My cell phone vibrated; not looking at the caller ID I answered, "Duke Donovan." I listened to Sam tell me about the last cast member of Little Shop, some famous TV actor I didn’t know, who would play the dentist role. He was thrilled and ramble on in his excitement. "I'm listening," I answered to his question, adding, "sort of." At Sam's urging, I told him about my father. "Three," I answered to his question of how many. "Malcolm," I said, relating who the third person was. "I'll see you at home tonight," and I closed my phone.
I wanted to do something different, something fun, something new. This was New York. There must be something to do. I started walking uptown. I wasn't in a hurry. I took the time to look in store windows, watch the people. I got a hot dog from a street vendor. I stopped in a neighborhood bar I’d always avoided.
The first sip tasted amazing, as if I’d never enjoyed a cold beer before. I looked around at the dark room, the young, straight clientele. The energy of the place caused a slight discomfort to rise in me. I could feel the horrible things that had happened in this place. Instead of leaving, I breathed through the emotions, took another sip of beer.
"Duke?" a feminine voice asked. Her slight build was framed by the doorway, silhouetted by the afternoon sun. "It's Ariel. Are you okay?" She moved to me.
"Hi honey. Want a drink?" I motioned for the bartender. "Another round for the house." I waived my bottle and the small collected group cheered.
"Something for you, miss?" the bartender asked.
"The same," she said, pointing at my bottle. "I didn't think you came in here." Ariel said, looking around. "You said it's too rough. Too straight." She glided onto the barstool next to me.
"I was walking home and wanted a beer. I wanted to try something new. Funny, you buy people a few drinks and they all love you."
The bartender brought our beers, pulled money from the heap in front of me.
"What's going on, Duke?" Ariel took a swig from the bottle.
I considered what I might say to her, how I could tell her. In the end, I simply blurted out: "I'm able to save people, to heal them. It's really cool, but it's freaking me out."
Un-phased, she said: "Who's giving you shit about it?"
How could I explain it to her? I didn't want to bad mouth Sam or anyone else. None of it made sense to me. The harder I tried to understand or accept this change in me, the less sense it made. It didn't feel right and I wasn't sure why.
"Duke, are you with me?"
"I need to get out of here, walk a little." I got up, rifled through the money on the bar, not able to actually tell how much was there I decided to just leave it as a tip. Ariel followed me out onto the street.
"Duke? Are you okay?" She tugged on my shirt sleeve.
I didn't know what was happening to me. One moment I was there, in the present, feeling my body. The next, without trying, I was somewhere else. It wasn't the place of knowing. It wasn't anything at all. My mind, my thoughts, my awareness were blank. "I don't know." That was all I could muster. Then added: "Walk me home?"
"Of course." Her hand moved into the crook of my arm.
We walked for a few blocks in silence. At corners I felt her hand hold me back or give a gentle push. Ariel propelled me. As she touched me, I knew that her internal health was just fine. I could hear some of her thoughts though. I hope he's okay. Better be careful at the crosswalk. Oh, those flowers are so pretty. I like pretty flowers. Her mind was a constant flow of mundane ideas.
Overloaded and overwhelmed by her thoughts, I searched for my own. Nothing. Yet, I felt incredibly present. I could hear the traffic, loud in my ears. I was overwhelmed by the bright colors of the flowers in front of the delis, their fragrance over powering. Even the sounds of our footsteps on the dirty pavement rang in my ears.
"Duke?" she said. "Baby, we're here."
I focused the best I could to see my front door. "Ring the bell." It's all I could think of. In that moment, I didn't know how to open the door.
Aristotle barked before Malcolm arrived in front of me. Without thought I wrapped my arms around the old man. "Something's wrong," I said into his ear. I tried to pat the dog’s head, but he was moving too fast.
What could it be? What's happened? What have you done? I could hear him thinking. His thoughts sounded fearful.
Ariel hung back, her hand still touching my back. What should I do? Should I stay? Should I go? she thought.
"Everyone with all these questions," I said. "Help me up to my room. Ariel, come up, sit with me."
They helped me. I wasn't hurt. I didn't want to lie down, but acquiesced to their urging. I wanted to understand what was happening. Everyone verbally silent, I could still hear their stray thoughts filled with fear and worry for me.
Aristotle jumped up into the bed and cuddled next to me. I rested my hand on his warm, furry head and he gently settled in. I wanted to call someone, ask them what was happening. This was all in my mind. I knew it had a connection to my team. They'd know. I lay back on the bed, kicked off my shoes, closed my eyes. I called to my team in my silent way, letting them know I needed them, wanted their help.
Muriel came to me first.
I suddenly found it funny that she was Muriel and my friend was Ariel. I'd never made that connection before.
"Healing your father today took a lot. He was very sick. The way you’ve been going about healing others is by taking on their illness. You heal them by taking over their illness, drawing it into you, and then you heal yourself. There is a better way, if you could learn to skip being the middle man."
"What can I do?"
"About what?" Ariel asked.
I'd forgotten she was there, that I wasn't really alone with my team.
"Ariel, please go. Thank you so much for helping me home. I need to be alone." She looked hurt, but I didn’t hear her thoughts; that made me happy. "Come here." She did as told, sitting on the side of my bed. "I think I'm going to be fine. It’s been a hell-of-a few days. We'll meet at the park tomorrow."
"Only if you're up to it," she said, touching my arm. I wish I knew what to do. He's been so good to me. This is freaking me out. Maybe I'll stop at the corner and get some flowers. That will cheer me up.
I could hear her thoughts again and realized that it was because we touched. Nice to have that one figured out. I squeezed her arm. "We'll talk tomorrow, okay?"
"Sure, Duke. Be well," she said, leaving my room.
As I continued to stroke the dog’s head and ears, I realized I could feel his energy, it felt like pure love, but there weren’t any thoughts transmitted from him to me. I turned my attention back to my team, called them to me again. "So, what do I do? What do I need to do?"
"We can't tell you, Duke. You have to figure this out on your own if you're going to continue to heal people." I'm not sure who spoke. That usually meant they were both chiming in at the same time.
"What's up with my mind, my memory?" I asked, afraid I was going insane as the apparition had told me he’d hoped.
"You're not losing your mind. You just have to heal for a bit longer. Rest. Take it easy. That's our advice. You've done well by healing yourself, and the people important in your life. The connection to clients will be different and if you’re to continue, you must find an easier way. We must tell you though that there's no guarantee that they'll be well for a long time. People fall ill because of their thoughts, because of their intentions. If those things aren't changed, which you can't change for them or heal for them, if those things aren't fixed they'll once again manifest illness. Of course, you're gaining time with them for yourself and if that's your intention then it's a good thing."
I listened, but no more words, images, or thoughts followed. I could feel the ghost’s energy, as well as that of my team. They were mixed now, combined.
"Duke?" Sam whispered in my ear. His body felt warm next to me. His smell filled my nose, a light odor of chalk and perspiration mixed with cigarettes. It was a scent I’d come to love.
With cl
osed eyes, I pulled him toward me, kissed him lightly. "Hi," I said.
"Are you okay?" he asked, resting his hand on my chest.
His thoughts overwhelmed me. So much chaos in his mind about his shows, and Clara, and some boy who sucked him off in the steam room at the gym. I tried to focus in on any thoughts or guilt he might have about Malcolm and the poison, but quickly discovered I couldn’t probe his thoughts, only hear what he was thinking at the moment.
I considered his question. Was I okay? I surveyed how my body felt. Perfect, but exhausted. I spent a moment in my head. I still felt a little confused. "I'm getting better, still a little out of it. What time is it?" It was dark in the room except for the glow from the street light protruding through a separation in the curtains. I reached for Aristotle, and he remained pressed up against me.
"It's late. You're still dressed?" He started to unbutton my shirt.
"I certainly hope..." I started in a husky voice, but everything seemed too much to me. I allowed my eyes to close again, I drifted off into that place of nothingness.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The house was dark when I woke. I slipped from Sam's embrace. I was naked, but couldn’t tell or remember if we’d had sex. I donned a robe, headed for my office. I used the bathroom there, instead of the one in the master suite. I didn't want to wake Sam.
My throat parched, I cupped water from the faucet into my mouth. I splashed the final handful over my face. I looked in the mirror at a younger man. It was me ten or fifteen years ago. I blinked a few times, refocused, still the younger me blinking back. Thoughts of Dorian Grey filled my head and I wondered if there was some photo in an old album that held my actual appearance.
"Muriel? What's this about?"
"Healing is a wonderful thing," she said, a wink in her voice.
I headed out of the office, noting it was 4:44 on the digital clock on my desk.
The house was silent; the men in my life were asleep. Aristotle followed me to the kitchen; I was famished. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten anything. I pulled sandwich fixings from the fridge.
"Duke? Do you need something?"
His use of my name sounded awkward in my ear. I turned to find a groggy Malcolm standing in the backstairs’ doorway in a scrawny robe and beat up slippers. "No, my friend. Please go back to bed. I'm just going to make a sandwich, spend a moment alone."
"If you're…" he yawned, "if you're sure?" Malcolm didn't wait for my answer, just turned head upstairs.
“Wait.” Shouting messages filled my head.
He turned toward me.
I calmed myself. I didn’t want to panic the older man, but knew I had to share the information I’d received. “Have you been taking some pills or medication? Something that’s new to you?”
Malcolm was silent for a long moment. “Yes,” he said. “Sam said it was the same stuff his father took every day. That it helped with his Mad Cow. Some herbal thing from...Argentina...or is it Chile?”
“Stop taking it. Do you hear me? Throw the bottle away...wait, don’t throw the bottle away, leave it right where it is, but never touch it again.” That’s how the poison was entering his system, those pills. I didn’t know if the words were my own thoughts or supplied by my team.
“Are you okay, Sir?” Malcolm was more awake now.
“I’m feeling better than I have in days. Maybe ever.”
“You look so much younger.” He stepped back into the kitchen and studied my face.
“Just stop taking the pills, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Now, go back to bed.”
He turned away finally and I listened to his feet shuffle up the stairs.
So, that explained the how, but why was Sam poisoning Malcolm. And, was the story true? Did his father really take the same drug? Did Sam even know that he’d been poisoning Malcolm? I turned my focus to my team, but they were silent.
I sat at the kitchen table and ate, sharing bites of my sandwich with the dog as I looked out the window. We'd done nothing in the back alley patio. It was filled with odds and ends, debris, a bit of trash that had blown in. That was a project that would need to be tackled. Strange that after all these years we hadn't bothered to deal with that, take advantage of the large, outdoor space, which was a commodity in New York City.
My thoughts continued to wander as the sun lightened the sky. I wondered how the general was doing. I hadn't heard from him since my hospitalization. The queen hadn't called me or the dictators. I hoped their worlds were working well for them. I'd missed two Wednesdays worth of calls, too. I hoped my clients were okay with the rescheduling. Sam hadn't talked much about his shows, the new one or the current one. All I knew about them was from the overwhelming apprehension within his thoughts. I wondered how Lola and my father were faring with his newfound health.
For a long time, I've thought that there wasn't really anything in my life, that I didn't actually do anything. I talked to people, connected them with the other side, “predicted” a little of the future. I didn't make anything. I didn't produce anything. I was simply, how did Muriel phrase it? I was just the middle man.
Sure, I was wealthy. I could do anything? I could go anywhere? But, I didn't. I hadn’t traveled in ages. Instead, I sat at home, talked on the phone, and occasionally had people pass through my life for parties, sex. I gathered to me the strays: artists, musicians, writers, actors. I nudged them together, helped them meet the “right” people. Sent them back out into the world. For so many years that was a fun game, but now...it simply didn’t feel like enough. I didn't have much set up to look forward to. I wasn't planning for anything or preparing for anything. I wasn't really doing anything.
These thoughts, these ideas in my head, this self-pity and self-wallowing, felt strangely familiar. I worked hard to think back. Sure, all of these things, this personal crisis, these were thoughts I'd had when I was…fifteen years younger. That's when I bought the house, to mix things up, to give myself something to do. Mostly, to play out a fantasy.
What was going on? Why was I back to this moment in time? I surveyed the kitchen with its hardwood cabinets and glass drawer pulls. I hadn’t made up the last fifteen years. Yet, nothing had really changed at all for me? Had I changed? No, I hadn't. I was fifteen years older; I lived in a nicer place. I had a butler and nice things, more money than I could ever spend. But, I was exactly the same. But, yet, I wasn’t.
Well, there was Sam. I loved Sam. Well, I thought I did until the poisoning came to light. I was rather sure that he loved me, too. His life was exciting. He was young and everything was still new to him. New people, new projects. He was bringing some of that into my life. Some of his life was my life. Yet, now I discovered that he was trying to kill Malcolm and didn’t know why. My team offered no explanation.
My thoughts drifted to Harry. Was he okay? Would he hang on long enough to get through this rough patch? I searched the canvas of light specks for him, for his team; the entities there remained at a great distance from me. I wanted to sleep with Harry, but he was so young, nearly twenty years younger than me. Was that the answer? Getting rid of Sam and then hooking up with Harry?
Was that enough?
A resounding "NO" filled my head.
It was time for me to find something that was mine, something that I wanted to do next. I needed, no I wanted a new intention, a new direction.
These thoughts weren't from fifteen years ago; it was fourteen. I thought about the date. It was fourteen years to the day, to the minute. I looked around the room, happy to see that it was as I'd expected. But something else had happened, too, to bring back all these feelings and emotions.
I called for my team.
They were silent.
I placed my plate in the sink, opened a new can of diet soda, walked from room to room of the first floor. The morning light, growing brighter now, illuminated only a few things, the crystals on the dining room chandelier, a few spots in two paintings caught the light, a s
ilver frame on the parlor mantle. I couldn’t make out the picture it contained, but fondly remembered the day in the park Ariel had snapped the photo of me and Aristotle. As the sun rose a little higher, a few more objects caught the light.
Sitting in a wingback, I contemplated the rising light. How, one moment one object is barely visible, then it's a shadow, finally it takes shape and form. Our lives are like that. That's something I had learned over the years. One part of us takes the fore, then another. We rarely see ourselves as an entire being or entity. No, it's all about the momentary focus and where we notice the light shining.
I hadn't lost my mind or my connections. No, it was rather like the mental rewind button had been hit. I hoped I didn't have to relive all of it. Not that it was all bad, but moving backward never feels right. Yet, it was clear to me now that I'd missed something. I didn't yet know what, but something needed a little illumination. Something in my life, something I'd avoided, needed to take the fore. I only wished I knew what it was.
Chapter Twenty Four
Ariel arrived at the house bright and early with her black lab Patches in tow. Aristotle, always happy to see Patches, barked, wagged his tail, and raced in tight circles around the other dog. I believe that the two pooches hold a deep connection similar to the one Ariel and I feel, like we knew each other in past lives.
While Ariel waited in the parlor, her favorite room in my house, the dogs bound up to the second floor to claim me. I hadn't slept since waking in the middle of the night. I was still in my funk. But, I’d showered and dressed, and physically, at least, I felt better.
"Coming!" I shouted down the stairs. I turned back toward the bedroom—I'd forgotten my watch—and ran into Malcolm. I hadn't heard him come up to me.
"Sorry, Duke," he said, his eyes cast down to the floor.
I'd told him to call me Duke, instead of Sir, but I was having second thoughts. I liked the distance that the title "Sir" gave us. I’d never realized before how well that three-letter word defined our relationship. I chose not to say anything. It wasn't that I felt intimidated, but I did feel weird revoking the privilege.
The Middle Man [A Broadway Romance] Page 17