Masked Intentions

3

3

It was after sunset when I drove to our rendezvous, simultaneously rolling down the windows to air out the Porsche and revving up the heater to fight the chilled outside air. I liked Toby and was eager to meet him for a drink. Outside of Bobby I didn’t really have any male friends to drink with anymore. Bobby was much younger and an office subordinate when we shared a beer. Toby, on the other hand, was mano-a-mano, but my professional self questioned if it was a good idea. It felt as if I were condoning his drinking problem. He chose a cocktail lounge in a downtown hotel. It was after 6:00 pm, one of the few times one could find a street parking space, a narrow window that would soon close as the public came out for the evening. Frequently, I used valet parking but I was embarrassed to have anyone drive my smelly car.

The low-lit bar did not cater to happy hour and was nearly empty. Two couples sat at the bar and a sprinkling of businessmen manned a few tables. I almost missed Toby until he waved me over. I had expected to see him in his suit. Instead, he sat at one of those highboy tables wearing a Seahawks sweatshirt and jeans. He grasped a scotch. Another, drained empty, sat nearby.

“You had company?” I asked, hopping on my stool.

“No, I order two at a time. It’s more efficient. Seems even when it’s not busy it takes forever to get waited on.”

A pretty server who appeared barely legally old enough to serve approached the table. “Can I take your order?

“Scotch...Dalmore.”

“Double?”

“Sure.”

“Double the order, too,” Toby said.

I made an objectionable face.

“You can’t stand on one leg. Two more for me.”

“That was Balvenie?”

“Yeah.”

When my eyes adjusted to the light I saw that Toby had a boyish face in an oversized head. A wide spray of dark brown, nearly black, hair pushed back from his brow. His eyes were a washed-out blue like a painting of the sea that had been left out in the sun.

He looked down at his drink and smiled. Lifting his head, he said, “I miss Doris...Jackie’s dog, a Brittany spaniel. Cutest thing. Always happy to see me, day or night. I’d walk her once in a while. Jackie had a professional dog walker, but Doris was always willing to take another hike. Jackie, on the other hand was always busy with something. I could understand not wanting to be interrupted when writing, but she didn’t like to just sit around and talk like we’re doing now. She liked to entertain and she was always ready for s*x, but...” He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes assuming that thousand yard stare before returning eye contact with me. “Is Carrie single?”

“Sort of. She’s been dating Colby off and on for a couple of years now.”

“Unable to tie the knot?”

“You could say that.”

“I’d make a play, but I still got a thing for Jackie.”

I figured Jackie would be the main topic of conversation. “How long have you been separated?”

“Just a couple of weeks. I’d go back if she would reconsider.”

“Even if she continued her...uh...sexually acting out?”

“Yeah, I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching. She had to be screwing others prior to the time I caught her. When I didn’t know, life was great.”

I couldn’t imagine how such a relationship could work. I’ve heard of open relationships. There must be some that work, but I’ve never known of any even in my professional experience. “That wouldn’t bother you?”

“It would, but if I didn’t know?”

“You’d know. You may not know exactly when but you’d know she’d be f*****g others.” I used the “f” word to hit him between the eyes. I thought he was glossing over the problem, almost romanticizing it, like this bond of love was on some sort of spiritual plane. People didn’t function that way. There was an inherent possessiveness to relationships.

The server returned with the drinks.

Our conversation continued in this vein. As he continued to down the drinks, he became even more maudlin, mourning his loss. Since he felt so strongly I suggested he contact his wife, tell her how he felt, and see what they could work out. After nearly three hours and five drinks for me (I didn’t count Toby’s drinks but he seemed to be drinking twice as fast) we decided to call it a night and agreed to meet again later in the week.

Since I had curtailed my imbibing I felt a little woozy, glad that I didn’t have to drive Toby home. He was able to get at his money and bought a week at the hotel. He merely had to stumble to the elevator and crawl to his room under the worst conditions. Toby would never pass an alcohol blood test but he appeared stone-sober when I left him. It’s amazing how much a person can consume if his body is used to drinking. At the same time that pseudo-soberness can give the drinker false reassurance that he can drive an automobile or operate machinery. That’s when the accidents happen.

I had to tell that to myself as I got into my Porsche. I needed to go slow and drive carefully. I hadn’t gone far when I got a phone call. I answered it and pulled over to the side of the road. It was Hanna, my ex-wife.

“Where are you? I’ve called your home phone.”

“On the road on my way home. Why?”

There was a long pause before she said, “I need you. I’m in a bad way. I was watching tv and this boy...” Her voice dropped, making her inaudible. She sighed and sniffled. “...killed himself. I just lost it.” She continued, half-crying, “Could you come here for a while.”

“I’m on my way. I’m about twenty minutes out.” I closed the phone, got back on the road.

Hanna and I had a near-perfect marriage. There was nothing I could identify that could draw us apart until our 15 year-old-son, Kevin, killed himself. Neither of us had any clue that he was seriously depressed. He seemed like any normal teen with roller coaster emotions. We were devastated. Hanna blamed me. I was a psychiatrist who dealt with those kinds of situations on a day to day basis. Why didn’t I see it coming and why didn’t I stop him? I was blindsided and how could I fault Hanna’s scorn? She was right. I should have known. I let my son down when he needed me most. It’s been nearly three years since the suicide. Hanna was no longer hostile and we maintained a pleasant, if superficial, relationship united in our loss. And, when she needed my comfort, I went to her. I knew how you could go about your life with no thoughts of your son when something, the smallest reference to suicide, on television or the movies, or in conversation, smacked you between the eyes without warning and took a piece of your heart. It opened the floodgates.

I swallowed and took several deep breaths as I pulled into Hanna’s drive. I needed to steel myself from my weepy thoughts about Kevin so I could be strong for Hanna. I exited the car and as I headed for the front door I noticed a shadow move behind the drapes toward the front door. Hanna had been waiting for me and opened the door before I could knock. She lunged, nearly knocking me over as I closed the door. My alcohol level didn’t help, although thoughts about Kevin had a sobering effect.

“Thank you for coming. I need your strength. Can I get you a scotch?”

“No, I’d been drinking with a friend. Coffee would be good.” I watched her walk into the kitchen. She wore a blue and gray nightshirt that reached the top of her knees and socks with a kitten pattern. Her shoulder-length, straight, auburn hair was flat on one side from laying on it. She was still on the thin side and hadn’t recovered all the weight she had lost. She was make-up free and still looked good in spite of crying. She moved with gliding grace. I felt that familiar tug in my heart.

We took our coffee to the living room and sat upon the sofa. Hanna switched the TV to a music station playing light classical. I kicked off my shoes. Hanna moved closer and I smelled the honey scent in her hair.

“This feels good. You and me together like old times,” she said.

I scoffed because it didn’t to me. There definitely was a familiarity, but I could still feel the barrier between us. It was like a gate that freely opened for a short time then was forced to close again.

“I stay away from stories with suicide in the plots or even any hints of such. Then when I least expect it happens and it cracks my shield. I fall apart. How long is this going to go on?” The tears began to fall. “Hold me, Grant.”

I wrapped my arms around her as she leaned into me. I quietly cried with her. I had no answers for her. I had no idea how long that would last. I knew that time and distance helped the healing, but I didn’t think we’d ever get immune to Kevin’s loss. We fell asleep on the couch with me holding Hanna in my arms.