Here I Stay (28 page)

Martin heard her running feet pass his door. She
was standing in the doorway of the tower room when he found her. Before he could ask what was wrong she spun around. Her eyes were wide with terror.

"He isn't here. He's gone."

"My dear girl, there are a dozen places and a dozen reasons—"

"No. No. This isn't like the last time. There's something wrong. I can feel it. Help me find him— please, Martin, we have to find him."

Martin trailed after her with the air of one humoring a harmless lunatic, but when Jim was not to be found in any of the obvious places, or in several that were not so obvious, he began to take the matter more seriously.

"Did anything happen tonight?"

"He told me he loved me," Andrea said, and caught her breath.

"Don't get yourself worked up. Think. It's a beautiful night—warm, full moon—maybe he went for a walk."

His voice and the casual touch of his hand on her arm steadied Andrea. "He said he was going to bed. If he decided to go out, on any normal errand, I'd have heard him. He would have to make a deliberate, painful effort to avoid being heard."

"He's not in the house," Martin said. "Unless he's hiding. I'll look."

"No. The front door—the chain is off. I put it on after supper."

"We'll need a flashlight."

"There's one in the table drawer."

The car was in the garage. The shed where Jim kept his weightlifting equipment was locked and dark. The interlaced branches of the lilacs wrapped them in a web of shadows as Martin moved the
beam of light at random across the lawn. The wide acres of meadow and pasture lay silent under the moon.

Andrea shivered. "I know where he is."

Martin didn't argue, or warn her to watch her footing. He was close behind her when she reached the gate in the wall enclosing the graveyard.

Moonlight blanched the standing stones and the sunken rectangles they guarded. The shadows of the tall cedars hid the bench, by the rosebush; at first Andrea saw only a dark shape that seemed too bulky to be a single seated figure. Martin turned his flashlight in that direction. It was Jim. He blinked.

"I took some pills," he said. "It was a mistake. I thought..."

He tried to stand, but lost his balance and fell forward, on hands and knee.

Martin pushed Andrea out of the way. Dropping down beside Jim, he raised the boy's drooping head. "When?"

Jim muttered something Andrea couldn't hear. Martin slapped him across the face, hard enough to rock his head. "How many?"

"It was a mistake," Jim said distinctly.

The light Martin held made a pool of paleness on the ground, but Andrea could not see what he was doing. The frozen horror that had held her motionless broke; she ran to Jim and took his face between her hands. His eyes were closed.

"Get him to the house," Martin said. "Take that arm, I'll take this one."

They had to drag him, his arms over their shoulders, his foot trailing. When they reached the kitchen, Martin said brusquely, "Sit him up. That chair."

Jim fell into it like a straw scarecrow, arms and head flopping. Andrea reached for the telephone. Martin's hand closed over her wrist, hard enough to hurt.

"Who are you calling?"

"The rescue squad—a doctor—"

"Stop and think. Do you want the whole town talking about this tomorrow?"

"But he's—" Her stiff lips could not pronounce the word.

"He's not dying." Martin opened his clenched hand. The capsules were red on one end, white on the other, filled with tiny globules.

"My sleeping pills. Oh, my God, I forgot—"

"How many were there?"

She pressed her hands against her temples, trying to think. "He gave me a dozen...I took one— no, two."

"There are five here," Martin said. "And I may not have found them all. They're hard to swallow without water. He didn't think of that. He hasn't had a fatal dose."

"You can't be sure."

"I'll make sure," Martin said grimly, and heaved Jim to his feet.

The process was unpleasant in the extreme for all the participants, but primarily for Jim. He didn't resist; in fact he tried, piteously, to cooperate. Andrea finally broke down when she saw him trying to obey Martin's demand that he walk by himself, the crutches slipping from his flaccid hands.

Finally Martin said, "You'll do. Sleep it off," and let Jim collapse onto the couch.

Jim's hair and face dripped with water and his naked body shook with involuntary spasms of retching. The cold towels Martin had slapped onto his chest and back had left red patches, like burns. As Andrea bent over him he opened one eye and looked directly at her.

"It was...mistake," he said clearly.

"I believe you," Andrea whispered. "It's going to be all right, Jimmie."

"Good," Jim said. Turning on his side, he curled up, wrapping his arms around his shivering body.

Martin spread a blanket over him and tucked it in. The gentleness of the gesture, after the rough handling he had given the boy, was too much for Andrea. Martin steered her to a chair as her knees buckled.

"You need a drink," he said. "Then off you go to beddy-bye."

"I'm going to sit up with him."

"So am I. Neither one of us will get any sleep. Does that make sense?"

She reached for the glass he handed her and observed, with vague surprise, that her fingers would not bend to hold it. Martin muttered under his breath, and held the glass to her lips. "Down the hatch."

It was straight bourbon and it exploded like a firebomb in her churning stomach. She wiped her eyes and tried to catch her breath.

"Better?" Martin asked.

"Yes. No...I felt better when I didn't feel. If you know what I mean."

"I know exactly what you mean." Martin lifted his own glass in a sardonic salute. "Here's to better days."

"Oh, my God—"

"Drink up."

The next swallow wasn't explosive, only warming. Martin reached for the bottle and refilled his glass. The dark stubble on his cheeks blended into the purple stains under his sunken eyes.

"It was a mistake," Andrea said. "An accident."

"If you believe that, perhaps you'd like to buy my share of the Brooklyn Bridge."

"You heard him."

"Yeah," said Martin, pouring a third drink.

Andrea finished hers. "Are you calling my brother a liar?"

"You're drunk," Martin said. "Congratulations. Go to bed."

"I am not drunk. I will have more."

"Why not? The sooner you fall on your face, the sooner I can put you to bed."

"Bed, bed, is that all you can talk about? You saved Jimmie's life. You're wonderful. An' I resent you like hell. Why are you doing this? Why are you always around, doing this and doing that?"

"You don't know?" Martin stared blearily at her over the rim of his glass. "You dunno. You're the only one in the whole goddamn town who doesn't. They laugh and nudge each other when I walk by— there's that lovesick jackass who hasn't even got the guts to tell the girl how he feels."

"Love," Andrea repeated. "Who? Me?"

"Son of a bitch," Martin said mournfully. "I never thought a couple of drinks would go to my head like that...I'm tired. I'm tired, and I'm sick, and I'm still cold inside when I think how close he came...Yes, love, you." He gave a short grating laugh. "My God, if this isn't the love scene of the century. Here I sit, looking like Wallace Beery and smelling like a cesspool, half soused, making my declaration of undying passion to a lady who is even drunker than I am. Are you sober enough to wonder why I haven't bothered to mention this tedious subject before? It's not because of my innate modesty, I assure you. I'm bald and overweight and fifteen years your senior, but that's not what held me back. I was afraid you'd kick me out if I told you how I felt. You don't want me. You don't want anybody. There isn't room in your mind or your heart for anyone except.. .No, not Jim—the bloated, warped image of Jim you've set up to be your idol and your cross. Can't you see what you're doing to yourself—and to him?"

Andrea's eyes were as big as saucers. The only emotion left in her drained mind was surprise. Martin's speech was so out of character that she felt as if he had turned shape, like a werewolf. Not knowing what else to do, she finished her drink.

"Catharsis isn't all it's cracked up to be," Martin said, in his normal voice. "What a night. Near tragedy succeeded by howling farce.. .How do you feel?"

"I don't know."

"That makes two of us."

Jim began to snore. Andrea's head turned, as if drawn by a magnet, and Martin said, "I'll watch him."

"Maybe I better lie down," Andrea muttered. She put her glass on the edge of the table, watched it wobble, and pushed it with her finger. "In my room. I'll be right there. You call me if—"

"I will." He sat poised, ready to go to her assistance if she fell, but she got to the door with only a few stumbles. She turned.

"I'll talk to you in the morning," she said ominously, and reeled through the door.

Martin covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook, but it would have been hard to say whether he was laughing or crying.

"Sure, I'll go see the guy," Jim said. "If you want me to."

Andrea had never been so conscious of the twelve years' difference in their ages. After sleeping most of the day, Jim was back to normal, whereas she felt as if she had been put through a wringer. Watching him shovel in quantities of leftover casserole and half of Mrs. Horner's pie, her stomach heaved.

Martin had only picked at his food. A stranger comparing him and Jim would have unhesitatingly selected him as the one who had overindulged. He appeared to be suffering from a massive hangover, and although "tactful" was not a term Andrea would have applied to his conversational technique, he was normally a little more oblique than he had been on this occasion. Without introductory comments or any reference to Andrea's opinion, he had blurted out, "I want you to see a psychiatrist friend of mine, Jim. Will you go?"

Jim's ready response caught him unawares. He had geared himself up for an argument, and when his prepared speech became unnecessary he was at a loss for words. He averted his eyes as Jim polished off the pie and gulped down a glass of milk.

A look of amused affection narrowed Jim's eyes as he surveyed the silent, dissolute figures of his elders. "I'm sorry I put you through that crap last night," he said. "It was a stupid-ass thing to do. I
won't ever try that again. I guess there's no reason why you should take my word for it, though. I'll do whatever you say."

"Why?" The word burst from Andrea. "Jimmie, why?"

"It was a mistake," Jim said. His eyes shifted momentarily and then returned, wide and candid, to meet Andrea's. "I only took a few of the pills. All of a sudden I knew.. .well, I knew I was doing a dumb thing. I tried to make myself throw up, but it didn't work, and I wanted to get back to the house, but I was getting so groggy I couldn't move...Then I really got scared. I called you. Did you hear me?"

"Yes," Andrea said. "I heard you."

"That's enough bathos," Martin grumbled. "Jim, I'd like to kick your ass from here to Baltimore and back. I'm not the sucker your sister is. As far as I'm concerned, you're on probation."

"Can't blame you," Jim said amiably.

"You'll go with me to see Tony, as soon as he can take you?"

"Sure, Martin. Whatever you say." He reached in his pocket and tossed a jingling bundle onto the table. "Here, Andy. I'm grounding myself."

"Oh, honey, that isn't necessary—"

"I have to prove myself before you can trust me. Words aren't enough." He leaned forward, his eyes steady and shining. "But I'll say them anyway.
It's all right.
I was mixed up about a lot of things. I still don't know all the answers, but I'm sure of one thing. I'm a very lucky person. I love you, Andy. Martin, I love you too. Never thought I'd say that to another guy!"

"Hmph," said Martin, trying not to show how touched he was.

"So—well, I guess that's it. Can I have another piece of pie?"

Martin excused himself shortly thereafter, saying he had work to do. Leaving Jim lying on the couch watching a basketball game, Andrea went upstairs. Her feet dragged. She was no more anxious for a confrontation than was Martin, with his feeble excuses about working, but she knew she couldn't ignore this particular awkwardness in the hope that it would go away.

At first she didn't think he was going to let her in. He blocked the doorway, looking down at her with a determined lack of expression, until she said, "We have to talk."

Martin's lips twisted. "I've talked too goddamned much already. Oh, hell, I guess you're right. Come in."

Satan was sprawled in the middle of the bed. He gave Andrea a bored look and closed his eyes. Andrea was strongly tempted to boot him out; it was almost as bad as having a third party present during a private and delicate interview—not a sympathetic person either, but a cynical critic. Before she could yield to this weakness Martin said, "I hoped you were too loaded last night to remember what I said."

"I thought maybe you were too loaded to mean what you said."

"No such luck, lady. There is unquestionably
veritas in vino.
What are you going to do about it?"