Page 36 of Phoenix Fire

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.

Chapter Twenty-four

“I must see him,” Jenny barked at Nora and hastily went directly to Jason's private office door, opened it and entered. The room was dark and empty, and it occurred to her that this was the state of her soul. Dark, empty, and without purpose. Was Jason's soul at this moment feeling the same dark emptiness?

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