Reverb

  Uncertain of what to say or do, Martin stands there watching. He’s never seen James break down before. Never seen any man come apart like James was. He shoots John a quick glance, but John is fixed on James. Kate stares down at James, too.

  Martin kneels in front of him and speaks softly. “It’s okay, James…” He touches James’ arm lightly, but James hits his hand away—hard. Martin falls back and lands on his butt. He sits there stunned and feeling stupid.

  “Sorry. You okay?” Again, James’ grin touches insanity. “I’m okay. Really. Don’t worry about me.” He laughs again. “Sorry. I’m not crazy. I’m not.” His breathing comes in quick quivers. His face is tear-streaked and chalk white. Eyes dart to John and then to Kate, and stay on her for a moment, then he looks back down. “Please, go. Leave me alone.” James sits on the floor, his back to the wall, knees to his chest.

  Martin looks up at John and John nods, then he looks at Kate. She’s still fixed on James.

  James stares at the ground. “Get out!”

  John touches her arm, grips it lightly and guides her towards the door. Martin gets up, looks down at James who stares at the floor. He waits a few awkward moments then finally leaves, follows John and Kate down the hall as he tries to control his breathing and slow his pounding heart.

  “I’m calling Shelly Pasquel to see about getting James over to Mt. Sinai.” John says it definitively as he pulls his cell from his lab coat pocket when he enters the kitchen. He has that directed efficiency about him, where he forgets to factor in feelings.

  “John, wait a minute. We need to talk about this. I think it’s a bad idea.”

  “You’re not a doctor, Martin. You’re not a psychiatrist, and neither am I, and James needs a psychiatrist now.”

  “Didn’t you hear what he said? He just got out of being locked up. He’s running. He’s scared. Getting him locked up again my not be the best way to help him, John. James isn’t a manic depressive teen. Not everyone is Phillip, you know.”

  Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say.

  John glares at him. “What do you want me to do, Martin? Your friend is laying in there half dead, and I don’t think he gives a damn whether he recovers or not. Do you understand that? He’s still suicidal. I can see it. He should be in a hospital where they can get him on the right medications to balance him out.”

  “Or zombify him.”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic.”

  “I’m not. Thorazine, Lithium, all that crap does is numb your brain.”

  “James is ill, Martin. He’s distraught, maybe delusional. He just admitted to being hospitalized, probably for attempting suicide. Do you have any idea what the stats are for a long life with people who seriously attempt suicide? Of course you don’t. You write show tunes for a living.”

  Martin looks at Kate standing near the butcher block island, flashes her a small, apologetic grin, then turns back to John. “He’ll never agree to it.”

  “I don’t care.” John snaps back.

  “You lock James up and you may be hurting him more than helping him. You ready to shoulder that, John.”

  John glares at him. “Damn you, Martin. We let him walk out of here now and it’s like letting a drunk get behind the wheel.” He stays fixed on Martin another second then turns away in frustration.

  “Let me talk to him, John. Find out what is going on before you do anything.” Martin waits for John's response but gets none. “I'm going to talk to him,” he says definitively as he passes John, and stops in front of Kate. “You okay, honey?”

  She nods. She doesn't look okay. Her freckled face is ashen. She hugs herself with bare arms, the thin spaghetti straps of her camisole hang on her bare shoulders.

  “Well, come in. Sit down,” and he indicates the kitchen table tucked into the glass breakfast nook. “John will get you your promised cup of coffee. I'll be back in a jiff. Hopefully with a reality check.” Martin flashes John a quick glance. John scowls back at him as Martin leaves him in the kitchen with Kate.

  Chapter Three

  Thunder rumbles close by as Martin walks down the hallway. He’s blinded by lightning through the bay windows as he enters the guestroom. Thunder cracks an instant later. Storm cell is passing overhead. Lightning strikes again and this time lights up James standing five feet from him, in front of the bay windows looking out. He glows for an instant, translucent, like a ghost. After-image of him standing there, shirt hanging open, practically bare to the waistband of his low slung jeans remains when Martin blinks.

  “You okay?” Martin feels anxious seeing him standing after John repeatedly said he should not.

  “Yeah. Sorry about earlier.” James holds his ribs and stands slightly hunched as he stares outside. “This is wild. The air is electric.” His voice is soft, filled with wonder. “Feel that?”

  Fine hairs on Martin’s skin feel like they’re standing up. “Yeah.” Thunder cracks and crackles so loud it shakes the windows. “Cool.” He flips on the Tiffany lamp on the small Mission table between them. “So, how do you feel?”

  “Like shit.” He whispers then shoots Martin a quick grin. “I’m okay.”

  “Really. You look like hell, well, for you.”

  James laughs. “Thanks, Martin.” He squints at the light then looks back outside.

  “Want to tell me what’s going on, James?”

  “Not really.”

  He watches James stare out the windows and feels uncertain how to proceed, then decides on the direct approach. “Is it true you were busted for speed at Heathrow on your way home from Ian’s funeral?”

  Lightning crackles horizontally over the valley, spreads like a million tiny fingers.

  “Wow! See that?” James whispers in amazement, just like a kid.

  “Yeah.” Thunder booms. “Is the rumor true, James?”

  He half-laughs, shakes his head. “Is that what you heard? That’s what everyone thinks?”

  Window resonates with the wind as it howls through the split redwood frame.

  “D-major. Hear it?” James grins at Martin, then it’s gone and he looks back out. He seems a million miles away, and for a moment Martin sees the old James, lost in his head.

  Martin stares at him. Ace bandage wraps his ribs to his waist, accentuating the muscles of his chest and arms. Stacked abs peek through and below the bandage. His hands are shoved deep in the pockets of his worn jeans, pulling the waistband down in front, exposing his bellybutton and the graceful line of his pelvic bones. And even though he knows it was completely inappropriate, Martin wants to jump him.

  Lightning crackles across the valley again. James startles from the clap of thunder that follows. He glances at Martin with a quick, demented laugh.

  “I’ve become a bit jumpy.” He flashes a twisted grin.

  “I can see that.” Martin meets his black-eyed stare. And the old James is gone. The James he knew was casual and confident—to the point of arrogant. The James who showed up this evening seems positively unhinged. He’s the same exquisite work of art, but Martin does not know this man. “God, someone really messed with you, didn’t they?”

  James stares out at the storm. He nods slightly. “You think I’m crazy, Martin?” He whispers the question. The James he knew never would have asked it.

  “You mean now, or have always been?”

  James smiles. “Let’s start with always.”

  “I’m not qualified to judge crazy, James. But I recognize obsession. I’ve lived it, with you at times. Actually, anytime with you.”

  James scoffs, then looks at Martin. “That wasn’t obsession. It was love.”

  “That’s not love, James. Music can’t love you back.”

  His expression hardens and he looks back out. “Yeah… I got that, alone in hell...” He stands stone still, completely absorbed in his thoughts, but not like the old James—clearly rapt in the sounds he created. Now his face is expressionless, like a mask on top of many.

  Thunder rumbles but it's
distant. Storm cell is passing. Half-moon peeks out and lights the rolling hills of vineyards in deep blues. Ambient light cast James in marble, like a Greek god. But then Martin notices him trembling. And the indestructible archetype is gone.

  “Do you think you’re crazy, James?”

  He shoots Martin a quick look, then turns away, pulls the blanket off the bed and wraps it around his shoulders. He stares outside. “I know what crazy is. I lived it, with it for the past thirteen months.” He gives a dismissive laugh and shakes his head slightly. “I’ll admit to being obsessed, but I don’t think I was crazy. I don’t know if I am now. I may be.” Another quick, derisive laugh. “They tried to make me crazy.” He speaks as if to himself. “I know John thinks I’m crazy.”

  “John thinks you’re still suicidal.” Martin waits for a reaction but gets none. “And I must admit, I’m concerned, too, after seeing what you did to yourself. Care to fill me in on the accuracy of John’s assessment?”

  James looks at Martin and cocks his head. “What’s the deal, Martin? What difference does it make to you? I mean, really? We haven’t seen each other or worked together in years. If we never saw each other again, what impact would it have on your life? Honestly, why does it matter?”

  “Jesus, James. What the hell kind of question is that? How long have we been friends?”

  “Is this a test?” Soft smile on his face. “I don’t know, Martin. But we’ve known each other a long time.”

  His comment cut. It was careless, and so James. “Fifteen years. You’ve been a part of my life for fifteen years. Whether by default or design, you’ve affected it. I’ve done some of my best work with you. You got me my first Broadway gig, and my first Tony nomination for Christ’s sake.”

  “You’re a talented composer, Martin. It was always a privilege working with you.”

  Martin softens. “And for me, with you, James.”

  Sad smile dances across his full lips. He stares out the bay windows at the blue valley. He looks like a monk, or one of those young fantasy novel heroes. “We made some good music together.” James whispers, as if to himself again.

  “And we’ll make more down the road—”

  He laughs, like Martin is absurd.

  Martin finds it deeply disturbing. “Are you looking for permission to kill yourself?”

  James shoots him a black-eyed stare.

  “I’m not going to give it to you, James.” Martin stares back at him. “You impact everyone you touch whether you acknowledge it or not. You’ve affected my life way beyond just music. I mean, John and I might not be together today if it weren’t for you, and that time up in the Hampton’s.”

  He stares at Martin blankly. Obviously, he doesn't recall one of the most important weekends of Martin’s life. “Look, I’ve known you to be incredibly perceptive and brutally accurate when you’re paying attention. The trick has always been getting your attention.”

  Rain begins again, and within moments sheets the windows encasing the room. James stares out. “I pay attention, Martin. I just never cared to engage.”

  Again his sharp edge cuts. Martin is nothing more than a colleague, one of many to the man. He sighs, exasperated. “You know, I hope sooner rather than later you’ll discover how magnificent your life can be when you let yourself be touched by the people in it.”

  James narrows his eyes on Martin. “Is this an inquisition?”

  “Think of it more like an intervention.” Martin smiles to lighten the tension. It doesn't.

  “It’s harsh, man. And not true.” He runs his fingers through his hair and stares out. “I’ve just been better with music than people.”

  “Because you want to be, James.”

  He shoots Martin a sideways glance. “You sound like Julia.”

  Martin laughs. “I’ve often been accused of sounding like a woman.”

  James smiles, but it doesn’t last. “Have you heard from her?”

  “Only once. She was calling around, looking for you.”

  “When?”

  “It was winter, around this time last year, I think.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Just what I’d heard—either you were busted for speed in England, or you were doing a studio gig at Apple with Phil Sinclair.”

  James looks down, pulls the blanket around him tighter and huddles in it, like it's a cave. “Damn lies, stats and rumors.” Again he seems to speak to himself.

  “Wait a minute, James. We had no idea where you really were.”

  “I used to wonder if anyone was looking.”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t. There was no reason to. Julia confirmed what I’d already heard—that the Zone guys went with Mike Pearson to finish their release after a call on your behalf from some renowned lawyer in Britain. We assumed it’s where the rumor started. I told her I thought you offered the gig to Pearson to work with techno-punk Phil on the Pandora release.” Martin smiles at his characterization. James does not. “Look, even at worst, and you were busted, you’d have been held up for a month or two, got out and absorbed in working again. Honestly, I thought it was bullshit, and that you were in London, working with Sinclair.”

  He smiles. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Martin.”

  “You know, just as a heads up—Julia said she didn’t believe the rumor either. She thought you were working, too. The articles in the rags, the Mirror and E!, were all reporting you were at some rehab for the rich and famous for a month. When she didn’t hear from you, she was sure you started working in London, your way of cuing you guys were through. She told me about the fight, right before the funeral.” Martin waits for James to respond, but he doesn't. “I think she was afraid of chasing after you, of looking pathetic since you never let it be more than a casual thing.”

  James shakes his head. “I wasn’t the only one in that relationship, you know.”

  “What does that mean, exactly? Can you honestly tell me you made a concentrated effort to keep that relationship vital?”

  “No. Probably not.”

  “Probably? Julia body slammed you at the Palisades studio, grabbed you by the hair and smashed your head into the wall to get your attention.”

  James laughs. “She was just screwing around.”

  “You still don’t get it, do you? Our dear Julia carried out a fantasy many of us harbored towards you James.”

  James scowls at him. “Well, since I no longer hear music in my head, you’ll be pleased that I don’t hang out there anymore. You have my attention, Martin, just above the screaming.”

  Martin stares at him. What is he supposed to say to that? “Screaming isn’t good. The dreams probably won’t go away either until you deal with whatever happened to you, find a way to live with it and move on. You won’t get away with trying to bury it.”

  “Watch me. I bury it or it buries me. It’s warped and distorted and I just want it to go away. Dissecting the past won’t change it.”

  “It may help you come to terms with what happened, and why. Nothing happens in a vacuum, James.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Martin hesitates. The path he’s taking James down might not be the best one right now. James seems on the edge of contained, and Martin doesn’t want to push him over.

  James glares at him. “Straight up, Martin. What are you getting at?”

  Still Martin hesitates, but with James staring at him, waiting, there seems to be no turning back. “Remember Ian’s funeral? I do. You couldn’t stand still. At the grave site you were actually rocking to some tune in your head. That’s pretty far gone, even for you. It was your brother’s funeral, James. You should have been paying attention.”

  His eyes narrow to razor slits. “So you’re saying this is all my own fault?” James holds the blanket to his shoulders like a cloak, and paces a few steps, then stops and glares at Martin again. “Well, screw you, Martin. Nothing I’ve done justifies what they did to me. They may have robbed me my ability to ever p
lay music again.” He glares at Martin across the room. “Damn you…! You say ‘move on.’ To what? If I’m not a musician anymore, than what the hell am I?”

  Rain pelts the window pane in a soft, even rhythm. James stares at him waiting for an answer, but Martin feels afraid to say anything.

  James stays on him, his black eyes piercing, then he sighs, shakes his head slightly and turns back to the bay windows. “I’m sorry. I’m tired.” He stares outside through the blurry silvery ribbons streaking down the three giant panes. “Relax, Martin. I won’t lose it again.”

  Again the Greek statue comes to mind, especially with the blanket around him like a hooded cape. But then Martin sees the tears streaming down his face and the classic image is replaced with the lost man before him. “You can be whatever you want to be, James. Music doesn’t have to be all there is. You just made it that way.”

  He wipes his tear-streaked face on his hand then looks back at Martin. “I’ve just spent three hundred and ninety-five days in hell repenting for my sin of omission. Does that satisfy you, Martin?”

  “Only if you learned something, James.”

  James stares back out but Martin catches the hint of a smile. Hail begins hitting the windows. Little white balls strike the glass with pings, slide down the panes and gather on the weathered frames.

  “I learned many things,” James whispers. “Things I never knew, I never wanted to know. They tortured me, raped me, kept me isolated for weeks at a time. I’ve been intimate with Lonely, and a blackness I never knew existed. And now I know fear. It’s pervasive.” He glances around the room, then looks at Martin. “The weird thing is, I see things like before, only now I feel them too, more viscerally than ever before. I get you’re afraid for me, even of me right now. I can feel your anxiety, like it’s inside of me. I feel everything now, except the tips of my fingers.” He holds his hand up in front of him and rubs the tips of his long, slender fingers together. “And I don’t know how to live like this.” His jaw line hardens and hollows his cheeks.