“Next message…’Mal, it’s me, Jack. Listen, I think I’m losing it. My shrink thinks I’m psychotic or bipolar or something, so I fired the bitch. JESUS CHRIST, who the Hell is she to assume just because I want a two thousand year-old chastity belt that there’s an emergency situation going on here? There is, but it’s not what she thinks. Stupid bitch. Anyway, call me. I need to ask you if you’ve seen that blood I’ve been storing. Did I ask you to keep it in your fridge? Call me, you son of a bitch.’ –click–”
A chill ran down my spine. Each message was as nonsensical and manic as the one before it. I began skipping through them again, in the hope that a message from her would assuage this eerie barrage of Jack unsettled. As I moved through the messages, it became even more imperative that I not waste my time listening to his crap. So much so, as I kept pressing the pound key, I almost missed the message.
“Next message…’Malcolm, it’s your father. Call me when you get back.’ –click–”
“Goddammit!” I fumed. Next message…Jack. Next message…Jack. And Jack and Jack again. Then there was a brief message from Bill. He had called to talk about moving some of my holdings into long-term mutuals. I put Jack aside for a moment and listened to him – the momentary diversion helped to ground me a bit. Then I navigated through the remaining messages, skipping most, but listening with dread to some of them. One of his last messages was the most disturbing of all. It had been sent the day before, while I was in transit from Paris to Montreal.
“Next Message…’AHHHHHHH…..OHHHHH yeah, that makes me SOOOOOO hot…’” it was a woman’s voice, quite obviously in the throes of passion. “’You know I like that, don’t you, you bad little boy?’” There was the sound of shuffling and then I heard Jack’s voice.
“’Mal, you like this, don’t you? Did you ever wonder what it would be like? To experience the most sublime, ultimate pleasure? So intense that you don’t even know your own name? I don’t yet. Mal, do you? Know my name, that is.’” He chuckled.
“’AHHHHHHHHHHHHH…bitch, you’re trying to make me like you, and I don’t want to. Get on your knees. Mal….mmmm….Mal, y-you know what you want, why don’t you just go for it? I loosened Elizabeth up for you and that little comedy you two played while…while…w-we were at Wayne State… OW…AHHHHHH… Mal, the an-AHHHHH-answer’s in the art. You just have to know how to find it. DON’T TOUCH THAT, you stupid slut!’”
I heard the loud slap of bone and flesh against bone and flesh before the receiver was muffled. And then what sounded like muted screams and strange banging noises. My sweat lathered the phone, as I pressed it hard to my ear in unwilling hope of hearing more.
Then:
A dull scraping sound, like a block of granite being dragged across a marble floor. Strange whispering sounds, like voices spoken in an unintelligible language. Then a scream.
A woman’s scream. Shrill and replete with terror, it lasted seconds and then stopped. Like her vocal cords had been cut.
Easy, mate. This can only be touched by me.
“Dear Christ,” I muttered. I drained my glass and refilled it. I looked around for cigarettes, and found a half-empty package sitting on one of my end-tables. My fingers trembled like tiny Death-Row inmates as I tugged a cigarette out and placed it between wavering lips. I still had the phone pressed up against the side of my head, but all I heard was an automated voice asking me if I was still there.
That was message 104. Message 105 was sent minutes later and went like this:
“’Hiiiii, Malcolm…’” A woman’s voice. Apparently, the same woman whom I heard screaming. She giggled erratically as she spoke in a mock loving voice: “Jack tells me that you’re quite the stud. He says I should meet you one of these days. I bet I could make you forget about that girl…what’s her name?’” In the background, Jack’s voice. ‘Elizabeth.’
“’Elizabeth. I bet I can do things to you that she never could...’” She giggled profusely before Jack said, “Give me that.” Then the sound of the phone being pried from her fingers. He was chuckling insanely.
“’Hey bud. How did you like my little drama? I know, it wasn’t Macbeth, but I hope you enjoyed it.’” He laughed. “’I can just see the look on your face right now: priceless. Gotta keep you on your toes, buddy. You’re wayyyyy too serious.’”
PRICK! I was ready to throw the phone at the wall. “’Listen, I know I said I’d pick you up, but I had a business matter to deal with. I think we need to have a party. It’s been too long since I got laid…’” again, giggling from what’s-her-name in the background…”’and I’m getting all horned up. Hope you brought me a trinket from Euro Disney.’ –click–”
Dear God. What was real and what wasn’t? The bastard obviously had a defective gasket, but that he could so easily deceive me…was it all an act? I couldn’t tell, and that was the most disturbing thing of all.
He’s not well. Easy, mate. This can only be touched by me.
I had known about his insane ways almost as long as I had known him. I knew his psychotic tendencies. I had seen the aftermath of his mania, the day after he raped and beat those two girls. I knew his ego flaws and hated most of them. But I always shrugged it off as his patented charming eccentricity. Everyone who knew him did the same.
I pressed the ‘end’ button on the phone and slowly lowered the handset onto the table. I finished my Scotch and went back to the liquor cabinet.
This time I returned with the bottle.
Chapter 34
I drank four glasses of Scotch. While I committed to getting shitfaced, I found myself thinking about Elizabeth and whether I could have Jack committed.
I was missing something. His prank call didn’t feel like a prank. My obvious choice was to get him help. And quick. But Scotch and a troubled heart convinced me to leave it alone. Was it easier that way? Of course it was. That’s why I decided to leave it alone.
But Elizabeth…she I could not leave alone. Why did she call? Is she afraid that I’m engaged or married? Maybe that’s why she didn’t leave a message. How did she get my number? Maybe she’s married. Why didn’t she leave a message?
Is she as lonely as I am?
Moron. Just dial the number. I raised the phone to my head and listened to the rings, each one painfully longer than the one before. I hoped that she wouldn’t answer. I wondered if she felt the same way when she waited for me to answer. After four eternal rings I sighed and began to lower the phone. But I wasn’t about to get off that easily.
“Hello?”
I froze. What do I say? After all this time, what could I say? Smalltalk was bullshit and too much time had passed to successfully revisit the past. I could hang up. I should hang up. She wouldn’t know it was me because my number was blocked. None the wiser, she wouldn’t hear from me and assume that I never wanted to talk to her again.
It would have been a lie, but I’ve lied to her before.
“Hello?” My silent deliberation challenged her to hang up on me. She’d done it before, so why would this time be any different? But words can find their way through the fog of a muddled soul, even if they don’t know where they’re going.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” Don’t let her talk.
“I noticed that you called and I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t a wrong number or a misdial.” Good. Non-confrontational words with an encoded message. Why the Hell are you calling me? Her pause was even more pronounced than mine and my heart kept time with the thoughts in my brain.
“It wasn’t.” Okay. Short and seemingly ineffectual, but not without its own encoded meaning. I just wished my heart would stop.
“How are you?”
“I’m okay. How are you?”
“Fine. Dealing with some things up here, but nothing I can’t handle.”
“It’s been a long time.”
“I know.
“Too long.” Pauses like these can be conversation enders. But ill-chosen words can be conversation killers.
“Me too.” Waves of sadness crashed on shores of joy, and I lamented. Ten years had been hacked out of the body of a beautiful friendship with a jagged, rusty knife. Cut away like a lump of dying flesh and tossed into the river of time. Angry hot tears began to well in the corners of my eyes.
“Can you talk right now?” I whispered, because it was the only way she wouldn’t hear the choking tears in my voice. I didn’t want a repeat of our last conversation. For all I knew, boyfriend or hubby would come home and spoil the rare jewel that crystallized in our words.
“Sure. I took the day off work. Mental health day.”
We embarked upon a new journey that day, and while the journey was circuitous, it held the promise of an eventual destination. She joined a Detroit firm specializing in corporate litigation. Her relationship with Phillip got serious and they became engaged. Guess I can’t blame her for not marrying him though, after he slept with her Maid of Honor.
A couple of relationships later, dating and companionship became her sole excuse for not filling her time with work. I didn’t comment while I listened, especially when she told me of the cheating fiancée. While her words informed, the voice that whispered in my ear brought back painful memories. I was in no position to provide advice or support.
But I shouldn’t have been drinking. Hah! That’s a good one. I can’t think of a time in my life when that statement wouldn’t have been appropriate.
“You know, what happened between us…what I did…I never meant to hurt you. I was young and stupid and I didn’t realize how good I had it with you.”
“I know that. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it too. I blame you, but I blame Jack too. And I blame me.” What the Hell does that mean?
“What do you mean by that?”
“Malcolm, what you did to me…what I did.” What did she do? Was I missing something? “What you did to me is unforgivable. But I managed to come to terms with it, and you’ve obviously suffered for what you did.” Dammit! Please stop saying ‘what I did.’
“I’ve managed to make peace with it. And I accept your apology. But a lot has happened. And I blame myself for everything that happened since then.”
How to respond? What do you say to someone who owns your heart, when she tells you that there’s absolutely no chance for the two of you? I’ll tell you how to respond. With nothing. Sadness becomes the rain that pours outside the window of your soul.
“Why’d you call?” The hurt and pain in my words were simple defense mechanisms, but my words – far from simple – were encoded with the King James Bible.
“I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t have.” Serrated knives that cut through sinew and bone are more desirable than words which cut me like a stuck pig.
“Why? Why would you say that?”
“I don’t know.” She knew. “I guess I can still hear it in your voice. I thought you would have moved on by now.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Look, I don’t want to mess things up between us. I’ve already messed up so many other things.”
“Elizabeth, stop. Just stop. Let’s talk. This doesn’t have to be a major production number.” Desperation like I begged for my life while she held a loaded pistol to my temple? Most likely, and while I wondered if she believed me, I also wondered if I believed me.
***
The phone had no qualms about waking me. Shaking my head, I focused with confused eyes. Elizabeth and I had talked well into the night and after we finished, I drank until I passed out. Pitch-black nothingness wasn’t improved by the phone’s flashing green light. When I scrambled to answer it, my response was more statement than question.
“Hello.” Eyes focused on the clock. It was 4:24 AM.
“Malcolm, you bastard! Where the fuck have you been?”
“Jack?” The killer hangover set in like a storm front over an unprepared city, and it wasn’t aided by the sound of Jack’s manic voice. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been trying to reach you for days. Where have you been?”
“Jack, I saw you this morning. You dropped me off at my place, remember?” Clarity and irritation set in. The long pause told me that Jack was trying to reconcile my statement with what he actually remembered. If possible, I was even more concerned.
“Jack, you gotta take the meds. You have to, man. This is getting ridiculous. I can’t keep getting these bullshit calls from you all the time. Do you realize that you left 103 messages for me while I was in France? And that bullshit one-act play you tried out on me was way beyond good taste. I’m fucking sick of it. You hear me?” He listened while I spoke, but I suppose he got tired of my ministrations when he interrupted me.
“Okay, okay! I’ll start the meds again. You happy? They weren’t helping me. I couldn’t think straight, and they were giving me headaches. But if it’ll get you off my fucking back, then I’ll take the damned meds.”
“Jack, listen to me. Listen very carefully. You start them right now. You’re not thinking straight, and I’m worried. I’m telling you right now. If you don’t, I will do something I really don’t want to do.” Again, a pronounced pause.
“Like what?”
“Use your imagination. I’m coming over there. Right now.” I didn’t want to, but some strange foreboding told me that I had to.
“No!” It was like I had pointed a gun at his head and cocked the trigger. A scratching sound, like a fingernail running across sandpaper was the only response I got. Maybe I should hang up and call 911.
“Jack…” He left me no choice, but I wished that he would. I didn’t want to go over. My head hurt.
“Alright. Don’t come over. FUCK! I’ll start the meds now.” A child who’s just been told to eat his vegetables under threat of being grounded is more amenable.
“Good.” At least I didn’t have to go. “Listen, I’m coming over tomorrow whether you like it or not. And I’m going to be watching you from now on. At the first sign that you’re not taking them, I’m going to have you committed.” He chortled.
“Committed? I’m already committed.” A pause. There was something going on inside his head, but what? “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. See you tomorrow. I have some interesting news.”
“Yeah?” I didn’t care about his news, but at least he calmed down. As if I had been serious about doing something about it.
“Can’t wait. See you tomorrow.” I hung up and tried to stand. Successful for the most part, the light of the lamp I turned on glared at me. I winced back at it. Wobbling, I waited while the sensation passed. Tylenol. God. I need Tylenol.
But before I walked to the kitchen, I picked up the phone and challenged it. You lied to me, didn’t you?
But it hadn’t. She really did call. We really did talk.
I put the phone down and walked to the kitchen in search of painkillers.
Chapter 35
I awoke at Three PM and plied myself with coffee until I was fit to drive. A cheerful day and the muted warmth of an October sun poured through my kitchen window. It felt good. I watched millions of tiny dust particles, set into motion by warming rays, while I let the scent of hot coffee permeate my senses.
Was everything coming together for me? No idea. Ten years of acclimatizing hadn’t expunged the facts that Jack was always going to be Jack, and Elizabeth was a towering mountain to surmount. True, Jack was flipping out. But it felt good that I pressured him into taking his meds again. Not that I cared. Elizabeth coursed through my decaying veins.
Unsettled thoughts kept me company while I drove to Jack’s house. Temporary euphoria wore off, replaced with uncomfortable pangs. Jack was my friend, my occasional confidant and my nemesis. I pondered that while I drove. Why are we still friends? I should have kept trucking after Elizabeth told me that he’d raped her. And then there was the incident with the two girls… I shook my head and sighed.<
br />
Far too much time has passed for me to accurately convey why I stayed. Maybe I stayed because I was better than him, and that made me feel superior. Or maybe I just didn’t care anymore. Care about anything that wasn’t Elizabeth.
I shouldn’t have been stunned to see several large moving trucks when I arrived, but I hadn’t realized that his plans were so immediate. Burly moving men lumbered in and out, carrying a multitude of boxes, and Jack stood there gesturing wildly at them. He was perturbed, and I stroked my cheek with curious anticipation as I parked my car.
When I walked toward Jack, he looked at me with a comical face. A strange combination that contrasted with navy slacks, a cream-colored turtleneck and perfect hair that whipped wildly in crisp, random gusts of October wind. Exasperation painted on his face, he danced nervously from one foot to the other while he watched men move his crates.
“Careful!” He yelled at them like they tossed a baby around. But all they were doing was moving a large crate. I smiled as I walked up the steps.
“Having a yard sale?” As I joined him on the stoop he rolled his eyes and gestured to me to follow him inside. He poured drinks while we sat on the lone remaining furniture in the house.
“They were no better yesterday. I have a fortune invested in those boxes and the moron family moving them,” I smiled as he lamented and handed me my Scotch.
“C’mon, it’s not all that bad.” The Scotch tasted good, but I looked at him with suspicion. “Did you start your meds?” He rolled his eyes and made a flitting gesture at me. I didn’t care if he didn’t want to talk about it. My look was a reminder of the threat. As he handed me a cigarette, I thanked him.
“Yes, yes. Are you satisfied? They’re going to take a week or more to kick in, but I’m taking them again. I can’t show you my stomach contents. Not pleasantly, anyway.” He smirked. “So you’ll have to take my word for it. Stop worrying. I’m fine.” I relaxed and sipped my Scotch. The deep puff that wafted in my lungs calmed me. We all have our drugs of choice.
The House that Jack Built Page 23