30 March 2012: Scene VI - Take 2

VI – Take 2

At six-thirty, for the second time in less than four hours, Ben was jarred awake, this time from the music pouring out of the speakers a few feet away.    Wanting to avoid the anxiety that came with a bedside alarm, he struck upon the idea of locating his wake-up system out in the living room so that the music would filter in from a distance.  But, having fallen asleep just an hour ago in his recliner, the morning revelry was having the opposite effect with the only positive note being that he was too disoriented to think he was back in Iraq. 

He never intended to go to sleep.  The links for Alexa Brantley quickly ran out but he found himself thinking about the two missing bullets from the chamber which led him to searching for compact metal detectors and from there to independent ballistic services to test if the bullets he would presumably find with the detector actually came from Gabe’s gun.  By then, it was five-thirty and going to bed was pointless since he knew very well from past experiences that he would wake from that hour of sleep groggy and befuddled and in a terrible mood.  Better to put on a pot of coffee and catch a quick snooze later in the day.

But, while the coffee brewed, he sat down in the recliner and rehashed the implausible connections between Gabe’s bike accident and the skeleton, trying to concoct a credible scenario and contemplated himself right to sleep.  Now, he struggled to get out of his chair and hurried to lower the volume on the receiver.   

            “Good morning,” Molly said.

“Molly?” he called out, looking around the living room and finding her perched by the window, its wooden sill in shredded splinters. 

            “Ah, shit,” he said a bit too loudly and hoped Molly wouldn’t add that to her vocabulary. 

            “Oh, Molly.”

            He took a moment to contain his anger before walking over to her. 

            “What a nice mess, sweetie,” he said, through a wide smile.

Slowly, he put his hand out.  She hesitated, cocked her head, eyed him carefully before finally jumping onto his arm.

            “Good girl,” he said, walking her over to the cage. “I need you to be in here for right now.”  He was thankful that she hopped in without a protest and supplied her with a few strawberries.

            “All right,” he muttered and shook his head vigorously, trying to wake and think more clearly.   A quick shower, some breakfast and lots of coffee, he thought mulling over his plan of action before heading over to Gabe’s.  The coffee.  Ben spied the untouched pot of java still sitting on the burner while he heard the machine, programmed to go off with the morning music, sputtering in an attempt to make a new pot. 

            “Breakfast?” Molly asked.

            “No,” he said tersely, wondering what the she thought the strawberries were.

            He dumped the old pot, reset the machine and put another to brew and looked forward to a quick shower.  But on his way out of the kitchen he froze in his tracks.

            “Oh, my god.”

            Scattered about on the floor, around the computer desk, were fragments of what once made up a complete skeletal hand.

            “Oh, Molly,” he said, knowing that she wasn’t too blame. 

Instead of breakfast, he felt an obligation to gather the bone parts and get them back into the ammo box, as if the hand would feel less defiled if they were congregated in one place.  True, Gabe would forgive him for being a few minutes late but his own work ethic insisted he be on time.  Besides, tardiness could lead to questions and then Ben would have to hide the truth and he certainly wasn’t ready to engage him in a conversation about yesterday’s events.  Maybe once he got Gabe in his wheelchair the time would be right.

Ben entered the house, as he always did, giving a quick one-two rap on the door and offering up a husky, “Mornin.”  He used to enter with an even deeper and more guttural “Oorah,” but, judging from Beth’s reaction, he thought she found that rather abrasive and switched to what he thought was a toned-down greeting.  There was very little change in her response and rather than taking it personally, Ben decided she just wasn’t a morning person. 

He looked for her in the kitchen where she usually was with her cup of coffee after her morning run.  Her absence was welcomed as he wasn’t looking forward to their usual morning exchange to see how her night had gone and to find out if there was anything about Gabe he needed to know.  He already knew she was up at least as long as he was and he wasn’t in the mood to get an earful that his duties needed to be expanded to include redeye calls.

            “I don’t think it seems to be too much to ask if at least once a week you would be responsible for tending to Gabe if he wakes up in the middle of the night,” she had stated a couple of months back after a disturbed night of sleep.

            “I can see where you would feel that,” he had replied calmly.  “I’m right here, so why not?”

            “Exactly.’

            “I would be willing to do that but I need to be able to recoup the time elsewhere.”

            “I don’t get to recoup the time.  If I have to get up, I still need to go into work that day, even if I can’t get back to sleep.”

            Ben folded his arms, pursed his lips and nodded lightly.  He felt caught in the middle of a sour relationship sensing that this was much more about Beth feeling trapped in having to stay with Gabe now that he was confined to a wheelchair and less about equity of rest time.

            “It’s a matter of burn out,” Gabe said, knowing that it didn’t really matter how he replied.  “If I don’t get enough down-time, it won’t be too much longer before I would have to pack my bags.”  He didn’t mean for it to come out as a threat but he could see in Beth’s eyes that she took it that way.  

            “Yeah.  Well, I’m burning out, too.” 

           

            Ben moved through the empty kitchen, assuming Beth was in the bedroom getting ready for work and thankful for the momentary reprieve. 

            “Hey.” 

            He stopped, not even thinking that she would be sitting in the sunroom, drinking coffee in the comfort of her bathrobe. 

            “Oh.  Hey,” he said, making eye contact with her and carefully studying her manner.  Nowhere in her tone or face did he perceive the anticipated animosity and he found himself lingering by the doorway.

            “Bad night?”

            “You could say that.”

            “Gabe?”

            She nodded her head and took a sip of her coffee, looked at the large painting that hung on the wall and then gazed out into the morning.  It was the perfect opportunity for Ben to make his escape.

            “Was he too hot or too cold?” he asked.

            “Too hot.”

            “What time was that?”

            “Two-thirty.”

            “And, you’ve been up since?”

            She nodded again and gave Ben a tired look.  He thought of bringing up the subject again of hiring someone to sleep in the den and tend to Gabe when he woke, but thought better of it.    Her gaze moved back to the painting and remained there.  Ben watched her for a moment and he looked at the painting as well.  Five feet vertical and two feet wide, it portrayed a very abstract caricature of what seemed to be a rock star playing a guitar; Ben thought it resembled Mick Jagger.  Gabe had purchased the picture some time back and, for some reason, thought the sunroom was the perfect place to hang it.  Beth wasn’t that fond of the piece and he couldn’t understand her attraction to the artwork this morning.

            “Are you going into work?”

            “No.”

            This took Ben by surprise as well as he couldn’t remember her missing a day of work since he had been there.  She loved her work as the curator of a new art museum that had opened in the past year, just two months before Gabe’s accident.  The museum was a real feather in the cap for the region and Beth was a driving force in its creation and seeing it becoming a reality. 

            “Was Gabe up long?”

            “No.  I took a cover off and he was practically asleep before I left the room.”

            Ben looked in the direction of Gabe’s room even though he couldn’t see it.

            “He’s still asleep,” she said, still looking at the painting. 

Perhaps she’s considering the piece for a new exhibition at the museum, he thought.  Her demeanor continued to baffle and disarm him and he took the tone of her reply to indicate that she wanted him to stay.  A long silence overtook the room as he stood in the doorway, waiting, while she looked back out the window and caught the sun that was just rising above the trees. 

            “Are you happy here?”

            “Pardon?”

            “Are you good with the arrangement you have here?” she restated, turning to speak directly at him.

            “Yes.”  He was waiting for her to follow up with talk of midnight duty and he was steeling himself for standing firm.  Once again, he was very glad that he had established boundaries from the onset, anticipating just such a development. 

            “And, do you see yourself staying here for another year or two?”

            “I have no plans on leaving,” he said, matter-of-factly.

            She nodded and looked away.  The sun was beginning to fill the room, bringing the potted plants to life and seeming to accentuate the broad smile of the rock star on the painting. 

            “I do,” Beth finally said.

            “What?”

            “I plan to move out.”

            She looked squarely at Ben to gauge his response.  While he knew the topic ran below the everyday surface, her statement just now took him by surprise.

            “I see.”

            “We had talked seriously about it before Gabe’s accident.”

            “Gabe mentioned it.”

            “He did?”

            “Yes,” he said, not sure if he had revealed a confidence.

            “It doesn’t matter,” she said sincerely.  “That’s why I’m asking about your intentions.  Can you commit to staying here at least another year?”

            “Not a problem,” he said, but his thoughts suddenly were filled with a vast array of logistical questions and how that would impact his job description.

            “There needs to be consistency for a while.”

            “Sure.  When are you thinking of moving out?”

            “As soon as possible.  I’ve already been looking at apartments and houses near the museum.”

            Ben nodded.  Beth looked again at the painting and he followed her gaze there.  Then, it struck him.  Alexa Brantley, aka Alexa Fern, the artist of the painting on the wall. 

Copyright © 2012 Philip Zweig