Holland Suggestions (5 page)

Yes. Those things were better left unsaid.

B
UT IT WAS ONLY
beginning. I dreamed about it that night, and in the morning I remembered parts of the dream: a collage of faces; Robert’s, Vivian’s, Judy’s, and the face of an ugly man I had never seen. I dreamed of the mountain ledge and Robert was there, smiling and pointing to that cave. Again I was up at exactly three-thirty with a headache and throbbing eyes. I was in for a bad day.

I had some important appointments, so I showered in cold water and slowly consumed an evil potion that had been billed in a magazine as a sure cure for a hangover. It was a horrid mixture of V-8 juice, raw egg, and Worcestershire sauce that didn’t help me worth a damn. I was in bad shape all day. I barked at Sharon and she sulked for hours—par for the course, except now she had cause. I was even short with Al Harper, and later I had to apologize. Somehow I got through the morning, and in the afternoon, when I had to drive over to Richmond for a project inspection, the fresh air pouring in through the open window helped clear my head.

Something about the Holland matter would not let me rest. At first I thought that it was the natural remorse that comes with reopening old wounds. But fresh air should work a healing trick, and this was lingering like a cancerous sore. It preyed on my mind with increasing intensity; even Sharon’s reassignment in the second week of December did not bring me any relief. What particularly bothered me was that I could not get near the cause. Often I would wake out of a deep sleep always at that ungodly hour of three-thirty, and would be awake until dawn. On those nights I reread parts of the Holland file, but if there was any help for me there I was missing it By the third week in December I had read everything in the file three times and was starting on a fourth reading of Robert’s hypnosis manuscript

Christmas. A drab affair. Judy seems to have come out of the Vivian thing in fine shape. Today she has her hair in a bun; she hasn’t worn it that way in more than a year. I think the Vivian thing is over for her. The process has begun to reverse and her interests are turning to other things. I wish I could say the same for myself.

In the late afternoon we sat watching the bubble lights of our Christmas tree. She had spent most of the day preparing a big turkey for just the two of us. But I had not been able to enjoy it and she was hurt. At seven o’clock the new boy in her life came by and they went out for a couple of hours. With Judy gone and the house dark, a wave of depression stronger than anything I had known in years came over me. It came with such crushing swiftness that I actually felt like crying out from the pain of it. I forced myself out of the house and felt some relief in the stinging cold of the night air. Driving downtown offered a temporary respite, but the end of the drive brought an end to the relief. Depression, cold and clammy, set in again. For a long time I sat in my car at the edge of the town square, staring at the big Christmas tree and watching the people as they went out in twos to early movies. I went to a movie too, alone of course. At first I thought a blue movie might help, but they are hard to find in my town; so I settled for an old Steve McQueen adventure, sat in a back row, and left before it was half over. A private topless club was my next stop, but some drunk there was picking fights, and I was in no mood for that. I left almost immediately, just as bare tits and a lot of skin flopped past me toward the stage.

I had stayed out longer than I’d planned. But the house was dark when I turned into my driveway; either Judy was also out too late or she had gone to bed as soon as she had come in. In fact, she had done neither; I found her sitting in the dark living room, watching the lonely street through the big picture window. I saw her outline as I came in, and she made no effort to move as I turned on the little nightlight at the end of the coffee table.

“What’s this?” I said.

“Just thought I’d wait up for you.”

“In the dark?”

“Why not? I’ve seen you sitting in the dark sometimes. I guess I just didn’t feel like having any light on.”

“Something on your mind?”

“You’ve been on my mind. Something’s been bothering you; I can tell.”

“I’ve just been tired. Maybe I need a vacation.”

“Why don’t you take it, then? You’ve got it coming. It might do you good to get away for a couple of weeks by yourself.”

“What about you?”

“I could stay with Peggy. Her mother always says she’d be glad to have me. I’m no problem, Daddy.”

I smiled. “Yeah, well, let’s sleep on it, okay?”

“I’ve got some hot chocolate on the stove.”

We sat up for another half hour and I forced myself to be gay and promote Christmas cheer. It all fell apart when she went up to bed at midnight. I felt more desolate and alone than ever. Sometime in the early morning I put aside the hot chocolate for Scotch, a bad habit I was getting into lately. My liquor bill had tripled this month; natural, probably, at this time of year, but we had had few guests, and yet the cabinet was empty. Christmas cheer for a party of one.

Judy was probably right to worry; I was worried myself. The worst of it was, I had no idea what was causing it. Yes, there was a twinge of sadness and a spurt of regret whenever I thought of Vivian and Robert, but that was all there was to it. They were ghosts now, part of an unchangeable but fading past. Hadn’t I faced that one and come through it with healthy acceptance?
Que será será;
it was done. Why, then, this lingering uneasiness? Why the restlessness and depression?

That was when I first thought of seeing a doctor. One thing was clear to me: something would have to be done soon, before the strain cost me my job and left me a blubbering alcoholic. Maybe a psychologist, if I could find one with good understanding of hypnotic technique, could help me sort out the meanings of these old and new forces in my life. I took that thought to bed, awoke at three-thirty after only an hour’s rest, and went through another terrible morning.

That was how the week went, a monotonous string of ups and downs. But by Saturday I had rejected the idea of seeking professional help. Like most men, I was rebelling against the suggestion, even the gentle self-suggestion, that there was anything wrong with me. Besides, there was occasional basis for optimism. After a horrid New Year and a so-so January, February was a good month. I did not go into the Holland file at all during the first three weeks of February; at the end of the fourth week, when the depression had returned, I took Judy away for two days in the mountains. That was a mistake. The mountain scenery only reminded me of the photograph, and I stayed in the lodge all weekend, drinking and brooding, while Judy hiked in the hills.

Monday morning: 3:30
A.M.
Things are as bad today as they ever have been. Christ, I don’t know how I’ll get through the day.

I got through it somehow. But now, for the first time, came an ominous warning.

Darlene: “Mr. Ryan, Mr. Harper on one.”

And the heavy voice of Al Harper: “Jim, come over here for a few minutes, will you?”

Al’s secretary wasn’t yet in, so I walked past her desk and knocked on the hardwood door. Al called me in and motioned me to a chair while he finished a phone conversation. That done, he shuffled through some blueprints on his desk and pushed them toward me.

“Did you okay these?”

I leafed through them. “Sure I did.” Looking closer now: “Is something wrong with them?”

“Look for yourself.”

I didn’t need a magnifying glass. The problems were right before me, circled in red.

Al swung around in his swivel chair and gazed out of the window. “Normally I don’t double-check you. I guess it’s a good thing I did this time.”

“A damn good thing,” I said. I felt the blood in my cheeks, and I knew there wasn’t anything I could say in self-defense. For these kinds of college-boy errors there wasn’t any defense.

Al swung around to face me. “What the hell’s wrong with you these days?”

“I don’t know, Al. What can I say? It’s just a stupid mistake.”

“It’s not just a mistake.”

“You mean there’ve been others?”

“I mean you’re off in a goddamn dream world half the time; your eyes are bloodshot and you’ve lost ten pounds. You drove Sharon to the verge of a nervous breakdown and then made her move to another department…”

“The thing with Sharon was personal. It didn’t have anything to do with this.”

“Didn’t it? I’m not so sure. All I know is you’ve got a problem. Is it booze or what?”

That was Al Harper for you: straight to the point with no diplomatic waltzing around the touchy areas. For a moment I didn’t know how to answer him. Telling him that I had my drinking under control wouldn’t sound believable under the circumstances, so I said, “Look, you’re right; I have had a problem and it’s been a real bitch. I’m still having trouble handling it. It’s just a personal thing, Al, and it isn’t booze, if that’s what you’re thinking. My word on that. I’m just sorry as hell that it’s starting to affect my work.”

“Judy’s okay?”

“Sure, she’s fine.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“It’s just something I’ve got to work out myself.”

“Well, I hope you get it worked out soon, old buddy. A mistake like this one”—he shuffled the prints—“could cost me plenty.”

“I know it. What the hell can I say?”

“It sounds to me like you’re going through something I used to call occupational menopause. It happens to a lot of guys your age; hell, I went through it myself twenty years ago. A man gets tied to a desk, a steady routine, he starts wondering if maybe life isn’t passing him by, if maybe he ought to get out where the action is.”

I tried to laugh in protest but managed only a smile.

“I’m serious, Jim,” Al said. “And if that’s what it is there’s just one cure for it. Take a few weeks off; get the hell out of town and see how other people live. Look, have I got to order you to take a goddamn vacation?”

“I’ll put in for it.”

“You don’t have to put in for anything; just go.”

“How about the first three weeks in May?”

“What’s wrong with right now?”

“Christ, Al, if you’re going to make me take this vacation, at least let me go when the fish are biting.”

He frowned, then smiled, then frowned again. “Go ahead, put in for it,” he said at last; “now get out of here so I can get some work done.”

Later, in the privacy of my own office, I tremble at what might have happened. But I know that Al is right: I do need to get away, and soon. But not too soon. Something inside me says May, and that is how I will have to play it.

Morning business. Darlene buzzed; phone call from a project boss in Front Royal. Coffee. The morning mail. Even before I began leafing through it I noticed the familiar manila envelope at the bottom of the stack.

In all aspects it was a duplicate of the other. It had the same yellowed appearance, similar dust lines, and the faded word
PERSONAL
stamped on both sides. The postmark said New York, two days ago; again, there was no return address. I turned it over and saw that it was sealed with Scotch tape. The tape was old and beginning to crack, but still it held tight. I slit the top of the envelope and took out the picture with trembling hands. It was the same mountain trail, but a better photograph, taken closer to the cave and in better light. Now I could easily see the Maltese cross without a glass; I could even see into the cave for a short distance. There were objects on the floor: a coil of rope; a backpack; a digging tool of some kind. I turned the picture over. Taped to the back was a gold coin.

It was Spanish, very old, with tiny, intricate engravings. I examined the coin under the magnifying glass. Among the engravings was a tiny Maltese cross near its upper face-edge. It was about the size of an American quarter and, I guessed, very valuable. I knew at once that I would never sell it, and under those circumstances I did not even want to know its value. I placed the picture and its wrappings in my desk drawer and locked it. At the end of the day I retrieved it, took it home, and filed it with the Holland papers. Then I locked the cabinet and joined Judy at dinner.

Today I tried another automatic-writing experiment, with strange results. I wrote three words—“blood of Christ”—and again the numbers 50, 96, and 12. It all means something, but what? I wonder if I will ever know.

By the first of April there was no longer any question in my mind: I was going to New York. I put in for three weeks beginning in May; Al rubber-stamped it, and for all practical purposes I was on my way. Then a curious thing happened. From the moment my decision was made, my depression vanished. April was a good month. Only twice did I wake at three-thirty, and then I was able to get back to sleep in about half an hour. Still, my newfound peace of mind did not create any false sense of security. I was painfully aware that it might be temporary; that its existence was tenuous and easily explainable. My subconscious had accepted my plan and had made an uneasy truce with me. That’s what Robert Holland would say, and even though I had no idea what would happen in New York or how I would function there, I believed it. For my own peace of mind I had to go and at least make an effort. The game plan was so simple on paper: In three weeks I would try to find the person on the other end of these mailings, in a city of eight million anonymous people. How? I had no idea. The thought of hiring a detective crossed my mind, but I would deal with that possibility later, on the scene. I looked into my savings account and prepared to spend some money.

Away from work, my thinking zeroed in on a single purpose. I wrote a possible newspaper ad: “Will the party who sent Jim Ryan the mountain scenery please contact Mr. Ryan at the Hotel…” Not very specific, but
he
would know what it meant. I would try it anyway. I would try anything that occurred to me, no matter what the odds. But until I knew who he was and what it all meant, I was playing by his rules.