Loving Edits

by Mickie B. Ashling

  “You’re home early,” Baxter commented upon seeing him.

  Paul nodded, took off his jacket, and draped it on one of the chairs at the kitchen table. “Would you please get me a drink?”

  Baxter picked up on his mood immediately and headed toward the fully stocked bar in the living room to get the Scotch. When he returned to the kitchen, Paul was standing by a window with his forehead pressed against the glass. He accepted the drink gratefully and took a few sips of the amber liquid before he spoke.

  “I don’t think I can do this, Baxter.”

  “Do what, sir?”

  “I can’t watch him die. I can’t do it,” Paul repeated emphatically. He was haunted by the memory of Mick in Tono’s arms.

  “Paul,” Baxter said gently, reaching for the glass and drawing his employer into his embrace. Paul began to cry as soon as he felt the familiar arms surrounding him. His sorrow upon hearing the devastating news from Dr. Jordan was finally allowed to surface, and he grieved for the man he loved. Paul’s hope that he and Mick would reunite some day was destroyed by the magnitude of the doctor’s verdict and the knowledge that someone else would be by Mick’s side, not him. His dreams for a future with Mick seemed insignificant considering the uphill battle Mick would be waging against this insidious disease. His feelings of regret for time wasted, and opportunities lost, made it that much harder to bear. Baxter held him until he pulled away. “Is the diagnosis confirmed then?”

  “Yes. He’s got ALS.”

  “I’m so terribly sorry.”

  “So am I,” Paul said, a little embarrassed by his loss of control. He plucked a handful of paper towels off the stainless steel roller, sopped up his wet cheeks, and retrieved the glass of Scotch, draining it in one gulp. “I think I’ll need another, Baxter.”

  Baxter took the glass from Paul’s outstretched hand and left the kitchen. When he returned, Paul was sitting at the kitchen table.

  “Would you like to talk about it?” Baxter asked as he handed over the Scotch.

  “What can I say? I’ve never been so frustrated in my life. I can’t believe that there’s nothing they can do about this disease. How the hell is that possible?”

  Baxter shrugged, “I’m not sure. I don’t know much about ALS, other than it’s fatal.”

  “It’s a fucking disease from hell that can reduce a beautiful, loving man in his prime to a mere shadow of his former self. I don’t see how I can watch Mick turn into that shadow.”

  “Has he asked you for help?”

  “He’s asking in a roundabout way,” Paul said. “I’m supposed to help his current lover finish his book.”

  “What kind of book?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “I don’t understand why he would ask you. Surely there are others he could turn to.”

  “I think this disease has addled his brain.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Paul slammed the heavy leaded crystal glass down on the table. “I don’t know what the fuck he wants from me, Baxter!”

  “Maybe he just needs to be around you. You and Mick have a long history. It’s possible that he’s reaching out to you without saying the words.”

  “He’s got the Spaniard who really loves him, by the way. There’s no denying it. I couldn’t possibly compete.”

  “Why does it have to be a competition?”

  “I won’t be second best, Baxter.”

  “Paul, with all due respect, this isn’t a contest. We’re talking about making a man’s dying days as comfortable as possible.”

  “Why me? I haven’t seen him for seven years.”

  “Who else but you? It seems perfectly logical to me.”

  “I need a refill, please.” Paul handed over the glass. This time Baxter brought the bottle of Chivas to the table and left it, along with a small bucket of ice. He poured a liberal amount for Paul and waited patiently as he took several more sips. “Why does this move seem so logical to you?” Paul asked.

  “You and Mick were partners for what, twelve years?”

  “Something like that,” Paul said, heaving a tremendous sigh. “I can’t believe this is happening, Baxter. I’ve had an ache in my gut since Mick got back.”

  “You still love him,” Baxter said, as if that explained it all.

  Paul shrugged and took another sip. “It doesn’t matter what I feel. He’s in a good relationship, and I would only ruin it for him if I were to act on my feelings.”

  “He obviously still has feelings for you, or he wouldn’t have come to you for help.”

  “His lover is very possessive.”

  “Yet, he’s allowed you into their lives. He and Mick must have some understanding of your role in this, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I don’t know what to think. All I know is that I’ve been asked to edit his manuscript, and it’s killing me because I’ve read one chapter and it’s crap, Baxter!” Paul shifted in the chair and looked up at the ceiling while he kneaded the back of his neck with his free hand. “Mick will never forgive me if I don’t do this, and I would never forgive myself. I hurt him badly once before, Baxter, and I can’t do it again. ”

  “Why did you? You were very much in love with him. What happened?”

  Paul stood quickly, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Very well.” Baxter nodded, silenced by Paul’s statement. He stood to go when Paul reached for him and said, “Please stay. I’m sorry.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for, sir. I had no business asking you that question.”

  “I just can’t talk about that part of my life, Baxter. It’s not something I’m proud of.”

  “Then we’ll drop it.”

  “Should I help them?”

  “That’s not for me to decide. It’s your decision entirely.”

  “I know, Baxter. I’m asking for your expert opinion.”

  “I’m hardly a literary expert.”

  “No. But you’re an expert on Paul Alcott.”

  Baxter’s surprise was painted all over his face. “I’m not sure what you want to hear, Paul. I can only say that you have strong feelings for Mick, and it might be harder to walk away than to stay.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to deal with his sickness, or sit idly by and let them make all the decisions. You know what a control freak I am.”

  “You can make yourself heard without taking over.”

  “When you figure out how to do that, be sure and send me a memo.” Paul snorted. “You know that isn’t going to happen.”

  “I think you should concentrate on the writing and leave the rest to Mick and his partner.”

  “I suppose.”

  “What kind of story is it?”

  Paul raised his eyebrows. “It’s a fucking love story. Sickeningly sweet and riddled with clichés.”

  “You can turn it around.”

  “I don’t know if I want to be associated with anything like that.”

  “You have a brand new GLBT department. There’s always room for one more gay romance.”

  “But not one with my name on it.”

  “I know you can write, sir. Why haven’t you ever written your own novel?”

  “Never thought about it, Baxter.” Paul stood abruptly. “I’m going to bed. Thank you for listening to my tale of woe.”

  “I’m always here to listen, Paul. Would you like me to bring you a tray with a light dinner and maybe a fresh glass and more ice?”

  “That would be great,” Paul said, and turned to head toward his bedroom suite.

  When Paul got to his room, he toed off his shoes and lay down on the king-sized bed. He was a little woozy from the Scotch he’d ingested on an empty stomach, but it was numbness he craved, and it felt good right now. He’d been blindsided by the raw emotion. He couldn’t afford to let this overwhelm him since he was no longer Mick’s partner. What he could do was fall back on what he knew b
est―editing. He would offer his professional advice and support with Tono’s story, regardless of his personal feelings. If nothing else, they could use the manuscript to wallpaper their awful apartment.

  As for the other, well, he’d deal with the medical issues as they arose. His first order of business would be getting the paperwork in place. He made a mental note to have his legal department research whatever was necessary for a medical power of attorney and a living will. Baxter was insane to think he’d relinquish control for even one minute. If it was help Mick wanted, he’d get it in spades.

  Chapter 12

  IT HAD been one week since the appointment with Dr. Jordan. Seven days, and Mick was starting to panic because the episodes of weakness were becoming more and more frequent. He’d fallen several times over the last forty-eight hours. Twice he’d done so in Tono’s presence, which had led to tears of frustration on both their parts, but the other incidents had been private. Each time it came as a big surprise. Even though he knew this was inevitable, the sudden loss of power in limbs that had supported him all his life was terrifying. He’d pause after each fall, willing his body to carry on as if nothing had happened. It was becoming increasingly harder to deny that it took much longer for his legs to respond to his brain. They felt like two tree stumps, unresponsive and leaden, despite the pills he’d swallowed religiously. The Rilutek was supposed to be the wonder drug that would hold off the more devastating symptoms of ALS, but it seemed to be losing its effectiveness. He was now seven months into his disease and on the verge of becoming a paraplegic.

  The only plus this week was a more subdued Paul who had agreed to meet with Tono to try and make some sense of the novel he’d written. Paul had been over twice after work, spending a good hour with the manuscript in one hand and his infamous red pen in the other. He’d leave without saying anything nasty, but the river of red on each page was a testament to what he thought of the piece. Mick had looked over the comments and had to acknowledge that Paul was right on every count, something Tono had yet to come to terms with. He’d peck away at his laptop, attempting to improve a phrase, but in reality, he was floundering. Tono had never failed at anything he’d embarked on, and it was difficult to watch him deal with this new insecurity. Whenever Mick would broach the subject and offer to help, Tono would turn him down.

  Tonight had been a complete surprise and very pleasant. It had started with a great dinner at Eleven Madison Park, followed by complementary theater tickets to Billy Elliot, a sensory delight that entertained him immensely. He loved dancing and Elton John, and to have the combination in one venue was a treat he hadn’t expected. Paul knew how he felt about the British singer and composer and had handed him the tickets last week, nonchalantly, as if they weren’t a big deal; in reality, he’d probably called in several favors to get the prime orchestra seats on such short notice. Tono didn’t like Elton John but was more than willing to accompany him and share the special evening. It had been a long time since they’d done anything spontaneous, and although accepting any sort of gift from Paul was difficult, Tono did admit that it was very generous, especially since Paul was excluded.

  The culmination of the evening was Tono’s surprise―a horse-drawn carriage ride around Central Park after the play. The hour spent in his embrace, enjoying the warm summer night in such a romantic setting, was a memory he would always cherish and file away for future reference. They’d made love when they got home and fallen asleep in each other’s arms.

  MICK was running through the thick, green maze that Paul Sr. had built on the grounds of the Alcott estate. He laughed when Paul tugged at his shirt and ripped it off, begging him to stop. They teased each other with knowing looks and playful hands, well aware of the effect on their bodies. They were hot and sweaty from the chase, and Mick’s heartbeat was no longer silent, making whooshing noises that got louder and louder in his head. Paul tackled Mick and he fell, grappling the ground to try to get away. His arms flailed as he clutched at the grass while Paul hung on to him, making escape impossible. Mick felt like he was dragging boxes filled with leaded weights; attempting to move forward became more and more difficult. He clawed at the earth, watching the tendons on his arms stick out in relief against his tanned skin, yet despite his effort, he couldn’t move his lower body. His legs felt like they were attached to anvils, and when he looked behind him, Paul was no longer there. The solid earth was turning soft and mushy, causing him to sink into the ground. He felt something sucking him down, and the harder he fought, the lower he sank; soon he was waist-deep in gelatinous muck. He tried to hoist himself over the edge of what was turning out to be a pool of sorts, but something kept pulling him down, something cold and clammy against his legs, tugging on them relentlessly. He grunted in frustration, plucking at the vegetation, hoping to free himself, but nothing was happening. He cried out in panic and awoke to Tono’s gentle voice soothing him. “Cariño, wake up. You’re dreaming.”

  Mick struggled in Tono’s arms, clinging to him in desperation as he tried to escape his dream. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. His heart was beating so hard it was practically moving his body. “Tono, what’s happening to me?”

  “You’re dreaming, cariño.”

  Mick was terrified by this helpless feeling. Even Tono’s strong arms and warm body did nothing to snap him out of this nightmare. His senses were heightened, yet each time he shifted to try and sit up, his lower extremities refused to cooperate. His legs felt like they were encased in concrete.

  “I can’t move my legs.” Mick’s shocked voice reverberated in the room as the reality of the situation slammed home. “I can’t move!”

  “Shh… relax, cariño. You’re still in your dream. Take deep breaths,” Tono said calmly, rubbing Mick’s back with strong hands. He could feel Mick’s naked body trembling against his, and he could almost hear Mick’s heart thundering against his rib cage. They clung to each other, hoping this feeling would pass.

  “Tono,” Mick whispered after several minutes.

  “What?”

  “I really can’t move my legs. This isn’t a dream.”

  “No!” Tono protested, mentally unprepared for this progression. He disentangled their limbs and laid Mick flat on his back, massaging each of Mick’s legs forcefully. “Can you feel my hands?”

  “Yes,” Mick said, fighting to hold back the tears, but they began to flow anyway. “I feel everything, Tono. I just can’t move.”

  Tono squeezed harder, hoping to force the muscles back to life, but the finely-formed legs, covered with a light layer of dark hair, were unresponsive. Mick was weeping and clutching at the bed sheet, pulling it over himself as if it could hide him from the reality of the situation. Tono pulled the sheet away from Mick’s face and stared into the magnetic eyes that were wild with terror. He caressed his face and showered him with soft kisses, whispering endearments in Spanish, attempting to soothe and console. Mick had turned into a cold statue underneath him. Tono’s eyes were shining, and he gnawed on his lower lip to keep from breaking down. “What can I do, cariño?”

  “Kill me.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “I want to die.”

  “Please, amor.” His face contorted with grief.

  “Go away,” Mick said, turning to look in the opposite direction. “Leave me alone.”

  Tono left the bed reluctantly and pulled up his shorts. He headed out to the living room, where he picked up the phone and dialed Paul’s private number, which Mick had tacked on the wall. The phone rang many times before the sleep-heavy voice answered. “This is Paul.”

  “Pol, it’s Tono.”

  “What happened?” Paul’s quick response was reassuring.

  “You must come now. Mick cannot walk.”

  THE drive was relatively swift, given the hour. Not too many New Yorkers were up and about at six in the morning on a Saturday, which was a relief. Paul wasn’t in the right frame of mind to deal with gridlock of any sort. He was in full panic mode
but resolute and determined to handle whatever it was that awaited him. He was shocked that Tono had called for help, but he was grateful for the chance to be there for Mick in his hour of need. He parked the car a few blocks from the apartment and all but sprinted down the sidewalk, banging loudly on the door when he arrived.

  Tono yanked it open and stood there in a pair of shorts and nothing else. “Come in.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “He can’t move his legs,” Tono answered, his face grim. “He’s talking suicide.”

  “Fuck that!” Paul walked past him and went straight to the bedroom. Mick was still in bed but leaning up against the headboard, bare-chested. His lower body was covered with a thin sheet, and he looked at Paul with heavy eyes. “Why are you here?”

  “Tono asked me to come.”

  “You can’t help, Paul,” Mick said. “Go away.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” Paul sat on the edge of the bed and held Mick’s hand, squeezing him hard.

  “I don’t want you here.”

  “I’m sorry, but I have no intention of leaving.” Paul was firm, so Mick faced the other way.

  “Mick, look at me.”

  Mick turned, hoping Paul had changed his mind, but he remained steadfast and reached for Mick instead, drawing him closer. He practically melted into Paul’s embrace as soon as he felt the strong arms surrounding him. “Make this disappear, sweetheart.”

  “I wish I could,” Paul said gently. “You have no idea how much I want to make this all better.”

  “I want you and Tono to help me kill myself, or find someone who’ll do it for me.”

  Paul was deeply shaken by Mick’s request, delivered in an unemotional voice. His friend had never been suicidal; in fact, he’d been rabidly against Dr. Jack Kevorkian’s methods when he’d first made headlines in the early nineties. The seriousness of the request led Paul to believe that Mick had been thinking about this for quite some time but had never said it out loud. Was this the real reason he’d come back to America―to get Paul to help him find the means to end his life? If that were so, then he was out of luck; Paul would move heaven and earth to try and save Mick. He would never agree to this, no matter how much he loved him. Paul steadied himself, willing his heart to stop fluttering and his anxieties to recede. He needed to reassure his friend, not freak him out even more by being needy and emotional. “I’m afraid that’s not up for discussion, Mick. We’ll deal with each medical crisis, one day at a time. When did this start?”