by Matt Hayward
“I’m sorry, Jerry, I don’t know what happened.”
Donald Bove slapped the couch, making Peter jump. He stood. “That shit ain’t okay!” He shot Walter a look of repulsion. “Crazy fat bastard just threw a damn mug! He gonna take one of our heads off next? What is this, a fuckin’ nut house?”
Jerry raised his palms. “Mr. Bove, please. We’re here to support each other. Try and be a little more understanding. Cope.”
“Yeah,” Walter spat, his face red. “We’re going to cope, Mr. Bove, we are!”
“Doing a great job there, Walter.”
Walter covered his face like a child hiding. Peter watched with genuine shock and amusement. Jerry pulled at Walters hands. “Let it out. Shhh . . . Mr. Bove, Donald, try and be more sympathetic, okay? When your time comes and you need to let something out, you’re going to need us as your family. Not as your enemies.”
That seemed to get through. Donald stared at the floor, flexing his jaw.
“Thank you,” Jerry said. “Now, please apologize to Mr. Cartwright.”
“Say what?”
Water’s face reappeared. “Yeah! Say you’re sorry!”
The room turned to Donald.
“Say you’re sorry!”
An uncomfortable quiet settled, and the group waited, Peter’s stomach jumping with butterflies.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry, all right?” Donald said. “Jeeesus.”
Snot and tears crawled down Walter’s face. “Thank you.”
“Okay,” Jerry said. “Walter, sit back down and I’ll have Paul or Andrew clean up the mess, don’t worry about it.”
Walter’s face fell. “Oh god, I’m so sorry, I threw your mug!”
“It’s okay, just sit down and get comfortable.”
“Okay. Sorry everybody. I’m real sorry.”
“S’all right, man,” Shelly said, moving aside as Walter took a seat. She smiled to him, legitimate but sad. Her voice sounded harsh from what Peter guessed were many years of chain-smoking. “I’m sure we’re all going to break down at some point. Even us who seem to be made out of stone, right? That’s what we’re here for, after all. To get it all out.” She squeezed his shoulder.
And that’s when fear crept through Peter. He hadn’t considered what might come out of him yet. What had he pent up inside?
Peter took even breaths, trying to remain calm as Jerry said, “We’ll save what we can for our first discussion tomorrow morning. Don’t be afraid to cry.”
Those words didn’t help, because Peter didn’t know that once he did cry, he could ever stop. How deep did his problem go? He never had a proper look. Now, he had no choice.
The first night at the Dawson farmhouse began.
CHAPTER FOUR
PETER WORKED HIS BARE FEET into the rug on the bedroom floor, listening as the rain rapped the window. Through the floorboards came the soft sound of the television from the room below. If Fisher hadn’t taken their mobile devices with the claim that they might ‘talk to the wrong kinds of people,’ he would have crushed candies or read the news, anything to distract himself and pass the time. His suitcase sat on the end of the bed, the only piece of furniture in the room other than the chest of drawers beside it. Somewhere in the hallway, a grandfather clock ticked.
Moving the suitcase aside, Peter sat on the bed. A hard mattress, just as he liked. Each of the guests at the Dawson farmhouse had been given their own room on the second floor and, luckily, Peter’s came equipped with an en suite bathroom. From what he’d heard, the Dawson farmhouse had been converted some years ago to accommodate the doctor’s business. Harris Dawson had renovated the upstairs, chopping the once large study into five smaller rooms that the guests now occupied.
Someone knocked on the door.
“Yes?”
“Peter, it’s Jerry Fisher. May I come in?”
“Yes.”
Jerry opened the door and stepped inside. A pair of reading glasses softened his otherwise hard face. He smiled.
“Everything all right? You settled in?”
“I’m fine. Thanks, Jerry. Think I just need a good night sleep.”
“I hope Walter’s little outburst didn’t startle you earlier. That type of behavior isn’t easy to watch.”
Peter nodded. “What do you think happened, exactly?”
“A breakdown.” Those two words hung heavy in the air. “Look, I’m sorry for earlier, Peter. But it happens more than you’d imagine. People who come in to a place like this are very emotionally charged, like sticks of lit dynamite just waiting for the fuse to burn out. And when it does, it’s not nice, but it’s perfectly natural, and is the first part of what it takes to get better. Acceptance to the problem has already begun, I mean, that’s why you’re all here. But realizing this new reality can be hard to take. Walter’s not a bad man, Peter, he’s sick. He needs help. And that’s what we’re here for.”
Peter nodded again. He supposed he shouldn’t be so hard on Walter. After all, the very same thing could happen to him. Or perhaps worse.
Jerry flashed a smile. “Sleep well, Peter. Paul will be around to wake you at seven-thirty. If you have any problems during the night, a buzzer’s clipped beneath your bed. It sends a signal to Andrew’s room. He’s on night duty, should you need anything.”
“Okay. Will do.”
“Sleep well.”
Jerry left and eased the door shut, followed by the muffled sound of him knocking the next room.
A cigarette, Peter thought. Probably have to go to the front porch.
Unzipping his bag, he rooted inside the front pouch. Before meeting Jerry and the group at the car park, he’d stocked up on Marlboros in the shopping center. Enough for two weeks. Now his fingers found nothing but flint and fluff.
“Jerry?” His voice sounded too loud in the small room. His heartbeat quickened. “Jerry?”
A muffled voice came from the next room, followed by Jerry’s too-slow footsteps. He reappeared in the doorway. “Yes, Peter? What can I do for you?”
Peter worked his jaw. “My cigarettes. They’re gone.”
Jerry took a moment before lacing his fingers together. “Mr. Laughlin, we’re here to help you detox. To cleanse your body. Cigarettes are not allowed in Dawson Rehabilitation. They’ll be returned to you at the end of the two weeks. When you get them, it’ll be your choice to do as you will, but I sincerely hope you won’t take them.”
Peter’s voice rose against his will. “That should have been stated a little more clearly, Jerry. You can’t do that, man. It’s not an institution, I chose to be here.”
“And I’m helping you. Please, see it from my perspective. I’m doing this for you and—”
“Oh fuck you and the horse you rode in on.”
Where the hell had that one come from?
Peter muttered an unsteady laugh and rubbed his forehead. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. You’re just trying to help. I apologize.”
“Apology accepted, Peter.” Jerry nodded with a grin and placed a hand on the door. “Now get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
The door clicked shut and Peter took a deep breath. He knew Jerry was right, of course, but it didn’t help matters. His brain screamed for nicotine, sending bolts of electricity through his core.
“Fuck.” Peter clasped the back of his neck. He didn’t have to like this. Some tough love was in order, but that wasn’t easy to accept.
I’ll still go downstairs, he thought. Get some fresh air. That’ll help.
When had been the last time he’d gone without a cigarette? He recalled a three day bet with Robby Greco, his drummer. Robby’d said no way in hell Peter Laughlin, the Peter Laughlin, could go five minutes without a pull. Of course, Robby’d slightly exaggerated, but still made a good point. Peter remembered slamming his finished beer on the table and accepting the challenge for twenty dollars each. Not a whole lot, but he’d have done it for free, anyway. And do it he did. But holy fuck, what a frightenin
g three days those had been. He usually had one cigarette per hour, and when that first hour passed, he’d been in for a shock. He felt lightheaded. His mind forced his fingers to curl, holding a phantom smoke, unable to think of anything else. He sweated, his head feeling like a helium balloon. It was at that moment he realized just how deep the hook of addiction had taken a hold. And after the initial craving passed, he decided to see the bet through, to prove to himself, and Robby, that he had the will power to do so. After the first day, he developed cold-like symptoms. His nose ran nonstop, leaking like a sprung tap. That’d been the oxygen returning to his system. He’d slept badly, tossing and turning and sweating and cursing, but the next day went a little easier. He still felt lightheaded and confused, but it’d been manageable. On the third day, laughing with Robby that he did it, he took a smoke and went straight back to ground zero. Just like he’d never quit.
That’d been cigarettes, He thought. And for only three days. They’re just a footnote to the booze this time . . . When’s the last time you even slept sober?
Passing the television room, Peter watched the glow seeping around the doorframe like ectoplasm. Later, a movie might help, he decided. Something to distract himself. He moved on and let himself outside, grimacing at the cold.
“Hello.”
“Oh, hey.” Peter closed the door and stuffed his hands inside his pockets. “Henry, right?”
The old man sat on the rocking chair with his hands clasped. He stared out into the rain, his face set. In his eyes, Peter saw sadness.
“You mind if I take a seat?”
Peter nodded to the bench by the rocking chair but the old man didn’t respond. Instead, he took a deep breath and continued to stare out into darkness. A harsh wind blew and Peter shuddered. “Okay. Well I’m going to go ahead and sit.”
Peter lowered himself, his eyes trained on the old man. The bench creaked beneath him, the cold wood freezing his ass, but he didn’t want to move now that he’d gone this far. He had said he was going to sit, so damn it, he was going to sit.
The rain sounded like static as it hit the muddy surface of the farmyard. In the distance, cloaked in darkness, thick clouds passed above the silhouetted treetops.
“So,” Peter said. “Just found out they took my cigarettes. Had a whole mess of ’em stocked up in my luggage. Fisher told me, with a smile I might add, that they’re all gone. Poof . . . Wanted to punch his stupid face.”
That got a smirk. Then the old man’s face returned to stone.
“Ah, you don’t like Jerry either?”
Henry only blinked, clearing his throat. Smiling, Peter leaned back on the bench despite its cold. “Ah, he’s all right, you know? Just doing his job, even if he comes across a little condescending. I mean, maybe we are childish, right? Maybe we need some tough love. Well, maybe not you. I know nothing about you.”
Peter let the invitation dangle a moment, waiting for Henry to bite but only got more silence.
Christ, am I talking to a damn statue?
“Okay then.” Peter leaned forward. “Guess I’m Jack Nicholson and you’re the Indian.”
“Randal McMurphy.”
“Huh?”
Henry rubbed his hands together, making a noise like sandpaper. “The character’s name was Randal McMurphy.”
Peter arched his eyebrows. Judging by the accent, Henry was from up north, perhaps Maine. In a gruff and weathered voice he added, “I was twelve when that novel came out, you know. Not the movie. In nineteen-sixty-two. Bought it with the money I’d made raking neighbors’ yards and doin’ odd jobs around my hometown. Read that thing cover to cover in a single sitting. Ken Kesey was a terrific writer. The novel is told through Chief Bromden’s perspective, did you know that? I might not like this place, but at least the staff aren’t The Combine.”
“The what?”
The old man sniffled. “Never mind. I found the Native American stories particularly interesting.”
“Is that right?”
“And Ken Kesey, from what I hear, never liked that Jack Nicholson got cast as Randal McMurphy. In the novel, Mac’s a burly Irish-American. Red-haired.”
“Is that right? Interesting.”
Henry leaned forward, eyeing the rain. “Guess that makes Jerry Fisher our own nurse Ratched, doesn’t it?”
Peter snorted and clapped his hands. “Suppose it does, man, suppose it does. And what about you? Did he take your cigarettes?”
“Perky bastard took every pack I had. And my phone. I’d be destroying candies right now if I had it.”
“Ah, you play, too? Shit. It’s tough, huh? I can’t remember the last time I went without one. A cigarette.”
Peter settled into the bench, his body adjusting to the temperature. Visible air ran from his nose and mouth, not unlike cigarette smoke. He got an idea.
“Hey, remember when you were a kid in school, winter time? Absolutely freezing out. Some smart-ass kid would pretend to smoke? Remember? He’d cup his hand to his mouth, blow cold air. Like this . . .” Peter demonstrated. “All exaggerated like. And he’d shout, ‘I’m smoking, look, I’m smoking!’”
Henry raised an eyebrow, turning to face Peter. A smile played on his weathered face. “What you getting at?”
“Well, Henry, would you like a cigarette?”
Routing inside his pocket, Peter removed an invisible carton of smokes and presented them. “You’re in luck, I’ve only got two left, but I have a whole mess of ’em back in my room. We’re golden for the rest of the two weeks. Hope you like Marlboro.”
The old man kept his eye on Peter, all the while removing a not-so-there cigarette from the invisible box. Peter did the same. Bringing the pretend cigarette to his lips, he made a clicking sound, then he inhaled the cold night air deep into his lungs, exhaling it slow. The air flew away in a thick cloud, and for all the wonders of the world, it relaxed him.
“That’s better.”
Chuckling, Henry brought his own cigarette to his mouth. “This is ridiculous.”
He clicked his lips and inhaled, then, with his mouth puckered, blew away the smoke. The wind carried it off towards the woods. “You know, for whatever reason, it actually feels good.”
Peter laughed. “I know, right? Must be the action with your hands or something. The habit.”
“Right.”
They sat in silence and sucked cold air, watching the fuzzy sheet of rain patter onto the muddy yard.
“You see that?” Henry asked. “I’ve been sitting here for a good half hour, trying to figure it out.”
“See what?”
Peter strained his eyes, followed the old man’s gaze into the yard. He shook his head. “Don’t see anything.”
“The mist.”
“Well, I see that. Fog. It’s pretty thick.”
A fat cloud clung the ground, swirling as the rain sliced through. It swallowed the entire yard, rendering it impossible to see beyond a few feet. Past the bus, the grounds faded into an almost solid fog.
“There’s just something strange about it,” Henry said. “Can’t quite put my finger on it . . . I’ve watched it for ages, trying to figure it out, but I can’t.”
“Maybe your mind’s playing tricks, happens. Having a hard time adapting to this place.”
“Perhaps.”
Peter decided to change the subject. “What was your choice of poison, by the way? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Liquor.”
“Booze? Me, too.”
“Strong liquor.”
“I see. Whiskey?”
The old man sighed. “And brandy. They were my Achilles’ heel. It got so bad in the past year I easily downed at least a bottle a day. The brandy made me feel bad, though. Thins the blood out, gets the heart pumping. Not good for high blood pressure. Or the fact that weak hearts run in the family. Guaranteed way of getting a stroke if you don’t get it under control. Surprised my ticker hasn’t spluttered out already. Half expecting it any day now.”
“Right . . . I was a whiskey and beer guy.”
“Never could stand the taste of beer. Piss water.”
Peter pressed his lips together. “You know, I never knew if I actually liked the taste myself. Just grew to crave it. Same as nicotine, especially in the last three years or so. When that happens, you know you’ve got a problem. I didn’t want to admit it. Forced myself not to see what it was doing to me.”
“I know. Funny how we fool ourselves until it’s too late. Then there’s no taking it back.”
Peter decided not to press the matter further. Whatever happened to Henry, or whatever the old man had done, played on the old man’s mind. Peter could tell from his eyes.
When he wants to speak, he’ll speak. Can’t deny I’m not curious.
Henry looked to him, his deep blue eyes glistening in the overhead light. “Well, if I stay here any longer I’ll freeze to death. You, too. Don’t think you’re invincible just because you’re young. Get inside.” He motioned to the yard. “Besides, that fog’s getting on my nerve.”
“Sure thing.”
They both stood, Henry wincing as his back popped. “Bones can’t take the cold,” He said. “Got worse in the last couple years. Fingers are getting painful when I try and play, I just hope it’s not arthritis.”
Peter paused. “Try and play? Music?”
“Yes. Play the banjo, recreationally. Had dreams of taking it up professionally when I was younger, but they’re big dreams for a small man. Never had the courage.”
Peter’s heart raced. “I play, too, you know.” Play, he thought. That’s the wrong word. He corrected himself. “Played. I played. I used to be a guitarist.”
“Were you any good?”
“I was all right. But that’s a story for another day.”
“You have a band?”
“Had. Throttle.” Saying the name to an elderly person sounded silly. “Yeah, we were a rock band.”
“Huh. Never heard of you.”
“Guessed as much.”
Henry opened the front door, amplifying tin-can laughter from the TV room, and Peter stepped inside. The warmth felt like a shot of whiskey on a cold night. “What room are you in?” he asked.