Page 27 of Phoenix Fire

Carlton had an apparent hostility toward Grandma Myrena and Jason, and, if totally honest, there was a certain validity to that point. Looking back over the years, it was Jason who received the most attention, the most praise, the most love. Was that Jason's fault? The same uplifting emotions was there for Carlton, too, if only he had accepted them. It was Carlton who had continually pushed Grandpa John and Grandma Myrena away from him. He had pushed so much that they eventually began to feel a reluctance to try for closeness with him.

So, yes, Jason was the fortunate and happy recipient of love and praise. He never took advantage of that love and praise. However, now, in this unrelenting thought process, he somehow felt guilty, felt that he had unwittingly deprived Carlton part of his rightful emotional due.

Jason rose from the boulder and began the slow walk back to his house.

Forget guilt, he thought. Forget all of those elaborate concessions of the mind. Forget the assessing of blame. Forget the bitterness.

The fact was that Carlton had a problem, a very serious and no doubt complicated crisis. What could he do to help Carlton? He was the brother and, despite all the irritation, he loved him and cared about his life. He would talk to him, try to reason with him, help him to see the potentially tragic outcomes of his actions.

Even as Jason considered this option he knew what the result would be. Carlton would sneer and play his mind games. This would result in Jason becoming angry, blowing up, stomping away, and really doing nothing but exacerbating the problem.

He must try, though, to help his brother.

The remote idea of physically confronting Carlton came and went fleetingly. That was not an option. Although he might feel at times like taking swings at his brother he knew that brutish action seldom solved a problem. Besides, Jason was not a physical and confrontational type of person. Other than a few elementary school playground wrestling matches, Jason had never had a real fight. It was stupid, irrational, and certainly did not get to the core of any problem.

Jason would leave it at talking to Carlton. He told Grandma Myrena that he would try. Through his pessimism he would try. First thing in the morning he would call Carlton. No, he would not call him. He would go to Carlton's office. There would be no hiding behind the telephone. Jason needed to be in front of Carlton when he tried to reason with him. He owed his Grandma Myrena, Carlton, and himself that much.

He walked along the winding park path, feeling oddly relieved that he had reached a decision about Carlton. Of course, it was not a monumental thing. He had known all along that he would talk to Carlton. Still, he felt better now that he had done his rationalizing and decided the time of his meeting with Carlton.

Jason was unmindful of the night sounds and smells all around him. Now, they assaulted his senses. Damp from a recent irrigation, the freshly mowed grass smelled like a field of cut watermelons. The steady drone of crickets made the night seem safe and predictable. Staggered lighting along the path provided ample illumination and increased security. When he reached a bench on the edge of a municipal golf course, he sat again … and thought.

He thought about Jenny, how they had met, their first evening together, the dinner at Grandma Myrena's, their trip to 'Apple Brown Betty.' He knew that he was in love with her, and it remotely bothered him that he had fallen so quickly. That was the way of romance novels and syrupy movies. Yet, he knew. He believed, too, that Jenny was in love with him. If she was not, she was a superb actress or was easily moved to wearing her heart on her sleeve.

Jason had to admit that Carlton's words had bothered him. Despite himself, he had felt a semblance of jealousy when Carlton had told him of lunch with Jenny. He did not want to think of himself as a jealous man. Jealousy was another wasted emotion, serving only to complicate an otherwise orderly life. But, even acknowledging Carlton's propensity for mind games, it had bothered him to think that Jenny would have lunch with him.

He had wanted to see her earlier tonight after leaving Grandma Myrena's house. Although it was late he had tried reaching her, but her phone was busy each time he called. He had tried several times again for an hour and had concluded that her phone was out of order or off the hook. Then, his mind had done some oblique maneuvers on him, building possible scenarios: maybe she was out on a date; maybe she was with Carlton; maybe someone was at her apartment and she had disabled the phone so as not to be disturbed.

Jason had indulged these capricious thoughts until he became angry with himself. It was not at all like him to impair his mind with adolescent and stupid thought behavior. Again, he had reminded himself, there was no commitments made. Jenny was free to see anyone she wished and to do whatever pleased her. So, he was able to replace those unseemly mind matters with other equally disturbing ones.

Now, seated on a park bench in the wee hours of the morning, he accepted without reluctance the fact that he was in love with Jenny. He smiled into the magnificent sky, looking for the moon, finding it full and clear on the western horizon, and silently whispered words that mildly shocked him by their spontaneity: “Will you marry me, Jenny Anne Mason?”

He stood and began walking again. Then he jogged, a simple and serene night's glow upon his face, mixing with a sheen of salty sweat. He conjured up two wispy images, two angelic faces, to hover in front of him on either side of the path. Jenny and Grandma Myrena, smiling at him, conveying their love, converging, merging, becoming one blithely caring beacon to lead him home.

Chapter Eighteen

Carlton was not at all sleepy. In fact, he was keyed up, alert and abuzz with Jack Daniels.

The knowledge of his considerable poker losses for the evening had found a convenient and obscure depth in his consciousness. Money for Carlton was merely a necessary commodity to have, to do the things he wished to do. Money, or the lack of it, however, was not something that intimidated him. At the moment of losing there was some distress, but, with the lapse of a relatively short span of time, he could void his mind of worry. He did not agonize on his loss of money because he could always manage and manipulate to get more.

For Carlton there was a certain antipathy regarding money, precious little in the way of respect for it. Money had come to him too easily in life. Maybe his aversion to money was psychological and subliminal. In any event it appeared to be a paradox of his nature, like, in some grotesque way, but not totally, the man who must climb a mountain, swim the English Channel, wrestle a grizzly bear, or surf a fifty foot wave on the north shore of Hawaii. He wanted to win the big poker hand, his mountain, but it could never bother him too much if he lost. A paradox, and, unlike the lofty and noble aspiration of a Sir Edmund Hillary, Carlton's motives were rooted in some maniacal, self-annihilation crusade.

The poker game and the money losses were not on his mind as he tried to locate his car, having forgotten where he had parked it. While he felt alert and keyed up, the Jack Daniels had fogged his memory banks. The bourbon had also affected his motor skills. He was aware that there was some imbalance in his walking, but he knew where he was and what he wanted to do. He was sitting for hours. That fact and the bourbon would naturally make him feel a little out of sync, if not a whole lot out of sync.

He finally remembered where he parked the car. It sat all alone on the near deserted street. An occasional car passed, tire rubber slapping the pavement in an eerie reverberating beat.

Behind the steering wheel he contemplated his course of action. He knew exactly what he wanted to do. The epiphany had come at the small bar in the gambling suite. Now, though, he was losing some of his resolve. Looking for the car had wearied him. His quick transition of moods did not surprise him. He could understand, rationalize, how and why his mood had changed. He was without rest and sleep for too long the past several days. Mood shifts came easily to an abused body.

Still at the curb, key in the ignition, he leaned his head back against the headrest for a moment and closed his eyes. He thought of Jenny Mason and his brother. He knew what he had wanted to do tonight. His foggy mind was playing tricks on him, changing the priority of only seconds ago, his brain throwing images at him, loving images, family images, making him feel a remote and shadowy guilt. He was sinking, his will abrogated by some wispy power. Then, a soporific cloud passed over his mind and his body went limp.

His first awareness was of the car's rocking motion. He next felt rough hands on his arms and shoulders. Carlton's eyes snapped open as he felt his body being pulled from the car. He twisted his head from side to side, his body stiffened in protest. His lips moved in slurred denial, “Hey, what's going on? Stop! You can't ...”

His words were cut short when a fist caught him flush on the left temple and ear. A great roaring sound filled his head, like a mighty swoosh of wind driven surf hitting the beach. The sound was tinged with a burning, throbbing pain. Light flashed at the back of his eyes like a rhythmic cymbal clash, muted and distant.

His dulled mind tried to make sense of it all. This was all too real to be a nightmare. It was like scenes from old gangster movies. He felt weightless and ineffective, unable to muster energy. He was being taken somewhere in this black night by malicious vice-like hands.

Were there three of them? Carlton's fuzzy awareness made it difficult to tell. From the dim light of the predawn sky and a distant street lamp, Carlton was able to see only two of them. While he did not have time to assimilate much, he could see the dirty stubble faces and could smell the awful stench of their bodies. He was being carried, dragged, and pummeled with imprecise blows to his face and body. The faces Carlton dimly saw were young white faces, coarse and shiny with sweat, angular like Dick Tracy comic characters.

They were in turn saying things to him and to themselves in quiet mumblings: “Don't make a sound, mofo. Don't kick, you drunk bastard. Over there! Take him over there, in the alley, dammit!”

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