Barrett Fuller's Secret

by Scott Carter

  “Then I’d love to, but only if I can pay.”

  Twenty-Two

  The stress of being extorted makes Barrett crave distractions, so he transforms the putting green at the northern tip of his compound into a makeshift shooting range. Two mannequins, both dressed as soldiers, sit in the sand trap, and Barrett and Richard stand fifteen yards away with their guns pointed straight at them.

  Richard is excited but nervous. “I’ve never fired one of these before.”

  “Me neither, but it’s just a paintball gun. Point the barrel and squeeze the trigger.” Barrett lights a cigarette and takes a moment to enjoy the sun’s warmth as a cloud passes it by. “All right. Who is your mannequin?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean who are you shooting at? It’s more fun when you’re releasing frustration.”

  “Who is yours?”

  “Someone who has been sending me some nasty letters.”

  “Like complaints?”

  “Sort of. Now, who is yours?”

  “My psychiatrist.”

  “Then say goodbye to your shrink.”

  Barrett shoots a paintball that splatters red against the mannequin’s camouflaged chest.

  The boy lowers his gun. “Did you read my story?”

  Barrett fires again, this time hitting his own target in the face. “I did.”

  “And?”

  Barrett squeezes the trigger twice more before answering without taking his eyes off the mannequin. “And it’s better than I expected. You’re a creative kid.”

  “Really?”

  Barrett stops shooting and flicks his butt into the sand trap. “Yeah, most adults can’t write as honestly as you do, but you need to activate the honesty in your writing and use some of it in your real life.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s not good to hold in stress.” He points to his forehead. “It’s why your brow’s furrowed all the time.”

  “How do I activate honesty?”

  Barrett gestures to the mannequin. “With your shrink, to start. You obviously don’t like going to him, but have you ever told him?”

  Richard soaks in Barrett’s words. Everything about the tone empowers him, and he watches with admiration as Barrett raises the paintball gun and unloads on the mannequin until it is covered in red paint.

  In the afternoon, Richard carries his uncle’s words to his therapy session. Dr. Burns sits on his stool and rolls his shoulders. A v-neck sweater is pulled halfway up his forearms, exposing his overly hairy arms. Richard sits beside his mother, who can’t hide the worry on her face.

  Dr. Burns drops Richard’s coverless journal on the table between them. “Lots of writing, lots of make-believe, but still no journals, I see. Can you tell me why you won’t give this a try?”

  “I remind him all the time,” Carol interjects. “But he’s taken to writing short stories.”

  “I love your support, Carol, but this works better if Richard answers for himself. Are you writing short stories, Richard?”

  Richard doesn’t respond.

  “Because that’s excellent. It means you can easily write journals. Self-reflection is an important tool for you to help yourself. If you start writing journals you’ll see ...”

  Richard interrupts with a primal, ear-piercing scream. This is loud, this is shocking, this is a year of frustration hoping to break the sound barrier. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Richard gets up, picks up the dish of candies on the table and throws it across the room, where the bowl hits the wall and scatters red and white mints through the air. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” He looks like he might charge Burns until his mother restrains him, and when all the adrenaline is gone, he collapses into her arms, and she hugs him so tight it hurts.

  Barrett paces in the first floor of his house while on his cell phone. He looks at the giant cylinder fish tank in the centre of the room that is large enough to snorkel in and fears he won’t be able to afford such extravagances much longer.

  “I am willing to come down, but seventy-five under asking is crazy. Remember, this was Sinatra’s Lamborghini.”

  He stops talking when he sees Carol on the video monitor standing at the front gates. He buzzes her in and returns some of his attention to the phone. “You can have the car for seventy-five less. You’re an asshole and Sinatra will haunt you, but you can have the car. But I’ve got to go, I’ll call you back.” He closes the phone and walks outside to greet her.

  Panic that Richard has been in an accident leaves him tingly, and when he sees that she is upset, his throat tightens.

  “Is everything okay?”

  It’s a stupid question, but he prays for a positive answer until he notices that she is upset with rage and not sadness. He feels relieved for a moment until she speaks.

  “I can’t believe you’d tell Richard to tell off his therapist.”

  “What?”

  “How do you tell a child to trash his therapist’s office?”

  “Whoa. I told him to be honest.”

  She is so worked up, her eyes flutter and the words leave her mouth in rapid fire. “You should know he’s susceptible to male influence right now. What kind of a role model are you? What kind of a man are you that you give a kid advice like that?”

  “I know you’re upset but ...”

  “You’re an asshole. You wanted to spend time with him and I knew better, but I hoped the man I know you can be would show up for him. And then ...” Her voice trails off into a whisper. She swipes at the air with a backhand and leaves Barrett alone. He has spent a lot of time alone over the years, but this time he feels his insignificance.

  A feeling of overwhelming emptiness brings him to the beach. If he’s going to be extorted, lose his possessions, and disappoint his sister then he needs to put those emotions into a story. Only he can’t write a word, so he heads to the beach for inspiration. He believes this is where all his best ideas come from, but more realistically, this is a place that relaxes him enough to do the emotional mining that writers do.

  Perched below the city, looking at water that seems to go on forever, it is easy to imagine that he is somewhere else, and once his imagination gets going, the ideas flow like thousand-dollar champagne.

  But the ideas aren’t flowing today. The sun shines strong and the water moves rhythmically, but his mind is too backed up with stress to be creative. He squeezes a mini-recorder in one hand, and an empty notepad and tennis ball sit beside him. It has been a while since he’s moved, and his free hand begins to drum on the bench.

  “Think like a kid.”

  He grabs the tennis ball and walks to the adjacent brick wall of a boat club. Three storeys of red brick with the sun illuminating every detail.

  “Think like a kid. Think like a kid. Booger.”

  He fires the ball at the wall and catches the rebound.

  “Fart.”

  This throw is even harder, forcing him to backpedal to catch the rebound. He cocks back to throw again but notices someone staring at him. A black kid about Richard’s age watches him from his dirt bike about ten yards back on the boardwalk. They look at each other for a moment, and Barrett notes that the kid has wise eyes before pivoting back to the wall and throwing the ball again. What he doesn’t see is the kid get off his bike, set it on the ground, and walk over to him. Another catch, and Barrett turns to see the kid beside him with his arm holding out an envelope. A ripple of unease runs through Barrett’s body. He looks to see if anyone is watching them before taking the envelope from the kid. While he examines its generic style, the kid hustles back to his bike.

  “Wait a minute.”

  Despite Barrett’s plea, the kid begins to bike down the boardwalk.

  “Who gave you this?” Barrett holds the envelope up high before jogging after the kid. “Stop.”

  For a moment it looks like he might catch up until the bike gains speed and Barrett’s tar-filled lungs begin to tire, leaving him to watch as the kid slowly disappears
into the distance.

  Winded and sweaty, Barrett looks down at the envelope then opens it to see another letter. OPPORTUNITY #5: HONESTY. “And only when Mil told the truth did he realize that there had been a veil over his thoughts.”

  Barrett knows this is from his second book, and he remembers writing the sentence on a bench about twenty yards down the beach from where he now stands. Having his writing used against him is infuriating, but he reads on.

  You have twenty-four hours to record yourself admitting to your publisher that you’ve been having an affair with his wife and then upload your admission to me or I will expose you to the world.

  Barrett’s eyes fill with panic. This is the worst-case scenario. He imagines the lake rising up on him like a tsunami before heading for Sidney’s office and tries to figure out who knows he has had sex with Don’s wife, when he remembers that Martin Brouge saw him leaving the pool shed the night of Don’s disco party. Rage runs through him so strongly, he struggles to hold the wheel steady. He enters Sidney’s office to find him in the downward dog position during a private yoga session with a stunning Japanese woman in her forties.

  “I need a minute.”

  Sidney nods to the instructor, who huffs and flashes Barrett a dirty look on her way out.

  Barrett holds up the latest extortion. “Martin Brouge is the one putting me through this hell.”

  “And why would a man that prestigious want to extort you?”

  “Because he’s jealous.”

  “He’s one of the most popular authors of his generation.”

  “Of my sales, my money. That prick found out who I am, and he can’t take that I’m making more money than him.”

  Sidney wipes his face down with a towel. “It’s a stretch. What’s got you so worked up?”

  “You think he just happened to be at Don’s house asking if I still write? And then today, he showed up looking to buy the Lamborghini.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t sell it to him.”

  “Of course I didn’t, but the point is, how did he even know it was for sale?”

  “What an asshole.”

  “And now he’s going after my publisher.”

  “You need to relax, regain your focus.”

  Barrett hands Sidney the extortion letter. Sidney reads the next demand and looks up from the paper.

  “You need to panic. I’m talking five-alarm blaze.”

  “I am.”

  Sidney passes him back the demand. “You understand you can’t do this?”

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  “Don can out you as fast as this extortionist.”

  “Only he makes too much money off me to ever do that.” Barrett tries to offer a look of confidence, but seeing the worry on Sidney’s face confirms that the worst has indeed arrived.

  Twenty-Three

  All this stress makes Barrett want to smoke a joint. Anything to forget for a moment that he’s being extorted, anything to introduce a moment of levity into the muck of his reality. Of course it is his incessant need for levity that led to having sex with his editor’s wife. Don, who took a chance on him when he had nothing; Don, who helped guide every bestseller; Don, who never asks for credit he deserves; Don who made him a multi-millionaire.

  Barrett knows that sleeping with Don’s wife makes him horribly ungrateful. Hell, he knows it makes him a horrible colleague, but it happened, it happened often, and now he has to admit his gluttony. He is resigned to the reality; he just wishes it didn’t feel so bad. Smoking a joint might dull his guilt for a bit, but he figures it’s how the extortionist expects him to react, and he is determined not to let his tormentor win. As he sits cross-legged on his blue felt pool table, he feels the weight of consequences for the first time in years.

  Less than an hour later, Barrett walks into Don’s office, like it is just another afternoon. Another chance to argue about deadlines, push the story further than he is interested, and simplify it for the largest audience possible. He puts a hand into his jacket pocket and touches a mini-recorder. The smile on Don’s face makes it clear that he has no idea what’s coming.

  “Morning Barrett, coffee?”

  Barrett shakes his head. Don is always happy in the morning. Not happy in a jovial way, more happy with himself. And why not? He is two months past his fifty-second birthday and he looks a decade younger thanks to five days a week at the gym, a nightly application of skin cream, and, of course, a little help from the hair dye that leaves his hair the stained brown that only colouring can achieve.

  “Look at this.” He drops a document in front of Barrett. “Another idiot starting a company that charges people to download books. I’ve been in this business thirty years, and it’s never been more difficult. Do you know why I don’t retire?”

  “Because you love books.”

  “I haven’t read a book cover to cover in five years. I do this because of the teamwork.”

  Barrett removes the mini-recorder from his jacket pocket and places it on his thigh beneath the desk. “The teamwork?”

  “I love it. You’ve got all these personalities working together, and you know we don’t always agree.”

  “Rarely agree.”

  Barrett presses the recorder’s button and watches as Don waves an index finger like a conductor.

  “Yet we make it work. And we, in particular, make it work on a multi-million-dollar level.”

  “There’s something I have to tell you, and you’re not going to like it.”

  Don looks at him for a moment and smiles. “Ah-ah-ah. Don’t start talking negotiations with me. That’s what agents are for. I know your contract needs to be renewed, but you’re not just an author to me. I started your career, and you know I’ll take care of you.”

  The irony makes Barrett want to wince, but he knows the time for guilt is long gone. This is about self-preservation now, and there is no point in dragging it out. “I’ve been having sex with your wife for the past three months.”

  Don looks at Barrett for a moment, but more the way he would look at a hyperactive child than with a look of anger. He reaches for his cup of coffee with a snarl.

  “That’s crude, even for you, Barrett. You know I’ve been having problems with Layla in that department. If you feel I’m rambling on, just ask me to stop.”

  “I’m serious.”

  The words leave Don appropriately stunned. Barrett watches as the man looks at him for signs that this is a cruel joke and quickly finds eyes that promise the claim is all too real. Barrett waits for him to respond, but instead he glances at the clichéd framed photo of his wife on a shelf before pacing the length of his desk. When his eyes return to Barrett, they burn with intensity.

  “Why are you telling me?”

  Because I have to, Barrett thinks. But he knows better and says, “It was never in your bed.”

  As the reality sinks in, Don’s face contorts somewhere between anguish and rage.

  “You need to know,” Barrett says, the words more an attempt to convince himself than Don. But Don isn’t listening anymore. He is seething and Barrett is the sole focus of the rage.

  “I started your career.”

  “I know.”

  “I published you when I could have published anybody.”

  “I know.”

  “People have affairs every day without being discovered. Why would you make it so I have to look in her eyes and know?”

  The truth seems appropriate now, so he manages a barely audible, “I have to.”

  “You have to humiliate me on top of betraying me? You let me sit there and confess I’m having problems in bed, and you were having sex with her?”

  “Do you want to hit me?”

  The muscles above Don’s eyes are twitching now. A large vein snaking up his neck bulges, and his face is red. Everything about his posture suggests he does want to hit Barrett and hit him hard, but he settles for slapping the desk with a palm loud enough that Barrett takes a step backward.


  “What I want to do is make sure you never have another word published, but you’re not the only one who would be hurt by that, so I’m going to treat you like you treated me. You will sign a contract for half of your old percentage points and deliver your next book in one week, or I refuse to renew your contract and I’ll spread the word that we did so because there were rumours of inappropriate behaviour with kids on tour.”

  “We just released a book.”

  “And I want the next one in store by summer. I’m scheduling a press conference for Friday, which you will attend under the guise of a marketing executive and announce Niles new book, or I’ll replace you.”

  “Replace me?”

  Don nods.

  “And who could replace me?”

  “Martin Brouge. He has been asking me about getting into children’s lit, and this is the perfect transition point.”

  The name tightens Barrett’s throat like poison. If he is being sent to hell for all of his deeds, now he knows who is Satan. The sun shines as Barrett steps out of Don’s building, but he wishes for rain.

  If Martin Brouge is set to take over his empire, then he doesn’t want a sunny sky or people to pass him with smiles; he wants cracks of thunder, grey that robs everything of detail, and deserted streets.

  He moves with purpose until he sees a plywood wall that guards a construction site plastered with posters. Between a row for a boy band and some for an action movie are ones for Martin’s latest book, Cold Showers Make Me Sleepy. Blown up to this size, the cover looks particularly impressive. A woman with dark hair is drawn so that if you hold the cover straight up she is laughing, and if you turn it upside down, what were her feet on the cover form a vision of her with tears falling down her cheeks. The cover is brilliant and the perfection makes Barrett scream.

  He tilts his head back into the sun. The posters prick at his insecurities, and they make him wonder if this journey of children’s writing involves more luck than talent. The street is quiet now as he stares at the posters, hating every detail until the urge to destroy them takes over, so he charges the plywood and jumps to reach the highest one, ripping it in half. The next moments are a blur and soon his hands are filled with paper, but his rage leaves him clumsy and his motion is so awkward that he almost falls over when a boy about twelve with shoulder-length hair and a skateboard under his arm startles him.