Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (3 page)

“If we
couldn't laugh we would all go insane.”

— Robert Frost

~~~

Alcohol floods my
veins. I’m in such a comfortable, happy buzz.

I don’t think
I’ve said this much since I came back to the good ol’ USA. Actually, I don’t
think I’ve talked this much
ever.
André makes it easy. At least two
hours fly by. The whole time we converse about Army life… and I finish most of
the bottle.

We discuss
everything. Food, women (or lack of), humor, my buddies and the games we played
when we had time off.

He laughs
heartily and so do I when I describe some of the superstitions that many
soldiers have, like the guy who survived an assault and decided it was because
he didn’t shave. From then on, he never shaved if he was going on mission.

André’s laugh
makes me smile. It’s rich and uninhibited and his chest and shoulders shake
with open pleasure. Unlike me, he isn’t guarded or secretive. He’s the kind of
guy who doesn’t have to fake anything. I bet he’s comfortable around all sorts
of different people.

I wish I was.

I tell him about
another guy who survived a firefight in a torn pair of trousers. After that,
before any engagement, the guy intentionally tore every pair he had in exactly
the same place.

Occasionally, a
sensitive subject surfaces, darkening my mood.

André steers the
conversation, helping me dance around anything painful. He guides me so
carefully. I feel like I’m walking through a minefield with complete impunity.
He’s right there by my side, directing me.

I know what he’s
doing, and I really appreciate it.

I can’t face much
of anything right now.

I just can’t.

There’s something
calming about André’s voice. It’s deep and velvet smooth, like eighteen year
old Glenfiddich Scotch. His French accent is incredibly appealing. I could shut
my eyes and listen to him talk all night long.

As time passes, I
feel more and more relaxed and happy. I sit back in the lounge and look out
over the bright lights of Vegas. My lips tug up into a slow, easy grin.

I can’t recall
when I last enjoyed
anyone’s
company to this degree. Why is that? Is it
because he’s of a similar age? Or because I’ve always felt more at ease around
men? Frankly, I’m uncomfortable around people in general, but with André, it’s
different. It must be that as a trained counselor, he knows how to get his
clients to talk.

I’m glad I’m
going to be spending more time with him.

“Do you know
you’re the first person I’ve actually discussed Army life with?” I ask.

André gives me a
half bow. “
Merci beaucoup
. I am honored. This has been a delightful
evening. You are a most interesting companion with stories
par excellence
.
I thank you.”

“Tell me,” I ask.
“What sport do you play?”

His thick dark
eyebrows lift in query.

“I mean, you’ve
got to be doing something. You’re fit. Those aren’t gym muscles.”

“Ah! But I do use
the gym,” he says. “And also I train in Brazilian jiu jitsu. But my favorite
sport? It is polo.”

When I smile, the
hardened scars on my face pull tight. I’m grinning so broadly, I feel as if my
skin might tear. I must look like a freak, but I don’t give a shit.

André doesn’t
care either. He sees past my scars.

I shake my head.
Polo. The sport of Kings. Of course, I should have guessed. André’s a Prince.
The guy gallops back and forth trying to hit a little white ball. It’s pretty
funny.

“You any good at
it?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

It’s his turn to
grin. “I am a champion,” he says, without the slightest trace of modesty.

Why is this so
funny? I laugh so hard it hurts. Somehow, that was
exactly
what I
expected him to say. What am I? Psychic? Maybe drinking and talking together
like this is a form of male bonding. For some strange reason, I really
get
this
offbeat Frenchman.

I’ve no idea how
long I’ve been here, but we’ve finished the bottle.

More
specifically,
I’ve
finished the bottle. But I’m not even drunk. I can
hold my liquor. Alcohol is like food to my body now—I don’t get drunk anymore.

When we stand to
leave, André picks up the tab.

“Aren’t I
supposed to be paying you?”

“You are not. Not
yet.”

“Why not?” I ask
as we walk out toward the elevator. No one is around.

“
Mon ami,”
he says. “When one goes to the top floor of a building, they must first enter
from the ground floor.” He shrugs. “Unless of course, one has wings and is able
to fly. They then may enter the building on any floor they choose,
comprenez-vous
?
”

Nope. That sailed
right over my head.

At my blank look,
he explains.

“Grant,
je regrette,
but I fear you are an alcoholic. Rehabilitation from alcohol abuse is a
specialized area and not my field of expertise.”

He hands me a
business card. “I recommend you attend this facility. For you, rehab
is
the ground floor.
This
must be your first step. Once you are in control
of this small problem, then you will come to me to address the larger ones.”

Fuck.

My mind goes into
instant overdrive.

I don’t know if I
can
quit drinking. How will I cope? More importantly, how will I
sleep?
I remember my father’s ongoing issues with alcohol, not to mention my sister’s.

Thinking of my
father sends my mood even lower.
The last thing I want is to have anything
in common with him!

Now, I’m in a
total tailspin. What the hell was I thinking? I can’t possibly talk about my
problems to anyone.

My whole
family’s fucked up. I’m fucked up too.

Everything’s
fucked.

I go from a rare,
relaxed, euphoric high, right down to Hell in the gutter with one fell swoop.

André’s
expression softens to unbearable kindness at my obvious dismay. I meet those
dark knowing eyes of his and quickly look away. His awareness of my unspeakable
inner pain, simultaneously soothes something inside of me, yet burns like fire.

I see one
possible future and it frightens me. Why did I start this? Didn’t I realize I’d
lose it? This man is way too insightful—he knows too much already. If I somehow
manage to stop drinking, will André get me to expose my secrets?

I gasp in a ragged,
tearless sob as my courage breaks. Curbing a near overwhelming desire to
scream, I tense into a wall of unmoving energy. I want to run as fast and as
far as I can, mindlessly fleeing until I drop from exhaustion.

My entire body
trembles. I can’t stand the thought of
anyone
knowing who and what I am.

Not to mention
what I’ve
done.

A shiver runs
through me. I don’t think I can take it.

André reaches out
and his firm hand grasps my arm, grounding me from that moment of near
hysteria. Shutting my eyes for a moment, I absorb his touch, holding on to the
heat and calming energy of him.

He feels like a
lifeline.

“Take heart, my
friend,” he says quietly, in his soothing velvet voice. “Do not despair. You
simply move one step and then another. You keep going. Before you know it,” he
snaps his fingers. “
Voila
. You have arrived. It took more than one day
to arrive at this dark place, no? It will take more than one day to escape from
here.”

The elevator
arrives. Guiding me, supporting me, he wraps an arm around my shoulder. Two
men, one normal and one crazy, we walk into it together like the best of bosom
buddies.

“Be strong,
mon
ami
. I can help you and I will.”

He puts his hand
on his heart dramatically, like pledging allegiance, but it doesn’t seem
foolish. It looks as if he’s making me a promise.

“Together we will
triumph,” he says. “I swear this is so. Grant, you have faced countless enemies
in your life.
Oui, oui,
many dangers and difficult circumstances I do
not doubt. And yet, here you are. You have overcome them all.”

“I’ve tried…” I
start to say, but my voice cracks. My eyes start to burn. I haven’t cried much
throughout my life, even as a child. I was taught only pussies do that—but
right now, I feel like crying.

Ah, Christ.

Can I get any
lower?

At twenty-nine
years old, I’m a pathetic, maudlin and often bitter alcoholic; that’s what I’ve
become. Now, I have to add cowardice to that list.

“With help, you
will succeed,” he assures me, patting my back consolingly. He meets my eyes
then and frowns gravely. “But it is of the greatest importance that you begin
in alcohol rehabilitation immediately,” he says with a serious air.

Is it?

André’s been
carefree over everything I’ve talked about tonight. Nothing’s fazed him. Now
his voice is so solemn. I frown while my muddled mind wonders just what else I
have to worry about.

“Why?” I ask.

“Oh,” André says
blithely. “It is a selfishness, I fear. To me, you are a most interesting case.
I have no wish to wait. Go through rehabilitation quickly and come to me, for I
very much look forward to working with you.”

It takes more
than a moment for me to get that oddball joke.

I finally notice
the mischievous sparkle in his dark eyes. André grins the second he sees that I
get
it. At that exact instant, we both burst out laughing.

Is this French
humor?

André’s so off
the wall. I laugh and laugh until my gut hurts. We point at each other and he
laughs too. It’s not really not
that
funny… but it is.

If I didn’t
laugh, I’d cry.

I’m pretty sure
André knows that.

It’s why he made
me laugh.

André’s not some dumbass
playing mind games and
thinking
he knows what he’s doing. He really
does
know what he’s doing.

I trust this
crazy, unconventional Frenchman. It’s then I realize that with his help, I can
get through this. I won’t lose my mind. Despite all this madness, I’m
not
going
insane.

With his help,
maybe I can pull myself out of this mess.

“Secrets,
silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of our hearts. Secrets weary of their
tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned.”

— James Joyce

~~~

The Captain of
the Airbus, announcing our imminent arrival in Las Vegas, pulls me out of my
memories. Rehab and Alcoholics Anonymous, along with ongoing counseling, has
worked. I’ve been stone cold sober for over three months. I know my weakness.
I’ll never drink a drop of alcohol again.

My plane lands
and the pretty, blonde stewardess meets my eyes.

“Thank you, for
everything,” she says, and her lips curve up in a smile, as she nods her good
bye. I’m shocked when she extends her hand.

I take it. It’s
small, soft and dry. My palm heats with electric pleasure from the kindness of
a woman’s touch. There’s an emptiness inside, I can’t escape—yet with her
willing handshake, for that one moment, my whole world brightens.

Wow.
I
want to grin, but I only give her a half smile back—one that doesn’t pull on my
scars and make me look even more frightening.

I’m surprised by
an intense bubble of joy that floods through me. A moment of true connection
with another human being.

So rare.
So
vital.

I sigh with
satisfaction as I depart the aircraft. Warm feelings of happiness stay with me
during the entire taxi ride to my hotel.

I check in
without incident. The reception staff are professional and accommodating, their
faces composed. The usual shock, horror and pity registers in their eyes, but
at least they’re able to meet my gaze.

I long for just
one person to treat me like a regular guy.

I’m beginning to
think this is an unreasonable expectation.

At least when I’m
with my counselor, I’m able to forget about my scars. They don’t bother him in
the least.

~~~

The next day,
André Chevalier picks me up from my hotel in his cherry-red Ferrari 275 GTB.
It’s a classic, built in 1966. What a sweet ride.

He offers to let
me drive, but I’m not up to handling a high-performance car. My nerves are
shot. Just now, I can't take that kind of responsibility—if I did, I think my
head might explode.

André phoned me
last night and told me to take a sleeping pill and to eat a hearty breakfast.

I can read
between the lines. My counselor’s admonishment to, “Eat and sleep very well,”
can be translated to “We’re going to have a difficult session tomorrow, so
prepare yourself.”

We drive around a
scenic area of Red Rock Canyon National Park and Lake Mead. In my opinion, spring
is the best time of the year to visit Vegas. In April, you can expect warm days
and mild, clear nights.

Today’s an
exception. The morning news stated it would be uncommonly hot today, possibly
reaching 90 degrees.

The cloudless
blue sky is a pretty contrast to the red and brown cliffs. I’m sweating but the
car windows are open, so the rush of air dries any moisture from my button-down
cotton shirt and khaki shorts. With good roads and fantastic scenery, the drive
alone is worth the price of admission. Except for unseasonal heat, the
weather’s perfect.

André’s trying to
chill me out before our session.

It isn’t going to
work.

We stop to hike
off the beaten path in the Rainbow Mountain Wilderness. It’s marked as an easy
walk. We get out of the car, and André slips on the backpack. Too distracted to
offer to carry it, I let him.

I don’t know if
they have boy scouts in France, but if they do, André was one. I’m sure
everything from water to first aid kits and probably even a satellite phone is
tucked away in there.

It’s a dry heat,
but I feel a cooling sheen of sweat on my skin as we begin our stroll in
companionable silence. Juniper and pine trees are dotted along the well-used
path. It’s a trail which can be done in a loop so we get to see different scenery
all the way.

Eventually, we
stop to drink water. We sit in the shade on a log where there’s a nice view of
Lovell Canyon. The desert has a dry beauty, with towering red sandstone cliffs.
Surrounded by cactus trees, sage bush and the occasional chattering squirrel,
we could be the only people in the world.

It’s certainly
private.

A good place to
share secrets, I fear.

André has the car
keys. I suspect he’s not driving me out of here until I spit out the bones of
some skeletons. I force myself to appear composed on the outside.

Inside I’m
squirming.

“My friend,” he
says, slanting me a look. “You have come to visit me on many, oh-so many
occasions. We have discussed much,
oui?”

“Sure”

“And so, do you
not think it is time that you speak to me of what you really wish to discuss?”

“What do you
mean?”

“You know what I
mean.”

I sigh heavily.
“It’s difficult.”

“Do you trust
me?”

“Yes.”

“
Oui, eh bien
.”
He throws his hands into the air. “You embrace this secret so tightly. As if it
is the greatest of lovers, you keep it close. You protect it.”

“No.”

His gaze on mine,
he bends toward me. “
Oui, oui
, it is true!
You
think
you
hold this secret, but
je suis désolé
,
I am most sorry. This secret, it is a tyranny of the soul, for
it
holds
you,
n'est-ce pas?
”

I run my hand
through my hair. The tips of my fingers catch on the thickened skin of my
facial scars. I know that I’d planned to talk about my concerns eventually, but
how the hell do I start?

“My friend,” he
asks in a low, quiet voice. “Have you murdered someone who should not have been
killed?”

Shit.

I school my face
to remain composed, but my heart skips a few beats and then jumps into
overdrive.

Murderer.

My mind’s in a
whirl.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
How did he figure this out? He has no idea how
on target his question is. Except this isn’t what I want to discuss with him.
This is
another
secret I’m hiding.

One I plan to
take to my grave.

Arms crossed,
eyes narrowed, he studies me with his penetrating gaze. Suddenly, he uncrosses
his arms and bursts into unexpected laughter.

“What?” I say,
irritated. I sure as hell can’t see what’s funny.

André shrugs his
shoulders, in that uniquely French way of his. “
Mon ami
, when I have a
client who is unwilling to speak to me of his or her transgressions, I use what
I have christened, “The Murder Technique.” It is when I ask them if they have
killed someone.”

“OK.”

“And always, when
I ask this, my client will reply, “But no! I only stole from them!” Or they
will speak of some lesser crime, like destroying another’s valuable possessions
for revenge, or sleeping with another man’s wife,
comprenez-vous?”

Despite the
excruciatingly awkward circumstance, I feel an amused smirk begin to twitch my
lips.

Grinning, André nods.
“Just so. For the first time, I ask this question and you
have
murdered
someone. But… it is during war, in the service of your country, I think?”

My jaw tightens.
It wasn’t during war, but I say nothing.
I’ll never tell.

“Do you wish to
speak of this?”

“No.”

“
Bon.
” He
nods once more. “Very well then, for this is not to our purpose. For months,
you have chosen to remain silent.” He throws one elegant hand up in the air.
“It is enough! Let there be truth between us now. This shame has held you for
far too long.”

Our eyes meet and
I say nothing.

I’m not sure I
can.

“Courage, my
friend. You have always intended to tell me of this great secret of yours.”
André stands up and turns in a circle. “Here—” he gestures to the wide-open
country before us—“here and now is the perfect moment to do it.”

I shift
restlessly as the log I’m sitting on is suddenly uncomfortable. Even in the
shade, the sun is searing and relentless—yet this heat I’m feeling comes from
inside. I suppress the impulse to get up.

To move.

To run.

I stare off into
the sky. A bird of prey, a lone hawk or perhaps an eagle is circling overhead.
I wish I could fly away with him.

After licking dry
lips, I finally draw in a deep breath and tell André what’s bothering me.

“I think I may be
gay.”

“Oh?” He sits
down beside me once more and asks with mild interest. “And why should you think
this?”

I inhale a deep
breath and open my mouth to speak, but something stops me. It’s as if a gate
has fallen down, trapping my tongue. Like some sort of physical and mental
roadblock, I can’t get around it.

André seems aware
of my problem. He tranquilly asks, “Do you wish to have sex with a man?”

“No!”

He raises one
eyebrow in query. “And the thought of two men pleasuring each other?”

I hesitate for a
fraction of a second but say, “A turn off.”

He tilts his head
and studies me—observant bastard that he is.

The idea of
having sex with a man is easy—that’s a vehement no. But an unwanted urge to see
naked men? Not so much.

I shake my head.
“I wouldn’t go looking for it, but if I saw it while flicking through channels
on late night TV, you know, something with one man nailing another… I’d
probably watch.”

And I’d get a
hard-on, dammit, but I can’t tell him that.

“
Bon,”
he
replies briefly. My answer doesn’t faze him. “Tell me now; when you were a
child of perhaps nine or ten, name a movie you particularly recall enjoying.”

The change of
topic is confusing, but I’ve learned to trust André’s unexpected subject
deviations. No matter what it seems like, or how casual, irreverent, cheerful
or lighthearted he appears, André’s always going somewhere when he talks to me.

I frown. “What,
like
Titanic
?”

His approving
smile relieves me. I feel like I’ve just gotten a gold star from my favorite
teacher. My younger, yet more emotionally experienced teacher.

“
Oui, oui
,
very good,” he says enthusiastically, gesturing with his hands. “Now tell me,
which actor or actress held your attention? Was it the most attractive hero or
the very beautiful heroine?”

“Oh, the heroine
for sure. Kate Winslet was seriously hot in that movie.”

André shoots me a
quick smile—the kind of smile one man gives another when they both are thinking
of a beautiful woman and hot sex.

“
Très bon,
I most heartily agree.
Mon ami
, I do not believe you prefer men. There
is a reason, I think. Tell me, if you please, why do you have this concern?”

“I… I was close
to my buddies overseas.” I bite my lip, stare at my hiking boots and get lost
in the problem. I don’t know how much time goes by. It’s just so difficult to
discuss this shameful, relentless defect of mine.

A subtle clearing
of André’s throat brings me back to the issue.

Our eyes meet.
“It’s hard to explain,” I say. “I found myself looking at my buddy’s dicks
whenever we took a piss.” Embarrassed, I avert my gaze. “Dammit, I wanted
to—but I didn’t want to—but I
had
to—but I couldn’t, I shouldn’t—on and
on! It’s like the movie
Groundhog Day.
My mind and body do the same
thing over and over. I’m caught in a never-ending loop of indecision. I can’t
stop it.”

I turn toward
him, to see how he’s taking this socially unacceptable problem of mine. André
nods his understanding, and his expression is still one of polite interest. He
hears me, he gets it—but he doesn’t think I’m a freak.

To André, I’ve
never been a monster.

I wish I felt the
same.

“You know,” I
say, forcing myself to meet his eyes, “in the Army, men piss in the desert or
in a urinal with other men every day and my gut roiled every damn time. The uh…
closeness of those circumstances made me nuts. There’s something seriously
wrong with me.”

“Ah,” André says.
“I understand. Grant,
pardon,
for I must disagree. Me? I do not think
there is anything wrong with you.
Mais no!
It is my opinion there is oh,
so much that is
right
with you.”

His words make me
feel better, but I only give him a faint smile. What was once deliberate is
almost an unconscious action. I keep any smiles to a minimum so my expression
doesn’t twist and make me look even more grotesque.

But I do feel
like smiling. In fact, a broad, happy grin might be in order.

I’ve told him my
highly combustible, socially unacceptable and perverse compulsion to look at
dicks. I confessed my deepest fear that I might be gay. And what was his
response?

It was a bit like
throwing a grenade that fails to detonate. No explosion. No huge reaction. No
fireworks. Talk about anti-climactic. My secret’s a dud. That wasn’t so bad
after all. What was I afraid of?

André smiles at
my smile. What he says next is completely unexpected.

“
Mon ami
,”
he says quietly. “When you were a child, you were sexually abused by a man,
no?”

Fuck.