His sleep was restless, plagued by bizarre nightmares. The people in his life - Cassie, Emilio Vasq, Samantha, Gideon, Beck and Veldtman - were all standing over him like a jury in a courtroom, passing judgment.
He dreamed of being back in the trauma room surrounded by the doctors and nurses, all of whom were laughing at him. Andy tried to move but he was shackled to the gurney, his wrists bound by thick leather straps that cut into him. Doctors and nurses grabbed his skin, pulling at it so hard they tore bloodied chunks of it away from his chest, exposing his ribs, his lungs and his blackened heart, covered in maggots. He tried to scream but he was unable to puncture the silence or pull himself from the depths of this horrible nightmare. He was trapped, taunted, mocked, ridiculed.
His father appeared out of the gloominess, standing alone on a dusty, gray highway, beside his Kenworth 18 wheeler, staring at him through black, emotionless eyes. Dust from a barren, inaccessible desert whipped up behind him. Shaking his head disapprovingly, Andy’s father turned and walked off the road into the parched landscape, disappearing from view.
Then, somewhere in the deepest hours of the night, the disturbing imagery gave way to a nascent peace and suddenly Andy found himself immersed in a comforting warmth.
There was an ocean. Waves breaking on a sandy shore.
A grassy hillside.
He knew where it was, but he couldn’t place it.
A dog was galloping across the grass, yelping enthusiastically. A cattle dog? A sheep dog? He couldn’t tell. But he knew the dog. It was familiar. He felt a sense of companionship with this dog.
A woman’s laughter, light and breezy, became audible in his ears and he felt his heart skip a beat as he tried to look towards where he thought she was. He couldn’t manipulate his field of view, but he knew she was there, at the very corners of his vision.
Her presence was warm and pure. Her love was vital. And then she spoke. She called to him:
“Get the ball, honey! Before it goes into the sea!”
What was that accent?
He was sure he’d heard it somewhere, but its origin remained tantalizingly out of reach. The dog passed in front of him, and in that instant he recognized the black-and-white markings, the pointed ears, the sleek body of a cross-breed cattle dog. He tried to go to the dog but he was stuck fast where he stood, as though his feet were trapped in pools of cement.
He reached out with his hand...
But there was no hand.
He panicked, unable to breathe. As the image of the peaceful shore began to fade he tried desperately to focus on her.
Then, inexplicably, she was in his arms. Her touch sent electricity through him that was at once familiar and foreign.
Yet he knew it.
He could feel her skin upon his cheek; he could smell her hair. It was freshly washed and carried with it the scent of mint and something else. He searched his mind trying to determine what it was. A herb perhaps. An oven door opens. Roasted meat - lamb.
Damn, what is that?
It came to him suddenly, finally as an image of a herb with slender green shoots sporting pink flowers coalesced within his consciousness.
It was rosemary.
Rosemary and mint.
He felt her lips upon his and they kissed long and deeply. He tried to look into her face but could only see her lips as she drew back.
“I love you.”
Andy awoke in the darkness of his room, her voice a fading echo in his consciousness. The warmth of the dream, and the bitterness of his nightmares conflicted until he sat up in his bed and shook them away. He stared into the darkness, the imprint of her voice fixed in his memory.
Quite unexpectedly, as though not of his own volition, he opened his mouth and whispered:
“Sonya.”
***
Beck stumbled into the apartment early the next morning and collapsed down onto the sofa in the living room. He had pulled another all-nighter on the building site and was so tired he hadn’t even bothered to change out of his work gear before he came home.
He felt blindly for the remote on the side table and flicked on the TV. In the light from the set, Beck suddenly noticed that the living room was absolutely spotless. The week-old pizza boxes were gone; the empty beer cans that had been piling up in the corner underneath the miniature Chicago Bulls basketball ring were also gone. The carpet had been vacuumed; there was no trace of crumbs or food of any sort on the floor. The battered wall unit that housed both Beck’s and Andy’s collection of books, DVDs, magazines and glassware was tidy, perhaps for the first time. The books were neatly arranged, as were the DVDs. Magazines - mainly copies of Maxim and FHM - were lined up chronologically by month of issue. All at once Beck was bemused, impressed and disturbed. He suddenly felt guilty about having his dirty work boots on.
He got up and went into the kitchen, where he found a similar scene. It was spotless. The oven and stovetop were pristine. A pair of saucepans - one large, one small - sat on the hot plates, both of them sparkling. The benches had been wiped down, along with the small round table and chairs in the corner. The kitchen even smelled fresh.
It was then Beck heard the sound of scrubbing coming from the bathroom.
Poking his head around the door frame, Beck saw Andy down on his hands and knees, wearing only a pair of pajama bottoms, scrubbing the toilet - evidently the only remaining task in the bathroom.
“Umm - good morning, there,” he said hesitantly, squinting in the half-light.
Andy paused and turned around. Beck noted that he was bathed in sweat and a trickle of blood from his nostril had dried on his upper lip.
Beck nodded, gesturing wordlessly at Andy’s face. Andy wiped his nose with his hand and looked down at the flakes of dried blood on his skin.
“What gives, man? You turn gay all of a sudden?”
Andy smiled wanly, dropped the scrubbing brush into the toilet bowl, and collapsed back against the wall. Beck suddenly realized that Andy’s stringy, greasy hair was gone. Andy had shaved it all off - crudely though. He now sported a crew cut similar to Beck’s, only not quite as short. Beck noticed several nicks and cuts in Andy’s scalp, some of which showed dried and crusted blood.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Andy wheezed. The fumes of the bathroom cleaner had infiltrated his nostrils. “Kept having bad dreams. I couldn’t look at this fucking pigsty anymore.”
Andy paused, pointing limply at the shower recess. The curtain was gone.
“I’ll replace that. I’d hate to think how much scuzz was growing in that old one.”
Beck nodded slowly.
“Fair enough, man. Whatever you think is best. Are you feelin’ OK?”
Andy looked up at Beck and shook his head slowly.
“No. I’ve got the shakes. Got ‘em real bad.”
A long moment of silence settled between them. Beck had watched Andy fight his addiction before, knowing that he usually succumbed to temptation. Andy squeezed his eyes shut then opened them again, refocusing on Beck.
“I’ll be OK. I just need to clean. I - uh - rearranged your DVDs. I hope, you know, that was OK.”
Beck brushed it aside with a nod.
“No problem at all. You did an awesome job. I should’ve got off my ass long ago and done this myself.”
Andy chuckled bitterly and he peeled off the rubber gloves he was wearing. His eyes drifted up to the ceiling.
“I can’t go on like this,” he said solemnly.
Beck sensed what Andy was getting at. He was struck by Andy’s candor. He leaned his head against the door frame appraising his troubled housemate.
“Hmm,” Beck replied simply. “You know - I’ve never judged, you man, because you pay your rent and bills. But - you’re on a really shitty path. Those cocksuckers who hang off you, they’re wrong for you, Dev. They aren’t you. You can do a lot better.”
Andy nodded and wiped his brow.
“I gotta get some sleep, man,” Beck said, and he backed away from the doorway, about to turn towards his bedroom when he hesitated. He leaned back into the doorway of the bathroom and gestured with a nod at Andy’s head.
“By the way - nice buzz cut, dude.”
***
The following morning Andy arrived early at the Conservatory and went to his pigeonhole in the faculty office, where he found an envelope waiting for him. Sitting in the student lounge, Andy held the sheet of paper and stared at it. He was neither elated nor disappointed, just relieved. He had passed the exam - barely. The mark wasn’t great, but it was a pass. For the time being, at least, Andy was still in the school.
Slowly he stood and put the piece of paper in his backpack. He turned to leave the lounge and his eyes fell across a large student notice board that hung from the wall nearby. It was filled with notices, student fliers, and posters advertising various musical events. Andy wandered over, drawn to one particular poster that hung in the bottom right-hand corner, set away from the others.
He leaned in close, scanning the poster.
Melbourne International
Festival of the Guitar
Victoria, Australia, 15th - 21st February.
Featuring internationally renowned artists including Slava and Leonard Grigoryan,
Doug de Vries, Andrew York and Paul Kelly.
the week-long festival to be held in
Melbourne’s beautiful Fitzroy Gardens
offers the opportunity for
emerging artists to
perform alongside the masters
of classical guitar.
A yellow rectangle of paper had been taped to the bottom corner.
Applications invited for representatives of the Conservatory to attend as delegates in the emerging talent concert series.
Closing soon!
Andy shook his head. This was the pinnacle event for students attending the Conservatory. To play at a prestigious international gathering and be recognized was the chance of a lifetime. One that he would have once aspired to, wholeheartedly. He knew he had no chance of being selected. His pattern of behavior had garnered him a reputation that made him the butt of jokes and the target of a faculty that wanted him gone. It was a lost cause - and he hadn’t even applied. Finally, he turned away from the poster and left the building, unaware that a set of eyes had been watching him from the opposite corner of the lounge area. Veldtman watched Andy go, then shut the door to her office.
Andy attended all his classes that day and the next, only skipping a Friday afternoon lecture because he needed to get to The Pub for his shift. No one at The Pub mentioned his starkly different appearance. Andy just got in and worked hard, maintaining the momentum that had taken everyone by surprise a few days earlier.
His cell phone vibrated in his pocket during the afternoon and Andy slipped behind the bar and answered, crouching in the cubbyhole where he’d hung his bag. It was Vasq.
“I’m just checking in to make sure you’re still good for the Warehouse job tomorrow night, Dev.”
Andy hesitated, remembering that he had indeed committed to another job for Vasq.
“Yeah. I remember.”
“I’ll look forward to seeing you then. I gotta good feeling about this one, Dev. You’re gonna make us a lot of money this time.”
The way Vasq said that last sentence made Andy feel cold. Usually the mention of money was more than enough of a motivator for him. But he felt as though he was an instrument that belonged to Vasq - a willing one, at that. Andy brushed the feelings aside as he ended the call and resumed his work.
***
Andy sat quietly at the end of the bar reading a text book during his break later that evening. Samantha brought a meal from the kitchen out to him.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, and he turned the book over so as not to lose his place.
Samantha watched him curiously as he began eating, and after several seconds he looked up at her, making her shift her eyes away quickly.
“What?” he asked.
“N-nothing,” she stammered. “It’s just not like you to thank anyone for anything.”
Andy eyed her briefly as he took a mouthful of food.
“I, uhh - your haircut looks good,” Samantha offered. “You actually look pretty decent without all that crap hanging down over your face. I see you’ve dropped the nail polish, too.”
Andy brushed his hand over his hair.
“It’s OK,” he said through a mouthful of mashed potato.
Samantha sensed she wasn’t going to get anything more out of Andy, so she turned back to her work.
“This is probably the best meal I’ve eaten in months,” he said suddenly. “If I’d known this was one benefit of actually working, I would’ve got my ass into gear long ago.”
Samantha smiled at the comment and turned back towards him.
This was unusual, she thought.
“Well, if you keep this up you’re gonna discover a lot more benefits in actually working here.” She gestured with a nod behind her. “They’re talking, you know. About you, trying to figure you out.”
Andy shrugged.
“Nothing to figure out,” he said.
Samantha eyed him skeptically.
“Something happened to you, didn’t...,” her voice trailed off as something caught her eye behind him. Her mouth opened in surprise.
Andy turned in his seat as a tall figure entered the bar. It was a man dressed in jeans, a thick, woolen tartan jacket and a grubby-looking trucker’s cap bearing a Golden Breed logo. A match protruded from the corner of his mouth.
Bruce DeVries, Andy’s father, regarded his surroundings dourly. His dark eyes fixed upon Andy for a moment, and Andy returned his father’s gaze with a look of awkward hope.
Abruptly, Bruce turned sideways and walked through the bar, disappearing through the bistro entrance, completely ignoring his son.
Samantha felt a sharp twinge of embarrassment. Andy, clearly crestfallen, turned back to his meal and ate a few mouthfuls silently. She could see that his appetite had already left him and eventually he abandoned the dinner plate altogether. He got up from the bar and disappeared into the nearby men’s room.
***
Bruce DeVries and Gideon Allan’s friendship went back 20 years to the time of the first Gulf War. They had served together. Their friendship was an enduring constant in both their lives despite the failures of other, arguably more significant relationships.
Bruce had been drinking at The Public House for as long as anyone could remember. He often dropped by before heading out on the highway on his long-haul runs. He’d catch up with Gideon, have a bite to eat and then begin his run to the West Coast.
Rarely, if ever, did Bruce DeVries talk with his son. In fact, Bruce hadn’t expected Andy to be here this evening. Had he known, he probably wouldn’t have come. Their relationship hadn’t been strong, not since Bruce had returned home from Iraq and the horrors of his tour there - horrors he had never spoken of. Once Andy’s mother left, things became worse. Bruce withdrew further and had it not been for Bruce’s mother stepping in to take on the care of Andy and his older sister, their circumstances might have been a lot worse. Bruce DeVries had taken little interest in his children. In recent years, he had patched up his relationship with his daughter - Andy’s sister - who was living in San Francisco with her Army Officer husband. Bruce often stopped by there while he was in town. Andy and Bruce’s relationship, however, was far more fractured. When Andy’s talent for the guitar began to shine, Bruce dismissed it as a waste of time. Once Andy began living on his own and got mixed up with Vasq, the alienation between father and son became more acute.
So it was significant that Bruce DeVries reappeared at the bar a little over an hour and a half later, just as Andy was finishing up his last few jobs. Samantha nudged Andy as he unloaded a tray from the glass washer and nodded.
Andy set the tray down and wiped his hands with a towel. He looked up at his father: the square jaw with a five o’clock shadow, the dark thinning hair that was graying at the temples, dark eyes that avoided looking at his son directly.
Neither seemed able to open the dialogue. Samantha watched them from the other end of the bar, where she was serving.
Finally Bruce DeVries spoke:
“I’m heading to San Francisco tonight.” His voice was gravelly and deep. “Be away maybe four, five days.”
After a long moment, Andy nodded.
“Your sister called.” Bruce continued. “She mentioned the hospital. They contacted her when you were brought in. Next of kin apparently.”
“Yeah ... well,” Andy rubbed his forehead and fidgeted nervously with his foot at a spot on the floor. “It was nothin’.”
Bruce fingered his watch. Then he drew up his jacket zipper. The scowl that tugged at the corners of his lips was withering.
“Wake up to yourself. You’re a fucking disgrace.”
Bruce turned abruptly, strode from the bar and was gone.
Andy stood there, as expressionless as his father had been. His jaw tightened imperceptibly.
He felt crushed.