Phoenix Fire (15 page)

“Jason is young, talented, entrepreneurial, and very smart, but he has a hidden weakness.” Myrena sighed, flinched slightly, and took a sip of tea. She gave a hand motion to Jenny to stay seated. “Behind his bold, aggressive front he has a deep sense of fate, kismet, destiny, whatever you wish to call it. He thinks that he reads it well, this kismet, but he is often fooled by it. He perhaps believes in it too much and too often. In other words, he is vulnerable. Yet, he would not admit to this vulnerability. To the world of work he is a strong mover and shaker. Inside, he carries a lot of emotions. He would not ...”

Myrena was suddenly gripped with a piercing pain that lingered and would not be denied. This time she did not raise her hand to preclude Jenny coming to her side.

Jenny knelt on the carpet, her hand resting softly on Myrena's wrinkled arm. “What can I do?” Jenny moved to hold Myrena's bent body in her arms.

“It will pass,” Myrena whispered, “but please call for Wardley. There, on the console. Ask him to bring my medication. He will know what to do.”

Jenny hurriedly pushed the call button on the console.

After the pain pill was taken, when the worst of the pain had subsided, Jenny thought that Myrena looked even older than when she arrived. Jenny wanted to ask so many questions of Myrena but felt that it would further distress her.

After Wardley had determined that Myrena had made it through another painful session he cleared the small table of cups, plates, uneaten finger sandwiches, and utensils. Upon leaving the sun room he suggested that Myrena soon consider a nap.

Myrena had the need to say some last words to Jenny. “What I've tried to say, sweet Jenny, in all my rambling, is that you must be patient and be there for Jason when his denial and anger plays out. You are a dear, loving woman. My only regret is that I won't live to see my beautiful grandchildren. But, who can truly say? Perhaps I will see them from another dimension, see your lives unfold and know that we will all be together again when it is time.”

Jenny sadly left Myrena there in the sun room at the matriarch's urging, the clouds outside the big windows growing dark and ominous. Reluctantly, Jenny left with a heavy heart. She left also with a renewed hope. Grandma Myrena seemed to know with a certainty where Jason's and Jenny's lives were going. Jenny only wished that she could be so certain.

Yes, Jenny had renewed hope, but where was Jason?

Jenny drove back to her apartment with a heavy heartfelt concern for Grandma Myrena and a silent prayer for Jason on her lips, a silent prayer for their love.

Chapter Twenty-three

Nora Hadley put yet another pink telephone message slip into Jason's in-box.

Nora could never remember a time in the years she was with Jason that he neglected the daily demands of his business. The death of his brother had apparently short circuited Jason's will to work. Nora was having a difficult time making the necessary excuses for his absence, or, absences.

The last call to come in was from Phil Langley, Jason's close working associate on 'Apple Brown Betty,' It was the fifth time he had called in the last three days and there was a sense of urgency in his voice on the last call. It seemed the local petitioning group against 'Apple Brown Betty' was getting a better head of steam than was originally thought. Also, there were some building code issues to get settled and a license stipulation to discuss.

Nora had only heard from Jason once in the last three days. She was not only frustrated but very concerned about her boss and her friend. She had developed a large fondness for Jason during her employ and she felt so inadequate in helping him in his time of need. She knew that Carlton's death was a terrible pain chewing at his insides but she could not help him.

Despite Carlton's death, Nora was surprised at Jason's current behavior. He appeared so strong of will and character that Nora would have thought him impervious to this degree of emotional stress. His current behavior was just so totally unlike him. She surmised that it only proved that no one was really immune to life's hard times.

Two more calls came in from sub-contractors. Mrs. Wimsley called again, also looking for Jason. Jenny Mason had called several times as well. Nora was starting to panic. Even she could not reach Jason at his home number and she was running out of excuses.

Nora sighed and thought, 'I will tell anyone who calls that he has taken some extended time off because of his brother's death.' People should be able to understand that. Nora just wished that Jason would let her know what was going on.

“Where are you, Jason?” she said to an empty reception room.

*****

It was an apathetic numbness that shrouded him. It was an alien set of urges, impulses which had overwhelmed him, and he was loath to resist them.

The people he loved were deserting him. Though he knew it must be an irrational thought, it was there. His brother had closed their sibling ledger before he could balance the books, had died before Jason could make a nebulous peace, before, in effect, he could ease his conscience.

The grief laid upon him in oppressive folds. He had never known such melancholy of spirit, had never expected that his life could turn on him so quickly. Deep within his grief he knew that he had not tried hard enough with Carlton. For it now to be too late to make amends, too late to alter their contentious sibling path, made him sink even lower into the mire of his self-contempt.

And the women he loved! It would have been the strength of his Grandma Myrena he would have sought in these black moments, but she was dying, too. The thought of her dying brought flashes of anxiety and thickened the bleak morass engulfing him. She had always been there for him, had always been his anchor in any storm, his calm and patient cove of conciliation. He was bewildered and lost by the swift currents of change in his heretofore stable existence.

Perhaps the most oppressive of his thoughts was the desertion of Jenny. Over the relatively short span of time that was their time together, he had found his true love. Jenny had represented in some ways for Jason the surrogate for his Grandma Myrena, someone he would be able to embrace in times of trial. Jenny was actually much more than that. She had awakened in him a passion, a romantic pulsing, that he had never known. He had fallen hopelessly in love with her. And, with the love, had come silent expectations. Although they had not spoken so much of their feelings toward one another, there was a subtle acknowledgment, a mutual awareness and knowing.

How could he have been so wrong? He wanted to be in her arms now in this dark time, to be transfused by her caring and tender patience, but he could not.

The terrible seed was planted by Carlton, and Jason had allowed it to grow within him unabated, the seed of unfaithfulness. Oh, he had gone through the denial and the disbelief. Carlton had simply been his usual ill contented self, had wanted to create doubt and suspicion. It had worked. Jason had permitted the seed to take root, despite his rationalizations. Somehow, he knew that Jenny was with Carlton. His brother was too self-assured when he made the claim, and his deathbed plea for forgiveness had for Jason sublimated his own wavering and uncertainty. No matter how he tried to allay and diminish his doubts, there was some mistrust for Jenny.

He should have confronted her with his doubts. Somehow, he could not. Was it a macho thing? Why had she not mentioned to him her time with Carlton? The fact that she did not only added credence to the thought. His own churning mind had given Carlton's seed the fertile ground in which to grow.

So, it was a blend of perceived truths that had brought Jason to this emotional place, this unnatural and alien abyss. It was an unfamiliar place and, try as he might, he could not pull himself out of the murky depths. His logic and common sense had deserted him, too. He was in truth a prisoner of his tortured mind. Could death and love coexist in such disarray?

With all the bleak, tormenting thoughts, there came as well the conceding nod that his work was also suffering from his absence. He had thought of calling Nora at the office to check for messages but it so suddenly became unimportant to him. He could easily rationalize away his reasons for not calling. For one thing he had never taken time off from his work. Even his pet project, 'Apple Brown Betty,' could not override his distressing mindset. For another thing, the compelling urge to work that had always been with him was not there. He had worked all of his life and, until these frustrating and melancholic moments, it was his single most coveted obsession.

He sat, wallowing in his black thoughts, conscious of the steady erosion of his stability. The telephone rang time and again but he would not answer it. He did not wish to talk, particularly to people who would want to offer condolences and pity. Images of Grandma Myrena, Jenny, and Carlton would meet and merge at the core of his consciousness and waves of anxiety would cause him to hyperventilate.

He sought a timeworn and tested remedy in alcohol. He began to drink much more than was his custom and he found a hazy and temporary peace from his torment. When he ran out of booze at home he ventured into the night of bars and easy conversations.

Days passed, a week, and time became a plodding, dismal measurement of his inner sickness. He went to the office a couple of times, staying only long enough to relegate some decision making authority to Phil Langley and Nora Hadley. He needed to be free of business problems for a while, he told them. He needed some time for himself. It was an easy and believable exoneration from blame, an easy release from obligation and duty, a coward's subtle retreat from reality. It was about time, he told them. Nora, Phil, the others, listened and accepted his words, but they knew in a far recess of their minds that they were witnessing the beginning of an inevitable fall. Jason shrugged off any attempt to deter him, insisting he only wanted to be free from business concerns for a while.

Jason did call Grandma Myrena and tried to assuage her mounting distress over his lack of communication. She had wanted to talk to him about Jenny Mason but he brushed her words away in pretended levity, telling her that he would call her. He gave her essentially the same spiel that he had given Nora and Phil. It seemed to him the only way to handle his deep concern for Grandma Myrena's terminal illness. For Jason, the quick telephone calls to Grandma Myrena were a strange mix of expiatory cleansing and temporary reprieves from the realities he must sooner or later confront.

Jason came very close on several occasions to calling Jenny. Each time the phone was in his hand, his finger ready to punch her number, he would dissolve into procrastination. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe he was afraid to call her, afraid of severing for good the now weakened bond between them. Maybe he did not want to listen to her recounting the time spent with Carlton. Maybe he was afraid that she could explain it all away. Maybe, just maybe, he was enjoying this hell he had created for himself and wanted to take it to another level of grievance.

Jason escaped to the bottle and the bars.

Talk was easy and flippant with the daily residents of the bars. He made casual friends with his generous purchase of drinks 'for the bar' and he enjoyed the notoriety of being a free spending, easygoing, devotee of the Bacchic world.

His routine quickly became a ritual, all along the Camelback Road corridor, lounge after lounge, until the dreaded end of neon night when the bars closed and he must weave his way home.

Home, where the ritual continued, drinking straight shots of scotch until he finally succumbed to the fuzzy void of sleep.

Sleep, where demons visited in the early morning mists with unimaginable and grotesque visions of half-people, half-beasts, in distorted, macabre scenes.

Scenes, where color and action were so horrible in their imagery that he would awaken drenched in perspiration, gasping for air, hyperventilating, in the darkness which surrounded him, afraid to move lest he arouse some monster in a near corner of the room.

Then, shocked back to some semblance of sobriety in those early morning hours, all of the thoughts would return. Grandma Myrena thoughts. Jenny Mason thoughts. Carlton, sibling, thoughts. Thoughts, teamed with the downside effects of the consumed alcohol, which would bring a queasy anxiety and depression.

There, in that predawn realm, he whipped and hammered himself with vows of contrition. Exhausted, he would slip back into a kinder sleep, sleep bereft of demons with red, bloated faces, sleep that was deep and unmindful of the telephone ringing in long, impatient trills.

Had it only been ten days since his brother's memorial? To Jason, it seemed so much longer. His body was showing the signs of his abusive new regimen. The eyes glared back at him with red and ragged intensity from the bathroom mirror. Small light purple puffy sacs crowded his lower eyelids. Irritated and ugly red blotches which he could not explain were spread about his upper torso, a stark contrast to the paleness from the lack of sun and nourishment.

Each day was a repetition of the preceding day, a day like yesterday. The yesterdays were piling up.

The late morning shower, juice and coffee brought brief glimmers of hope that he might survive the day. But, then, the waves of nausea would come to mingle with the promises of survival. He forced himself out of his robe and into casual clothes. Today he would wear blue shirt, tan slacks, and navy blue blazer. He had only a fleeting thought of going into the office. His body dictated that he feed it, so he went to a Scottsdale coffee shop and made himself eat steak and eggs. A short time later, the waves of nausea abated, but there was still an occasional inner flutter which could only be appeased by alcohol.

At 2:30 PM Jason had begun drinking again. He was one of only three people sitting at the ornate mahogany bar. The cocktail lounge was intimately low of lighting and the furniture was comfortable, dominated by cardinal and gold hues. A compact disc system played soft ballads in the background, the melodic sounds punctuated by an occasional tinkle of glass, ice, and muted voices. There was a pungent yet pleasant smell floating on the refrigerated air, a blend of perfume, booze, and cigarette smoke.

After two scotch-rocks Jason began to feel the familiar return of balance to his inner chemistry. A song by Frank Sinatra was playing and the words were bringing thoughts of Jenny, her face a sharp and lovely focus in the back of his bloodshot eyes. Even as he sat with poised highball glass in hand and a negative frown etched upon his face, he loved and wanted her. He remembered that she had called several times at his office. Perhaps the calls at home that was not answered were from Jenny … he had disconnected the answering service. She wanted to talk to him, to possibly explain all the hurt away. Had he allowed too much time to pass? Would she talk to him now? The urge was strong to leave his bar stool and call her. Perhaps she could make everything right for him again.

Grandma Myrena had wanted him to call Jenny. Maybe they had talked. Maybe he had just been too quick to let Carlton's words eat into his conscience, to begin their malignant growth. Maybe all was not lost with Jenny. He wanted to call her, to ask forgiveness for his adolescent behavior, his rudeness at leaving her at the hospital. The urge to call her was so compelling.

He did not move from his bar stool. He felt too embarrassed to call her. He was such an idiot. He should have given her a chance to explain her time with Carlton …

Grandma Myrena was dying. The thought came blurting through his consciousness. Carlton was dead. Was Jenny dying, too? Was he allowing her to die as well? All the people he loved were deserting him … all, dying.

The bartender brought another drink. Other people drifted into the cocktail lounge. The sounds of voices, laughing, talking, the ice tinkling in the glasses, the cash register, and the music, all grew in decibel count across his fevered mind.