head.
“What is past is prologue.”
Jimmy put the revolver back down on the coffee table. Abby sat on the opposite side of the living room in her usual place; the beanbag Emma had bought her so long ago. The golden retriever was nearing fifteen years old now and she didn’t venture off to play in the fields like she once did; her spry youth a distant memory. Her brown eyes, now encircled by greying fur, gazed up at him lovingly. Jimmy sensed her love but felt he didn’t deserve it. He hadn’t showered in two days, hadn’t shaved in a week. His eyes were bloodshot, and he smelled of bourbon and sweat.
“What a sorry sack of shit, huh Abby?”
A banging on the pane of glass behind him sent both Jimmy and the old dog a foot into the air. He turned to find Ram pounding on the window, attempting to shield his eyes from the reflection on the glass to see inside.
“Jimmy? You in there?” yelled Ram frantically.
Jimmy turned back to Abby, “Great,” he whispered, glancing at the broken bourbon bottle, empty pizza boxes, and clothes strewn throughout the living room floor.
Ram moved from the window to the porch, pounding his giant fists against the door. Jimmy leaned back into the sofa and put his feet up on the table as the knocking subsided. Suddenly, the door crashed open with Ram spilling through the threshold. Splinters of wood hurtled through the air. Ram frantically searched the room with his eyes. When they rested upon Jimmy on the sofa, he exhaled deeply.
“Jesus, there you are,” he said, relieved. He panted, hands on hips, trying to catch his breath. He paced in a semi-circle, eyed the mess that surrounded him, and shook his head.
“Your mom leaves you alone in the house for a week and it looks like a tornado went through here.”
“You’re the one who broke down the door. What’s wrong with you?”
Ram ignored the question. “Your mom still planning on coming home tomorrow?”
Jimmy huffed and stared emptily at Abby.
Ram eyed the revolver. “What’s with the gun?”
“Nothing. Abby and I are going to take some target practice later on.”
“Uh-huh,” said Ram skeptically. “Probably ought to wait until that Jack Daniel’s wears off.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that.”
Ram studied Jimmy carefully, sizing him up. “Listen, Jimbo,” said Ram, cautiously taking a seat on the sofa next to Jimmy. “I know everything has been…rough lately. But you have to move on. It’s not healthy to …”
“What the hell do you know?” Jimmy exploded. “You aren’t me. You don’t know a damn thing about it.”
“Yeah, things have been tough,” Ram continued calmly. “Your dad is gone. And your brother had an accident. Stop blaming yourself. Neither one of those things was your fault.”
“I was supposed to be there for him,” said Jimmy. “Supposed to keep him out of trouble. But I wasn’t.”
“Cooper made his own choices. Has nothing to do with you.”
“You don’t know shit,” scoffed Jimmy.
“I know as much as you! Don’t act like I don’t feel the hurt just like you. I’ve been here every day, Jimmy!” said Ram, his tone intensifying. “Every day since your dad’s been gone! And I’m going to keep being here for you and your mom. Because that’s how we get through things like this. We have to help each other get through it.”
“The only reason you come around is because you want to bang my mom,” said Jimmy coldly.
Ram stood up, his face red. “You listen here you little son-of-a-bitch,” he said, leaning over to jam his thick index finger into Jimmy’s chest. “I have always bent over backwards to help you; treated you like you were my own son. I’ve never asked for so much as a thank you, you ungrateful little prick.” Ram took a deep breath and tried to collect himself.
“If you want to sit here and wallow around in your own misery, then fine. But I’m not gonna listen to any more of your crybaby bullshit.” Ram grabbed the gun, threw open the broken front door, and steamed out.
Jimmy sat in a haze, a wave of guilt hanging heavily in his drunken mind. He felt horrible about the way he’d treated Ram. After all, Ram was right; he’d always helped the family in any way he could. How could Jimmy be so cold and say something so callous to the man who’d been the only father figure he’d known for the past decade?
His cell phone buzzed; vibrating intermittently and rattling against the wood of the coffee table. It had to be Ram, thought Jimmy. Jimmy would apologize. He would tell his uncle that it had been the bourbon talking and that he didn’t mean the terrible things he had said. He would tell him that he appreciated him, and that all he had done for his family over the years hadn’t been taken for granted. He would tell him that he loved him.
But as Jimmy picked up the phone and looked at the screen, he did not recognize the number.
“Hello?” said Jimmy, rubbing his temples with his free hand.
“James Porter?”
“Yeah.”
“Please do not hang up,” said a deep, thickly accented voice. “What I have to tell you is of great interest to you. You must meet me in person in St. Louis as soon as possible.”
“Who is this?” asked Jimmy.
“My name is Doctor Dmitri Minkowski. What I have to tell you is about your father.”
8
Today - May 29, 2011
The wall of televisions hummed faintly in high-pitched unison in his basement. There were ten of them in all. Each displayed a different image, but all in crisp 1080p High Definition. The HDTVs were part of an upgrade package a few years back, the mandate coming straight from the top. Prior to that, there were a mere eight televisions affixed to the wall, all of those in 480i definition; state-of-art at the time they were installed. The room had transformed through the years, keeping step with the pace of technology. Underneath the wall of televisions stood a massive rosewood desk, complete with matching side table and rolling desk drawers. A single office chair sat in the middle of the small room, its seat cushion and rollers well-worn from years of use. The man who spent much of his time in the chair was orderly to his core, possessing a military-like penchant for neatness; his binders on the desk lined up in perfect right angles, color coordinated by date. The displays on three computer monitors and two laptop screens busily buzzed as a continuous flow of data streamed in. The room was an electronic geek’s paradise; a NASA Control Room in miniature.
Upstairs, a beam of sunlight stretched through his bedroom window and warmed his face, stirring him back from the dead. He rubbed his temples, head pounding, and forced himself to sit up. Through the fog and bleariness of his hangover, he was able to make out the numbers on the bedside digital clock.
7:55 a.m.
Normally he would have long been up and about, and would have received his daily data dump from the Order by now. But Joerg Traugott had given in to his anger the night before and drank himself into a stupor. It was completely out of character. He rarely drank. Alcohol clouded the mind and forfeited self-control. The Plan was all that mattered in the grand scheme of things, and personal feelings were petty and inconsequential by comparison. Real emotions were a distraction and, as he had been so thoroughly trained, could ultimately put him and the entire operation at risk. But yesterday had gotten the better of him, and he succumbed to the bottle of vodka now lying empty on its side next to his bed.<
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“Dammit,” he muttered aloud.
He stood up - or at least tried to. The dizzying after-effects of the vodka swirled the world around him. He twisted forward off-balance and tried to catch himself against the dresser but missed completely and careened head-first into the wall, putting a large dent in the sheetrock. The blow made him see stars, and brought about the worst nausea he’d ever experienced. He crawled out of the bedroom, down the long hallway and into the bathroom, barely arriving at the toilet in time to catch the vomit.
After a few minutes he collected himself and climbed into the shower, dry-heaving several times in the process. He toweled himself off and felt slightly better, praising the wondrous healing power of a hot shower. Still, he felt like hell and was ashamed of letting his emotions get the best of him. He was off track from his routine, which was counter to his disciplined, methodical nature.
It had been a part of his life for as long as he could remember. He’d grown up with the Order or, more formally, Ordo Tenebris – the “Dark Order.” His family’s roots were in the Order - his father having been a prominent member. In his youth, he absorbed his training like a sponge, the apple having not fallen far from the tree. He was fluent in French, Russian, German, and English, and perfected several regional dialects of each. He possessed the equivalent of a bachelor’s degree in economics and world history, and a master’s degree in Psychology, all from the Merritt School in New York – a favorite institute of the Order. He possessed six passports and three U.S. driver’s licenses, only one of which contained his true name.
As he trudged down the old wooden stairs toward the Communications Room, each step jolted his throbbing head. The conversation from the day before played back in his mind – the one that had driven him to empty a full bottle of vodka down his throat. He tried to put the thought out of his head, but those words hung over him like a dark cloud, the binge of alcohol doing nothing to wipe them away.
At the bottom of the creaky stairs, a long hallway extending the length of the house offered three doorways on the left, and three doorways on the right. He stopped at the second door on his right, took out a key from his pocket, and opened the lock. He entered, closed the door behind him, and snapped the lock shut. He stood in a tiny foyer, which was barely illuminated by a dim fluorescent light. A red light flashed above a second entry door. The small room had no air flow and was stuffy as hell; a terrible combination with a nauseating hangover. He waved the key fob in front of the reader. The red light blinked yellow, signifying he had seven seconds to enter his six digit access code. Traugott swiftly punched in the code, just as he had done almost every single day since arriving here - that is, every single day since the security breach twelve years ago. After that day, measures such as the key fobs, heavy locks and security codes were implemented to prevent another unfortunate event.