a chapter from the novel Delilah

In the following chapter, the main character, Kurt Bradbury, Jr., a famous writer and notorious alcoholic, reckons with his present, his past and his future. Specifically, he plots the future of his main character, the Man, and the object of that character’s deepest desires, the Woman.

            It was cold inside, and Kurt remembered that he had forgotten to tell the landlord to turn the heat back on in preparation for his return.  Cursing, he shoved the old wooden door in, stepped through, and shut out the hallway outside, its interesting characters, its smells, its dramas. 

            Kurt had lived there for ten years.  In that time he had heard the sounds of love, the screams of hate and perhaps a few crimes.  He often sat in a recliner in his living room with a notepad on the arm just in case something came up that inspired him.  Nothing much was accomplished, but that is all writing in a sense. 

            But he listened.  There was a particular set of sounds that accompanied love making – a distinct cork popping sound at 8:30 pm, the swell of a romantic number from a speaker at around 9:00 pm, the sound of a woman laughing at 9:15 with the laugh telling you what type of woman she was – loud and sharp was nervous, high and squeaky was young and naïve, and short and low was desperate – the TV noise shut off soon after or the stereo turned up louder, and then it was quiet for a while.  At this point, Kurt would think he had been imagining things.  His old age made him hear things that weren’t there, which made his apartment the most dangerous place he ever lived in.  Each time he thought it was just something innocent.  And then, at 9:45, some seismic rhythm began pulsating through the walls, floorboards or ceiling.  No matter how quiet they wanted to be, the pulsing could be felt, the tiny hairs in the inner ear, on the ear drum, picking up frequencies and making nothing of them at first.  Like the first submission of enemy transmissions to the code breaker – they mean nothing at first.  Then the brain decodes the signal and gives the alert, and then you can hear it all.  The shift of bodies on cheap cotton sheets that sound like marriage contracts being torn in half as they change positions.  The playful smack on a place that hadn’t been touched like that in years, that couldn’t be mistaken for a dropped egg on the kitchen tile in his heightened perceptual state.  The breathing of steam and water through the pipes and the hiss of the radiator change into quick breaths and wheezes and gasps that permeate the night.  And when they are close to finishing, their cries of passion cannot be camouflaged as any network show in history.  It would always be around 10:00 pm, Kurt’s bed time, that the last sigh of the ceiling fan was exhaled.  Kurt could not be blamed for blowing them a kiss every now and then, through the walls, to bless them. 

            Over the years, he seldom felt jealousy for the young lovers.  At his age he was old enough to be interested in that activity but had no patience for the process before and after.   He resigned himself to the fact that he was just an old piece of machinery that only the most skilled technician would take the time to understand, and those who could were a dying breed. 

            There had been women after Nancy who could make him forget his troubles, the troubles he gave to others.  They shared time and space, facts, interests, recipes and music.  No breakups ever occurred; there was nothing to break.  Kurt and the woman simply stopped showing up at the same shows and both forgot to call each other.  Too young to give up, too old to make the simple complicated. 

            These women were not right for the Woman. 

            Another sound Kurt often heard was not as pleasant, and it was the reason he hated being there, especially during the weekends.  It started at 9:00 am when a large vehicle pulled up to the curb near the desired window and honked.  And honked.  Seconds later a woman’s voice screamed angrily to a child or children to get his or her or their things.  The anger in her voice was intended for the driver of the vehicle, but it never seemed to reach this person.  The children gave loud protests about not wanting to go, loving their mother and hating their new mother, and yet they still made it out the door by 9:15 or 9:30.  If not, the driver of the car could be heard stomping angrily up the apartment stairs, pounding on the door and booming a hostile greeting.  When the door opened, everything went silent for a few seconds.  Perhaps a mutter here or there about the details – should be ready by now, my weekend, your weekend, let’s go.  The kids tumbled down the steps and could be heard on the street for a brief moment before the car doors slammed shut.   

            Kurt wanted to pity the kids, but he thought it would be hypocritical.  Or the parents.  He had been in that situation too.  After his divorce from Nancy, he had court appointed visitation with his children.  Claire wanted nothing to do with him.  She was 17 when the divorce was finalized.  She had her sights on college, wanting to study oncology.  No English classes.  Over the years, she sent him a card on his birthday, after which he would call and they would talk for a few minutes.  She had a few boyfriends, then a husband and a child.  He saw a few pictures of them, mostly Christmas cards.  Claire was remarkably similar to Nancy.  She had no trace of him in her persona.  When they spoke, she was a woman.  No little girl left for him.  Kurt looked into the eyes of Ken, her husband, and hoped that he saw integrity and love there.  As far as Kurt knew, the man was a good husband.  It looked bad for Claire at first; she had bad luck with bad men.  Her father was no exemplar of love. 

            The visitation was never with Claire, but his two boys were always there to see him.  Bruce and William were born late after Claire, eight years.  Kurt had wanted a boy the second time, someone he could mold, start anew with.  He pictured a lot of one-on-one time spent fishing, playing basketball or doing something creative with the boy to show him how his old man made a living.  But he and Nancy got two for the price of one.  Everyone was ga-ga for the twins; Nancy’s mother and father were omnipresent for the first six months.  And then they grew up just enough to move around on their own, which caused all the problems between Kurt and Nancy.  No, not the alcohol.  It was the double teaming menace that shared the same brain and communicated through secret twin lingo, apparently, because as one was pulling a bag of flour from the kitchen countertop onto his head, the other was fiercely trying to yank the tail off of a docile yet fearsome German Shepard.  The dog had a pleasant, friendly personality.  It had flecks of white throughout its brown coat, and it never flashed its intimidating fangs at anyone.  Its name was Horace. 

            Bruce grew up the more studious, William the more adventurous.  Bruce was funny and intelligent but shy; William was willfully ignorant and boastful.  And they were always at each other’s throats, except when in Kurt’s presence.  They tried to manipulate him with childish pranks.  It was a game to them – see how mad dad could get.  Kurt didn’t see the fun in it right away, and he was mean to them often. 

            The worst thing one can say to child, even in jest, is, “I wish you were never born.”  Kurt had said it, drunk, and repeated it, sober, to them both.  Initially, it wounded them.  But through their telepathic bond, the twins simultaneously began to get over it through the use of more overt rebellion.  First, they ignored his admonishments about taking out the garbage, turning off the TV or getting better grades.  Next, they began talking to each other about Kurt while in his presence – “he’s probably just drunk,” “how can you tell?,” “he’s conscious, so . . .,” “Oh, right, you’re right,” “but what about when he’s unconscious?,” “Yes, he’s drunk then too, brother!”  And then they just ignored him completely.  Kurt should have been concerned at this point, but he had begun writing more serious material and was actually pleased about the lack of attention. 

            After the divorce, Kurt drove to the house and sat in the driveway, honking the horn.  Bruce and William were the types of kids to keep a person waiting.  Thirty minutes later they would emerge, loaded down with cassette players and hand held video games, comic books and the like, and slide into his back seat.  “Why doesn’t one of you climb up here in the front with dad?”

            Nothing.  Not even one turning to the other and suggesting that Kurt couldn’t tell them apart.  If they were in a punchy mood, they would turn to each other and start having insane non-sequitur conversations:   “Get that watch you were looking at in the mall, Bruce?”  “Yes, William, catfish tastes better with lemon juice”  “And do you still have a prosthetic nostril?”  “Keep your hands off of my ladybug!”  Kurt assumed that, since Nancy had no means of getting and keeping Kurt’s attention anymore, she devised some kind of living hell for him every other weekend.  It was convenient to think that the woman could brainwash his sons.  But somehow Kurt always knew better.  They were fully capable of making up their own opinion about their dad without their mother’s deriding comments.  They shared opinions like they shared clothes. 

            The last Kurt had heard, Bruce and William were not speaking to each other.  He had no idea why, but assumed it had nothing to do with him.  They didn’t contact him, and Kurt never tried to contact them.  They were middle-aged men now, in their forties, no doubt with kids of their own.  Sometimes, late at night, Kurt would imagine what his sons looked like, what his grandchildren looked like, and what that unborn son, the one he had wanted, the one he would mold as himself, the one he would fish with and bond with, would have been like.  Some nights he had grand schemes.  Some nights he realized that the boy would simply inherit too many of his father’s traits.  Molded like that. 

            His thoughts were on that boy as he checked his messages and settled in for the night.  He still had no idea what the Woman would be like, and it reminded him of this boy, a young man now actually, who inhabited his mind.  Had Kurt any right to toy with them as if he knew what was best for them? 

            Kurt sat down in his chair in the living room.  He was ready to be inundated with thoughts, memories and sounds, but not sights.  There was nothing new to look at in his place.  It was the same stuff collected through the years – black chest with miscellaneous papers that had a fifteen-inch black and white television perched on top of it.  The wallpaper was a mix of brown and deep reds and gold in stripy zigzags.  It made you feel as if you were constantly moving up or down and spinning.  There was a brown grandfather clock in the corner that was a wedding gift from his uncle that Nancy forced him to take.  Very few pictures were on the wall, and they were mostly from the events Kurt had attended over the years.  One had him with a few big writers from the past fifty years, names that people would recognize.  It was taken in the seventies, and all of them, though old, were open minded enough to try lamp chop sideburns, a gold medallion, bellbottom pants or a bushy moustache.  It was a moment that flashed just as quickly as the fashion; Kurt could point to each one and recall the last words he said to him, the words that ended each friendship.  They each held drinks in their hands.

            It was hard not to think of alcohol in the apartment.  Aside from the pictures, there was the reality that outside of his door there were hundreds of taps, bottles, glasses, snifters and flutes ready for anyone.  Someone would drink it all.  It’s not like he’s taking it away from anyone.  One or two can’t hurt.  That’s not a problem.  He could slip out and buy a six-pack, bring it back, drink a few and nobody would have to know.  What was he doing that was so important anyway? 

            It had come and gone over the years, and Kurt had had varying degrees of success with sobriety.  Sometimes all it took was the feel of the door handle to make him turn away.  Other times it took the ringing of the bell over the door of a liquor store to nurture some Pavlovian response learned in recovery.  Occasionally, it took a glance at every bottle of wine, jug of whiskey and beer flavor on the market to make him realize that he was stepping into a dangerous past.  The closest he had come was showing up to a bar down the street, ordering a shot of whiskey and putting his thumb and forefinger gently on the glass.  Some people in recovery need that once in a while to remind them that they make their choices minute by minute.  It was never too late.  Not even if they had the drink to their lips. 

            No judge had forced Kurt into recovery and Nancy certainly hadn’t demanded it.  He found himself there after his divorce when the booze had just about wrecked his career and all of his friendships.  Bridges were burned with editors, publishers, agents, other writers and critics.  Kurt was untouchable until he met Leslie.  She was a new, young agent at the time and she saw Kurt for the cash cow he was.  But the booze had to go.  The books Kurt had been trying to turn in during these dark times were not up to par with his previous works.  The booze had been causing him to write badly.  It had to be one or the other so choose already was Leslie’s refrain.  Of course he was angry about her talking to him that way.  What did she know about marriage, divorce, pain, war, love lost, etc.? 

            After much discussion, Kurt entered a clinic in Ohio in the country.  Everyone was very nice.  Kurt was very mean.  He and the other “inmates” had it out on numerous occasions, Kurt claiming to be a privileged genius who deserved to cut loose now and then without any explanation.  These group sessions typically involved him being asked to keep quiet and listen to the others, then being ejected when he couldn’t do so. 

            One day Kurt was called into the office of Dr. Cy Garson, the chief doo-daa of the recovery center.  The man had a long, narrow, lined face that was pale from too many days supervising patients.  “Mr. Bradbury, please sit.  I’m told you’re making a lot of commotion and showing little progress.  Naturally I am concerned for your well being.”

            Kurt didn’t like the man immediately, but perhaps that was just the type of mood he was in.  The sobriety wasn’t pleasant.  Kurt spent many mornings downing aspirin and many afternoons contemplating how one could distill alcohol from common items, like shoe polish.  “I can see that,” he replied.  “If you’re so concerned, doc, then let me have something.  Gimme a drink or some stronger pills!  Jesus!”

            “Mr. Bradbury, someone of your stature cannot afford failure now.  At your age, recovery is a life or death issue.”  Garson switched his tact as he shifted to more comfortable position in his high-backed, leather chair.  “Mr. Bradbury, you come to us with no past, no history.”

            Kurt had been ready to debate the man on the subject of his drinking being life threatening, but suddenly felt the urge to defend his status as an author.  “Excuse me!”

            “Settle down.  I mean that you come to us not from a court order or from public scandal, but of your own recognizance.  You signed the papers, you can leave whenever you want.”

            “So that means I can leave right now.  I can get in my car and go get a drink.”

            “Well, yes, but if you do that you cannot come back.”

            “Oh, boo hoo.  Where’s the door?”

            “Not so fast, Kurt.”  Garson was warming up and Kurt could already feel the other shoe dropping on his chest.  “You couldn’t come back here, and nobody would take you back, either.  I spoke with Leslie, your agent, and she tells me that if you fail this, you’re out of the business.”

            “Well that’s debatable.”

            “I’m not so sure from what she tells me.  She won’t take you back.  Nobody will.  And its due to what you did and said while you were swimming in booze.”  He waited for response, but Kurt was dejected.  There was nothing to say.  Garson let the silence reinforce his point.  Finally, he said, “I’m going to make a deal with you.  If you stay here I will give you this word processor.  You’ll take it to your room and write a novel.  Make it about anything.  But you can’t stop the novel until you’re done with treatment, and the treatment isn’t done until I and my staff say it’s done.”

            “What will that prove?”

            “It will prove the theory that Leslie and others have suggested many times before.  You need to quit drinking to help your writing improve.  One cannot exist with the other around.  If you stay, you will have chosen writing.  If you go, your choice is alcohol.  Get it?”

            Kurt returned to his room.  The contraption that Garson promised eventually arrived.  It had a small black screen with bright green letters and buzzed constantly, sort of like Kurt’s head.  He immediately hated it, and dedicated his first several opening paragraphs about how much the infernal, abominable machine drilled a spike into the spot behind his left eye into his brain.  Next, his target was Garson and his awful plan.  Soon he had transformed the entire hospital and its staff into the monsters he saw at every meeting.  The patients were organized in groups.  Each day that Kurt went to counseling and divulged his personal history with drinking, beginning in the war, he would add it to the novel with his own angry twist to each tale.  He hated the world and the mutants that would do this to him.  As the months progressed, Kurt burned off the fuel of rage and moved on to introspection.  The book moved through phases with him up until the very end.  On the day of his release, Kurt printed the thing on accordion fold paper.  As he said his goodbyes, the printer chugged out what would become his critical masterpiece. 

            Though he wasn’t sure he ever wanted this book to see the light of day, Leslie pushed Recover Me to every major newspaper and magazine in the country.  It was hailed as an instant classic, filled with mirthful hatred at first then progressing to a deep respect and genuine love of all mankind.  Most critics saw it as a satiric look at recovery at all of its stages; most of them had no idea that Kurt had been in recovery, so they never new the story of this happy, accidental work of genius. 

            It was the triumph of his art over his demons that kept him from further alcohol problems.  But it was never easy. 

            Kurt had been thinking about these times while reclining in his chair in his living room.  His thoughts drifted to the next day and what he had to do.  Pay some bills, give Leslie a call, go back to the office and write.  About the Woman. 

            In the moments before sleep got its hands on him, Kurt began thinking more about the Man who would be after this Woman.  There would have to be a Man; she was too incredible to be without a hero to chase after her.  Would he be opportunistic like the men that invited women into their beds night after night all around him, or pure of heart like the little boys who tumbled down the stairs to meet their fathers?  Like Bruce or William?  Like Kurt, with all of his faults?  Just before losing consciousness, Kurt thought about the boy he created in his mind, the one he would fish with and bond with.  What would he be like as a man?  Could he be a hero?