As a businessman he'd climbed as far as he'd wanted in the corporate world, and was now the owner of a successful mortgage franchise.
His wife Chelsea was a woman of immense natural beauty – bronzed skin, full features, yet gamine – who understood him inside and out. They married young, and, reading the play, started trying for children almost straight away.
Their two children – Bob and Elisa – were both in primary school and doing well, but more importantly, showed humility and empathy towards others, garnering each many friends.
Suffice to say, when Jarem and Chelsea put their feet up on a Friday night, their kids' rooms were full of sleepover chatter.
Yes, it could be said all was well in Jarem's life.
But as he neared his 32nd birthday he'd started questioning whether there was more outside of all he'd created.
Part of the problem was his artist brother, Floyd. Two years Jarem's junior, he was less handsome, despite his floppy hair and aqua eyes, less successful and as single as was possible. Yet he always had a spark of excitement about him – even when regularly fronting up for Sunday roasts. He'd arrive, glassy-eyed and reeking of booze, two bottles of red to hand. He was simply topping up from the night before, but the children – and Chelsea, despite her earlier misgivings – adored his energy. Jarem, on the other hand, couldn't understand it.
After lunch, as Chelsea and Elisa did the dishes, the brothers often retreated to the backyard to sit by the chiminea. Floyd would chain-smoke cigarettes and tell Jarem, in detail, about the drugs he'd taken the night before, the clubs he'd visited, the crazed house parties that followed, the women he'd been with. He'd talk of his stints as a tour guide in Europe and the US; of his many months' partying in Thailand; of plans to visit Spain, and the Caribbean. Again and again.
“Don't you ever get tired of it and want to settle down,” he'd ask Floyd.
“No chance,” Floyd would reply, his eyes shining with surety. “I mean, when the right chick comes along I'll have the rest of my life to be settled. I'm only a third of the way there.”
“Not with your lifestyle,” Jarem countered.
“Again, that won't be forever. I have the rest of my life to be healthy.”
Floyd always had an answer. He had, ever since Jarem had known him, lived in the grey shade between black and white. For many years it didn't bother Jarem (although he'd always wondered how Floyd, a body-abuser, was able to press on without recuperating). He'd had, after all, enough to worry about with his busy routine.
Yet, now that things had slowed down – having children was done with, work was just work, and, with Chelsea recently launching her fashion label, he was no longer the sole provider – he found himself seeking that grey shade.
One Sunday Floyd arrived for lunch as usual. Jarem, tired after rising early to take his Bob and friends to football, found himself going glass for glass with his brother. Chelsea questioned Jarem with her eyes, but he ignored her and continued on. Once lunch was done with, Jarem and Floyd retreated outside with a half bottle.
When Jarem came back inside soon after, passing Chelsea on the way to the cellar, she asked what he was doing.
“Just having a drink with my brother,” Jarem said.
“But you never drink like this.”
“I know that, but fuck it. I feel getting drunk.”
He took a few steps towards the back door, then turned around. “I might take tomorrow off.”
She looked at him curiously, but let it pass. “Fine. But don't set a bad example for the children.”
Jarem nodded, then let the door shut behind him.
It was a cold winter's afternoon and the brothers stocked the chiminea with wood; a roaring heat emanated from its belly and flames licked from the top. For a while they sat back on their chairs and talked about work – Jarem without passion about his business, Floyd with understated optimism about the world of freelance photography – as they gulped down the red wine.
Every so often they hit a quiet spot, and it was during one that Jarem noticed Floyd lighting another cigarette. He looked on as Floyd blew smoke into the air, watching it dissipate. “Give us one of those,” Jarem said.
Floyd laughed. “What, a smoke? Don't be a cock. You've always called Phillip Morris the Anti-Christ.”
“Come on, mate. Give us one go of them.”
Floyd was reluctant. He sensed Chelsea looking at them through the kitchen window.
“Come on, fuck ya,” Jarem said, leaning forward.
Floyd felt a small thrill in his gut. What the hell, he'd enjoy this. “Okay, bro. Just don't blame me if you get hooked.”
Jarem smiled at the absurdity of it: he, hooked on cigarettes! He looked at the cigarette in his hand, smelled it. Then – with Floyd watching on, a slither of smoke sneaking from his nostrils – he lit it and inhaled. He coughed hard, bile rising in his throat.
Floyd laughed. “Fucking Virgin Lungs. It must be like the devil's trying to get in there.”
Jarem smiled. He took another drag and countered the next cough with a sip of wine. Soon there was no coughing at all. He was a little underwhelmed as he butted out, but happy with his persistence.
“What'dya reckon?” Floyd asked.
“Can't see what all the fuss is about. But the head is spinning a bit.”
“You lucky prick,” Floyd said. “I need a six-skin of super skunk to get high these days.”
Jarem raised his eyebrow. “You don't have any of that here do you?”
Floyd shook his head. “Calm down, bro. Another time.”
That night, after Jarem had put a jibbering Floyd into a taxi, he stumbled into the master bedroom, past a sleeping Chelsea, and into the bathroom for a shower. A serial mirror watcher, he checked himself after undressing. So this is what I look like drunk, he thought. Blood-shot eyes with sunken grey shadows underneath. It didn't suit him.
Peering closer, he noticed a small, dark grey spot just above his heart. He stood there for a moment, hauling himself on tippy toes into the light. After rubbing it, merely making the skin around it redder, he stepped back and almost lost his balance. Some other time, he told himself, turning the shower on.
A few weeks later Jarem was feeling restless at work. It was a Wednesday and he was jittery and irritable. There was a weakness in his lungs. He was eating incessantly, and no longer had the energy – nor the inclination – to exercise; the last time he tried running he'd stopped, out of puff, after just a few minutes.
It hadn't been a good week. Monday was spent in bed with a hangover, Tuesday he returned to work but didn't get out of second gear. An important client withdrew his business, no warning given, and Jarem let him go without a fight. He and Chelsea were, for the first time, arguing in front of the children. He'd been floundering the previous few weeks; now he felt he was drowning.
Jarem looked at the pile of paperwork in front of him, shrugged his shoulders, then grabbed his jacket and left the building.
He walked past Cronin's, a university pub three doors down from his office, then – realising he had no plan, nor a decent knowledge of the city's best pubs – turned back and went in. Taking a seat at the bar, he ordered a beer and drank it in three mouthfuls. He ordered another and acquired some change for the cigarette machine.
He considered the available brands. Floyd's brand wasn't there, and he was uncertain what to get. He'd dialed Floyd's number and was waiting an answer when he noticed a spiky-haired young man behind him.
“You go first,” Jarem said as Floyd's voicemail message started.
Spike shrugged and fed the machine money, procuring a packet of Peter Stuyvesent. Jarem watched the transaction intently as he left Floyd a message, then did the same.
Jarem removed his jacket and tie and followed Spike and another young man with long, Jim Morrison hair out to the smokers' courtyard. Fuzzy-sounding rock music blared from some old roof speakers.
“Got a light?” Jarem asked, a cigarette hanging from his mouth.
Spike obliged with a cheap Bic.
“Thanks,” Jarem said. “You blokes students?”
“That's the label, yeah,” Spike's friend answered.
Jarem sucked hard on his cigarette. He was enjoying it immensely. “What are you studying?”
“Arts,” Spike said.
“We both,” Spike's friend answered. “The lives of melancholy we live.”
“Cool,” Jarem said. “Good to be doing something different.”
They pair chuckled. Jarem looked at them, wondering what the in-joke was.
“Early knock off?” Spike asked.
Jarem picked up his glass and realised it was empty. “Late, more like it,” he said. He lit a new cigarette off the old one, and exhaled a huge plume of smoke. “I'll get you blokes a beer. Draught?”
Evening came. Jarem found himself drinking with a crowd of six or seven young men. He'd promised them all jobs. They laughed and heckled as Jarem spoke to Chelsea on the phone – he told her he'd landed a huge investor and they were having celebratory drinks.
Later again and there were as many as 15 student types sponging off him. A young girl in a floral dress sat on his lap. In the toilet Spike handed him a tablet and asked for $40. Jarem handed over $50 and didn't ask for change. The group lurched to another bar. Jarem put his credit card behind the bar and they sat at a huge table in the beer garden next to a gas heater. Fluorescent light bulbs hung from everywhere – off the marquees, the walls, the roof – and a chain-smoking Jarem found himself entranced by them, squinting at them so all the lights became one. He left a message on Floyd's phone, urging him to come along. The drinks kept coming. The mood was euphoric as a DJ began a trance set. Jarem and Spike joined two girls on the dance floor. Jarem's initial uncertainty and self-consciousness soon washed away in a sea of endless music.
Floyd arrived and put his arm around Jarem, instantly realising his brother was in trouble. The tell-tale signs – owl eyes, gnawing jaw, sweaty forehead – were all there. He led Jarem to a toilet cubicle, where he handed him a tablet. “To calm you down,” he said.
“Fuck, no,” Jarem said, tapping his feet and bobbing his head. “Don't want it. Not yet.”
Just then Floyd noticed the spot beneath Jarem's half-unbuttoned shirt. He stared at it for a moment, wondering if he'd ever noticed it before. He considered asking about it, but instead said:
“You need something to calm you down.”
“Don't need nothing... nothing,” Jarem said, shaking his head and howling at the ceiling.
Floyd followed Jarem back out to the beer garden, ordering two beers on the way.
Next thing Jarem was home, all lidded eyes and bloodied elbows. Chelsea, who was up getting ready for work, demanded an explanation.
“Think I had my drink spiked,” he said, his words fading as he fell on the bed.
Chelsea removed her husband's shoes and gave him the once over. His good silk shirt was stained with alcohol and his pants were torn at the knees. Noticing the spot on his chest, like a blotch of ink on his chest, she went to the bathroom and came back with a damp cloth. She started rubbing. Nothing happened. She rubbed harder. Jarem's snores turned to heavy wheezes. Alarmed but running late, she tried one more time with a lather of soap. All she got was a reddening around the area – whatever it was, it was embedded in his skin.
She knew it had never been there before. She thought it might be a tattoo gone wrong, but had no idea. It was so unlike anything she'd ever seen or read about. She shook her husband slightly but he merely exhaled, and a whiff of stale alcohol hit her flush in the face. Shaking her head, she turned off the bedside lamp, and left for work.
Chelsea waited until midday and then started ringing Jarem every few minutes. At 1 o'clock, he finally answered.
“I've made an appointment for you to see Dr Quayle,” she said.
“What for?” Jarem croaked.
“What for?” Chelsea replied. “That black spot on your chest, that's what. What the hell is it?”
Jarem looked down at his belly, kinking his head so he could see the spot. “I don't know. Just a skin infection, probably.”
“Looks worse than that,” Chelsea said.
“I don't know, do I? Maybe I'll wait until tomorrow. Don't know if I'm up to leaving the house–“
“You're going. It could be infectious for all we know. Think of the kids,” Chelsea said.
The kids. She always played that card.
Dr Quayle was initially baffled. He leafed through a number of books and took several scans before diagnosing a form of advanced eczema.
“One thing's for sure,” he told Jarem, “it's not cancerous. But I'll prescribe you some Hydrodex. It's a cream with skin-bleaching qualities, and it should do the trick. In the meantime kick that smoking, and come back in two weeks for a check-up.”
But Jarem continued to damage himself. Over the next week he and Chelsea's relationship deteriorated further, as did the appearance of the spot. It was now weeping a dark, thick substance. The liquid would solidify, then crack open as the spot continued to expand, releasing an acrid smell of burnt flesh. An emergency GP (Dr Quayle was booked out until their next scheduled meeting) told Jarem it was a stye; that the dark colouring was internal bleeding. Not outwardly concerned, the GP relayed his diagnosis to Dr Quayle's secretary, suggesting an operation to cut out the stye.
Later that day Dr Quayle rang to confirm the operation would take place in two days, and recommended Jarem rest up beforehand. Jarem spent the evening on the couch, relaying information to his assistant over the phone. Then he started writing emails to clients and staff, informing them of his absence. With Chelsea in bed, he started going outside for regular cigarettes. He'd almost done a pack by the time he'd finished tying up his business's loose ends. He remained on the couch throughout the night, dozing and waking short of breath.
Chelsea, meanwhile, couldn't sleep with worry.
The following morning, the day before his operation, Jarem woke up a strong rattle of phlegm in his chest and a bout of dizziness. He retreated to the bathroom, locking the door behind him. His chest felt extremely tight, as if his lungs had collapsed across his airways. Each inhale of breath came with a sharp whistle. He removed his shirt and checked himself. The spot was cricket-ball sized. He grabbed one of Chelsea's makeup mirrors to look at it more closely. Prodding it, he gasped with shock as his finger sunk into the soft, jelly-like texture. He quickly pulled out, the smell of burning flesh all the more pronounced. Delirious, he grabbed hold of the sink. He splashed some water on his face. What was with that smell? Again he held the little mirror a few inches away from his upper chest. It was smouldering! He jumped back at once, hitting his head against the bathroom door. Chelsea started banging on the other side. Jarem let his body slide down until he was sitting on the floor.
Jarem lowered his eyes and could see the dark spot expanding in his periphery vision. The crackling sound intensified, the smell foul. He could feel the door thudding against him, and Chelsea screaming, “there's a fire in there”. There was the low drone of a male voice. Jarem's heart thumped wildly in his chest and he gasped for breath. He could sense something blasting through the upper door. Chips of wood fell just as the first flames flickered from his chest. Screaming inaudibly, he felt a hand topple him forward and he could hear Floyd's voice in an uncharacteristic panic. Jarem could sense frenzied movement all around him as the flames shot up to his face. Through the nightmare, he could see the water from the shower head coming at him, the hiss of his own scorched skin.
Then, just as the smell of his own burning flesh blanketed him, everything went black.
No comments:
Post a Comment