Martin gets his favorite Goofy mug from the cupboard, puts it on the glazed concrete counter top next to the other mug. Kate is in the bathroom freshening up, and after, she’s agreed to join him for coffee before leaving. He leans back against the counter by the enormous stainless sink and stares across the virtually sterile kitchen through the glass breakfast nook. It’s completely dark out, rain pelting the windows exaggerating the warmth within, and Martin revels in it for a moment.
Muffled voices and spontaneous bursts of laughter surround him while he watches the coffee drip into the carafe. The rich bitter/sweet aroma takes him back to that café in the Village, all those years ago. He sat on that splintered bench, banging on the piano. James was perched on that rickety stool strumming his acoustic so fast Martin could barely keep up. They worked together a lot back then. James was more of a fixture in their lives, back in the glory days, the days before sickness.
He leans back against the hard counter and recalls John tease that Martin and James together reminded him of Donald Duck and Peanut’s Schroeder. Those were the days John used to be jealous.
Dripping stops. Carafe is full, and Martin fills his cup and leans against the counter, cradling the warm mug next to his soft belly. Those were the days…
Martin hears screaming. Tortured screaming. James is screaming. He puts his mug down and runs down the hall and into the guestroom to find James locked in a nightmare.
“NO! NO! STOP!” are the only intelligible words through the screaming.
“James!” Martin sits on the bed and tries to wake him. “JAMES. WAKE UP!”
James slugs at him, throwing wild punches. “NO! Get off me! Get away!” He scrambles off the bed, falls onto the floor and clambers up against the wall. He sits hunched in the corner, shirt hanging open, his hands spread wide on the ground, trembling to the point of convulsing. His eyes are open, but it’s clear he is still stuck in his dream.
Martin stands and slowly moves around the bed toward him on the floor by the bay window.
“Get away!” James practically growls. He’s breathless, wide- eyed. “Why are you doing this? Why are you torturing me?!”
“James! It’s Martin. I’m not hurting you. WAKE UP!” Martin kneels in front of him and James recoils to strike but freezes. So does Martin.
James’ eyes are open hugely wide—black, glassy, riveted on Martin, and suddenly he connects. Martin feels a tangible pulse between them. He unclenches his fist and brings his hand to his side. “Sorry. Sorry. You okay? Sorry.” He flashes a guilty smile, and a quick laugh, then runs his hand through his hair and looks around the room, shivering uncontrollably.
Martin kneels in front of him, lost for what to say.
James pushes himself up against the wall until he's standing.
Martin stands, too, fixed on James who stares back at him.
“I know how this looks.” He flashes a grin that borders madness. “But I’m not crazy.” His eyes drift past Martin to John and Kate standing near the doorway. “I’m not. It was just a bad dream. I’m not crazy.”
He looks crazy. He stands plastered against the wall, his eyes still open wide, black and hardly blinking. He stares at Kate. She stands just inside the guestroom doorway, her delicate nipples protruding through her sheer, deep red camisole which is minimally tucked into her jeans.
John moves past her into the room, takes the small black case from under his arm and puts it on the edge of the dresser. “You need to be lying down, James.”
James stays glued to the wall, eyes now on John.
“You don’t get it, do you?” John speaks gently, but precisely.
“You have at least one broken rib. Dislodge it, and it could puncture your lung. You have a type-three concussion. Swelling around your brain, and you traumatize it again, even slightly— maybe move your head around too fast, you die instantly.” John studies him. “Anything but rest can possibly kill you. Get the picture? Do you care?”
James and John are fixed on each other, the two of them exchanging some hidden dialog. Martin stands there trying to decipher what's going on exactly. He has this nagging suspicion it isn’t good.
“You don’t get it.” James narrows his eyes to black slits. “Three weeks ago I left a maximum security mental hospital in Scotland—without permission. I’m wanted back there, and in the States now, too.” He gives a quick, disdainful laugh. “But I’m never going back there. Not ever. No one can make me go back there. I’ll meet them in hell before I ever let them take me back there. Get the picture?”
Rain drums the windows. Only sound in the room. Martin is speechless. What James has just told them is incomprehensible, and Martin blanks.
James laughs, low and hollow, filled with irony and anger. Then he runs his fingers through his hair and looks around the room. “I shouldn’t be here. I have to get out of here.”
“You’ve got nowhere to go tonight, James.” John keeps his tone gentle but clinically commanding. “You need to rest.”
James stays against the wall staring wide-eyed at John, and slowly shakes his head.
“Who knows where you are right now but us?”
He looks at Martin, then quickly at Kate, then back at John. “No one.”
“And what are the odds of someone, anyone, figuring it out overnight?”
A conceding smile spreads across James’ face. He looks down.
“You need to rest, James. You’re safe here.”
James glares at John with disdained amusement. “Safe. Right.” He gives another quick laugh and speaks to himself. “I’m fucked. In a world this wired, how far is gone? They’re going to find me. It doesn’t matter where I go. They’re going to find me. And then I’m fucked.” James shivers, looks away and laughs again, and keeps laughing. It's out of control, maniacal. He starts coughing, then manages to stop and gasping for breath, he slides to the floor, buries his face in his hands and seems to curl into a ball as he sits on the floor crying, rocking, his long fingers grip his hair and dig into his head.
Uncertain of what to say or do, Martin stands there watching. He’s never seen James break down before. Never seen any man come apart like James was. He shoots John a quick glance, but John is fixed on James. Kate stares down at James, too.
Martin kneels in front of him and speaks softly. “It’s okay, James…” He touches James’ arm lightly, but James hits his hand away—hard. Martin falls back and lands on his butt. He sits there stunned and feeling stupid.
“Sorry. You okay?” Again James’ grin touches insanity. “I’m okay. Really. Don’t worry about me.” He laughs again. “Sorry. I’m not crazy. I’m not.” His breathing comes in quick quivers. Face is tear-streaked and chalk white. Eyes dart to John and then to Kate, and stay on her for a moment, then he looks back down. “Please, go. Leave me alone.” James sits on the floor, his back to the wall, knees to his chest.
Martin looks up at John and John nods, then he looks at Kate. She’s still fixed on James.
James stares at the ground. “Get out!”
John touches her arm, grips it lightly and guides her towards the door. Martin gets up, looks down at James who stares at the floor. He waits a few awkward moments then finally leaves, follows John and Kate down the hall as he tries to control his breathing and slow his pounding heart.
“I’m calling Shelly Pasquel to see about getting James over to Mt. Sinai.” John says it definitively as he pulls his cell from his lab coat pocket when he enters the kitchen. He has that directed efficiency about him, where he forgets to factor in feelings.
“John, wait a minute. We need to talk about this. I think it’s a bad idea.”
“You’re not a doctor, Martin. You’re not a psychiatrist, and neither am I, and James needs a psychiatrist now.”
“Didn’t you hear what he said? He just got out of being locked up. He’s running. He’s scared. Getting him locked up again my not be the best way to help him, John. James isn’t a manic depressive teen. Not everyone is Phillip, you know.”
Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say.
John glares at him. “What do you want me to do, Martin? Your friend is laying in there half dead, and I don’t think he gives a damn whether he recovers or not. Do you understand that? He’s still suicidal. I can see it. He should be in a hospital where they can get him on the right medications to balance him out.”
“Or zombify him.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic.”
“I’m not. Thorazine, Lithium, all that crap does is numb your brain.”
“James is ill, Martin. He’s distraught, maybe delusional. He just admitted to being hospitalized, probably for attempting suicide. Do you have any idea what the stats are for a long life with people who seriously attempt suicide? Of course you don’t. You write show tunes for a living.”
Martin looks at Kate standing near the butcher block island, flashes her a small, apologetic grin, then turns back to John. “He’ll never agree to it.”
“I don’t care.” John snaps back.
“You lock James up and you may be hurting him more than helping him. You ready to shoulder that, John.”
John glares at him. “Damn you, Martin. We let him walk out of here now and it’s like letting a drunk get behind the wheel.” He stays fixed on Martin another second then turns away in frustration.
“Let me talk to him, John. Find out what is going on before you do anything.” Martin waits for John's response but gets none. “I'm going to talk to him,” he says definitively as he passes John, and stops in front of Kate. “You okay, honey?”
She nods. She doesn't look okay. Her freckled face is ashen. She hugs herself with bare arms, the thin spaghetti straps of her camisole hang on her bare shoulders.
“Well, come in. Sit down,” and he indicates the kitchen table tucked into the glass breakfast nook. “John will get you your promised cup of coffee. I'll be back in a jiff. Hopefully with a reality check.” Martin flashes John a quick glance. John scowls back at him as Martin leaves him in the kitchen with Kate.