September 15th, 2016. 9:35AM
Burlwood, Indiana
Another morning, another dream, another piano and more Canon. Canon swirling, swirling in that familiar fog of waking, but tired eyes struggling to focus in on an unfamiliar place. A strange sofa, a strange living room, the feeling of hot breath every few seconds as a strange body exhaled on his bare sternum.
Bare?
He had awakened feeling hot, like he was lounging in a sauna, that much he remembered vaguely. Waking between dreams, he'd stripped off his shirt, and now he felt the cotton of a t-shirt pressing against his flesh. He didn't wear t-shirts, so this was odd and confusing. He hated t-shirts, hated the feeling of cheap fabric on his skin, so this article of clothing he felt so close was not something that belonged to him. Looking down in the haze, still seeing doubled blurry images of life, Jake noted that Nikki was pressed snugly against him with her face buried in his chest. Her right hand was holding his gun -- his Berretta, that is -- which he still wore in his shoulder holster. This was the source of the fabric, and the this was the progenitor of the heat that ruffled his dark and curly chest hair.
Less than half awake, he reached for the notes of Canon and swiped at the screen of his phone blindly, pressing it to his ear haphazardly and crookedly before mumbling hello in a raspy morning smoker's voice.
"Jake," a very familiar man living in the speaker began, "Jake, it's me -- Nick."
"Nick?" He repeated, the wheels turning and turning while thoughts were stirring in chasm of sleepiness and the swirling memories and shit!
Shit!
He'd answered the call of Nick Swete, father of Tracy Swete and mentor of a teenaged Jacob Gigu?re. A man to be avoided in the days since he left home, a man to be avoided in the days leading in to double indemnity, a man to be avoided until the curtain fell because he was a man who could make the curtain ripple and blow like the wind through naked tree limbs at the apex of autumn and fuck, he was on the phone.
Shocked at hearing the voice, afraid of what it would say, Jake shot straight up on Nikki's couch and flung his legs around until he was seated naturally in the position nearest the table where his phone had sat. Poor Nikki, still sleeping, was flung to the floor with force by his sudden movement. A loud thump sounded with her landing, followed briskly by her ouch and her waking most rudely.
"How are you doing, Champ?" Nick asked in his eternally kind tone, uttering the nickname he'd given a teenaged hockey prodigy. A nickname that belonged to a young man long passed, a boy who died many times over in the years that interceded, a boy who was a stranger to this time and place and breathed no longer while the air moved through the lungs of a body snatcher fit for Donald Sutherland.
"Um," Jake stammered, rubbing his eyes and panicking as his mind raced about what to and not to say in response. "Good," he offered generally, lying through his teeth.
"Look, Champ," Nick continued, forgiveness and loving spilling through the speaker with his words. "Tracy is really worried about you," he advised in a language Jake didn't understand, speaking with no interpreter to ghosts that didn't dwell here any longer..
"Tracy?" Jake muttered, things still swirling as Nikki struggled herself up onto her backside upon the floor.
"She didn't tell me the whole story," Nick said, "I don't need to know the whole story. But I know she loves you, that's all I've ever needed to know."
Jake paused, wondering if this could be true. How could Tracy love him? How could she still love him, after all he'd put her through? How could she still care? Why did she give a fuck any more, why did she dispatch her father in this futile quest to reach out for a person who was a corpse with high blood pressure? This man who once was, this ex-husband several days into his grave.
"She said you were going back to Burlwood," Nick recounted, concern and disapproval as evident as any emotion in his voice.
"Yeah," Jake replied half-wittedly, still processing things in sleep mode and hovering on the cusp of nightmarish memories.
"I think we all know there's nothing for you in Burlwood, Champ," his surrogate father advised, certain and succinct. "Not in the condition you're in."
"Condition?" Was Jake's next one word response, spoken in surprise and confusion with notes of anger and condemnation.
"It's okay, Jake," the man said. "Everything is okay, we just want to help you."
For a moment, this angered Jake. What did anyone know of his condition? Who were they to offer help? Who were they to assume he needed help? He was fine. He was in control, and he knew very well what he was doing. How dare the Swetes take the position that he was some sort of lost soul, some sort of invalid who was in need of some kind of assistance? How dare they assume that any of them understood where he was in his mind, how he felt or what he was going through?
Then, he thought about it... he thought about his mother, he thought about the demons she fought with weapons as potent as Xanax and then ice. He thought about her struggle, he thought about her collapse. She had no Swete family to reach out a hand, she had only Deputy Ron and his brand of therapy. Would the story have ended differently if she had been thrown a life-preserver? A proper life-preserver with someone so loving and caring holding the rope at its other end? Was he in need of a life-preserver? Was he drowning in a state of grace with no idea that his head was slipping below the water, that turbulent ocean of depression and anxiety?
No...
He was the master of his destiny...
He was at the helm, and he knew precisely where he was going...
He was okay with were he was going...
He had chartered the course, and he knew the waterway...
"I'm okay," he said, a bit more alertly than before as his mind was catching up with his body.
"You're okay?" Nick asked incredulously. "Jake, how can you say you're okay?"
"Look," he replied with bite, "I don't want to talk about it, Nick."
"I think you need to talk about it, Champ," Nick suggested. "I think you're in trouble, and I want to help."
"Do you know how you could help?" Jake asked sharply. "By not calling me anymore!"
Without another word, without an ounce of due respect, Jake ended the call. At first he felt a strong pride, a sense of victory at standing tall and refusing to be helped. When that passed, however, he felt empty and ashamed. This man had done so much for him in his years, and his repayment came in a tongue of fire and dismissal. Nick deserved so much more than to be snapped at and hung up on, but that's exactly what he'd given him. In his hubris, he'd fired the weapon strapped to his ribs in the direction of a friend. Verbally and through his action, he'd shot the man dead and left him bleeding the streets of that dark realm in which he'd dared to step with the intention of turning on the lights.
Conflicting sentiments tearing his heart in two, he reached for the shirt he'd cast off last night and retrieved a Newport from the breast pocket. Without asking permission, without being sure that Nikki was okay with smoking in her home, he flicked his lighter and fired one up to feed his craving. Nikki was just about fully awake as he did, and she watched him inhale deeply after he'd pressed the button and slammed his phone down on the end table.
"What was that?" She asked, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
"It was nothing," Jake replied, in no mood to talk about it.
She nodded slowly, considering the mood he seemed to assume and how such negativity generally didn't arise from nothing. This had been no telemarketer on the phone, it had been no bill collector who rang him just now this morning. Still, it was his to talk about or to suppress, and suppression seemed to be the direction he intended to go in. That was his affair, she had no say in the matter whatsoever.
Without another word he stood and marched off in search of the bathroom, which wasn't difficult to find given the less than expansive nature of her trailer. She heard him urinate aggressively, wondering if this was normal or due to the anger that he took with him t
o the toilet. After the flush and crash of the seat crashing down, he returned to the living room and yanked his shirt around both arms before buttoning it quickly and recklessly with his cigarette dangling from his lips.
Just watching quietly, she saw an entirely new emotion working over him. This wasn't the simple anger that he exhibited when she was under attack at the race track, and it wasn't just frustration either. Letting him be, letting him do his thing, she tempered her urge to use the restroom so that she could watch him and be there in the event he decided he needed her for anything.
As he undid his belt to tuck the shirt in and then refastened it, it quickly became clear that he wouldn't come to that conclusion. He would fight this battle alone, whatever the battle was. Not even bothering to look at her, he ran his fingers through his hair to throw it back into something that resembled his style. Searching frantically for his shoes, he found them near the couch and sat down to put them on and tie them up.
Curious at his behavior, she spoke gently to avoid catching his rage. "Are you leaving?" She asked.
"Yes," he replied sharply.
She nodded, realizing that he wasn't in a talking mood. Knowing that, sometimes, not wanting to talk means that a person needs to talk the most, she pressed him a bit. "Want to tell me where you're going?"
"Jail," he said simply.
Figuring this meant he was off to visit his friend, and figuring correctly, she nodded again as he stood and looked down at himself to be sure he was presentable. He was, of course. A man as attractive as him doesn't require much to be presentable, and he'd covered all of the necessary bases as smoke billowed around her trailer. Standing up herself, she moved closer to him slowly and gently. Not asking permission, verbally or otherwise, she opened her arms and took him in a hug as she pursed her lips and gave him another kiss.
He accepted her mouth again, returning the favor and planting his hands on her hips as she squeezed him afterwards. The chemical change in his brain at the embrace was almost tangible, and he felt the effect of new and counteractive neurotransmitters surging to balance his mood. It was an incredible feeling, and an incredible relief that worked instantly and effectively. Like a hot load injected into his veins, the affection changed everything immediately and reset his psyche. He rose from the depths of darkness into something that resembled daylight with the exchange, and he was grateful to her for the gesture. Whether she knew it or not, she'd made all the difference for his day. He would walk out of her place feeling neutral, which was better than he'd felt since -- well -- since the last time she'd kissed him.
Pulling back from her, as she would've held him tightly forever if he so desired, he looked into her eyes again and saw a depth of caring that was almost foreign to him given the time since he'd witnessed it anywhere else last. He smiled at her, and the smile was only half forced. Patting her on the waist signaled that it was time to let go, though he wasn't sure that was what he truly desired. She squeezed him once more, as an indication that she was letting go only of her will, and then disengaged so that he could go about his business knowing that she would be there after.
Walking out of her trailer, he looked over to the neighboring unit where he'd spent so much time of his youth. Strangely unafraid of seeing it anymore, he studied every bit of it from top to bottom and accepted the feelings that it brought back. Seeing it plainly in the daylight brought back sweet memories, but he paid it attention only for a moment before turning his back, as he had done in the reality of his normal life. Fourteen-thirty Applewood was a place that meant something in his past. Not in his present, and certainly not in his future. Despite Nick's words, Tracy had made very well sure of that... she'd played her card, and she'd won the trick.
FIFTY