Resentment: A Psychological Thriller - 2. Episode 2

Thomas

For the service, I dressed in my best suit, then drove up the hill to the church.

From the looks of it, all the villagers on the island had shown up for the service. Family indeed, I thought as I climbed out of the Mustang; salty winds blew my bangs back, making the summer heat more bearable. Inside the church all the pews were full except for the one in the very back. I again reminded myself I was a stranger among these people. I had not known the men who’d die. I was merely here as an observer.

The preacher was so old his flesh looked as parched as a dried apricot. He regarded the congregation with the sad eyes of a basset hound. He started the service by asking us to bow our heads in silent prayer. I closed my eyes and bowed my head like everyone else, but I did not pray. I’ve never felt close to God. Once the prayer ceremony was over, I looked up at the alter where photos of the deceased had been placed; it saddened me to think there were no bodies to put in coffins.

I could feel sweat dripping down my back. The chapel had become stuffy with all the bodies pressed together. Up front a woman began to sob quietly. Someone was kind enough to hand her a box of tissues.

The clergyman read a few passages from the Good Book in a mournful tone, then ended his part with a closing prayer. "I have someone who would like to speak," he said, stepping down from the pulpit. "Give an applause if welcome to our very own Agamemnon Apaulos III."

Immediately the inside of the chapel was filled with thunderous applause. A man at the front of the church rose to his feet. Like everyone else, my attention was immediately drawn to him. He was a large man, standing a little over two meters, with broad shoulders and a boxer's build. He wore a suit that had been tailored to fix his bulky frame. His skin was slightly dark, most likely from his Greek heritage. He pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and unfolded it as if it were something delicate; the way he was able to do so it so smoothely with those big hands of his struck me as erotic. Laying the written eulogy on the pulpit, he cleared his throat and began to speak.

"Everyone knows me on this island," he read in a voice that was both steady and powerful, steeped in confidence. "Three decades ago my family came to this island from Greece; I was but a boy then. My father bought the lighthouse and worked hard to build the fishing industry. In many ways he built this town. My father taught me the importance of taking responsibility for those who work under your employment. Therefore I feel I must speak of these five brave men who perished out at sea."

For five minutes he spoke of the tragedy that had occurred. He apologized to the families who had lost their loved ones. His tone was measured with just the right amount of emotion. Everything about him was composed, crisp. And just a little cold.

Still I could not take my eyes off him. He’d bewitched me the same as everyone else in the church. I found myself entertaining fantasies of what might happen if we were alone in a room together: the conversations we might have, the things we might do together if such a thing were possible. The kind of thoughts that would make anyone’s cheeks burn with shame should they dare to speak them out loud. But that’s the beauty of thought, I reminded myself. As long as you keep them in that tiny compartment between your brain and skull, your thoughts are yours and yours alone.

I watched him step down from the pulpit to another roar of applause. I was not in a church but an auditorium. I decided it was time to leave. Then Agamemon looked in my direction, past all the villagers waiting to claim his attention if only for a brief moment, and our eyes met.

It was a strange moment, impossible to describe with the right words. The glance didn’t last more than a few seconds, but I thought his brow furrow, perhaps in suspicion or curiosity. He shook a few hands, gave a few consoling hugs, then sat down next to a blonde woman. Had I stared at her longer, I might have recognized the woman from the screens, back when Ma and I used to go out to see a movie every weekend, but I could feel a balloon swelling in my chest and I simply had to leave.

So I left.

The next day I told myself it was time to start writing again and move on from the past, so I took a notebook, a fountain pen, and went to The Netted Eel for a drink. The inside was dimly lit with low light fixtures, wood counters and tabletops, and an ancient jukebox that looked like it had been around since God was a little boy; the place smelled strongly of whiskey. The few men inside stopped their conversation to watch me suspiciously, as I ordered a rum and coke from the bartender. I sat at the back of the establishment where I was least likely to be distracted.

I’ve always been taught when writing the first draft not to think too hard about what I’m writing. The important thing is to just write. I’d climbed the literary rungs by writing thrillers, greatly inspired by Hitchcock, but this time I wanted to write something different. This time I would not be writing for glory, but for myself. At first the words came out slowly. Painfully. It was only right, only natural that the process should start out this way; writing is like giving birth in its own special way, both intimate and perplexing.

When the doors to the pub opened, I did not immediately look up. It wasn’t until I sensed someone standing over me that I passed from the world of fiction to reality. Agamemnon stood in front of my table. How incredibly small I felt in his presence.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, looking down from me to my notebook. “Or are you busy?”

Up close his Greek heritage was much more apparent. His nose was large with a nasal hump. His mouth was wide, his lips full. His eyes were dark and substantial. He wore his hair very short, almost like a buzz cut. His skin, caramel-brown in color, was smooth and only added to his rugged appeal.

I sagely responded by downing the rest of my drink. “Sure,” I said once I was finished wincing from the overwhelming sting of alcohol. ”Sure.”

He scooched back up to the table. “I’m Agamemnon Apoulos.”

“Thomas Olmstead.”

We shook hands. His grip was powerful but not painful. I was used to other men squeezing my hand so hard it felt like bones would break. “Interesting last name,” he said.

“It’s German.”

“I know every face on this island, but I’ve never seen yours before.”

I nodded, my cheeks glowing. “What, do you not like visitors here or something?”

“I wouldn’t say we don’t like it, it just doesn’t happen. I guess I’m curious why you want to come here. There’s nothing to do.”

Except fish and drink. I chuckled, finally beginning to catch a hold of myself. This guy might be some rich corporate asshole - royalty as far as everyone on the island was concerned - but I was a bestselling author. “That’s what everyone keeps telling me. But I don’t mind, really. I came for the stillness. The city’s nice, but it can be noisy sometimes.”

“You’re from the city.”

“I am. But don’t worry, I didn’t bring any rats with me.”

This brought out a short bark of laughter from him. “Are you always this witty?”

“The rum and Coke helps.” I held up my glass in illustration.

Those dark eyes locked onto mine and did not let go. “I know I’ve never seen you before here on the island, but you look familiar. Where have I seen your face before?”

“Perhaps on the back of a few jackets.”

“You’re a writer?”

“I’ve written enough books, I’ll never have to worry about living on the streets of Roc City,” I muttered.

Agamemnon snapped his fingers; the sound was explosive in the hush of The Netted Eel. “Thomas Olmstead, the writer! Now I remember. My wife was reading one of your books at the breakfast table this morning. It’s not everyday a celebrity comes to the island. You’re familiar with my wife, Roxanne Lockhart?”

“Of course. Who doesn’t?”

“I’m sure she would love to meet you. How long are you staying here?”

“I have the room for a week.”

“You should join my wife and I for dinner.”

“Would she be okay with that?” I asked.

He gave me a strange look. “Why wouldn’t she be?”

“Well,” I said slowly, “you don’t really know me, do you?”

“I also don’t know many writers—I suppose screenwriters count—but certainly not any novelists.”

“For all you know I could be a serial killer.”

Again he smiled. “Well, if you were to murder my wife and I in our home it’d be the most interesting thing that’s happened in this village.”

I didn’t know what to say. To say I wasn’t interested would have been a lie. “I don’t know where you live.”

His grin spread wider, a wolf’s grin. “I live in the lighthouse. It won’t be hard to find, it’s the only one on the island. Dinner is at eight. I’ll let my wife know you’re coming over.”

I started to ask if he had a number I could call, but Agamemnon was already walking out the door of the pub.

I waited until I was sure Agamemnon was gone before leaving The Netted Eel.

I had just reached the top of the stairs at the inn when I heard the phone in my room start to ring. Wondering if it was Mom and Dad calling me, I fished the key out of my jacket pocket. I had to lean against the door to keep myself steady. I could feel sweat dripping from my forehead as I struggled to get the key in the lock.

“Hello?” I said.

“Thomas.” It was Agamemnon.

I frowned. “How did you get this number?”

“Margaret gave it to me.”

I was tempted to point out this was a breach of confidentiality but couldn’t bring myself to feel angry.

“So,” Agamemnon said, “dinner starts at nine tomorrow. You will show up, won’t you?”

“Yes,” I said automatically.

“Good.” He sounded pleased. “I will be at a meeting until eight but you can come by at seven. My wife could use the company - I’m afraid she gets lonely all by herself in that lighthouse.”

“Okay,” I said slowly, “sure.”

“I’ll make sure to tell her you’re coming by a little early. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” Click.

I stood there, looking down at the phone. My face was hot. I dropped into the bed, exhausted and sunburnt. God, I could sleep for a year.

Jude

I collapsed on the bed, feeling exhausted and bruised.

“Do you think someone died here?” Duane settled next to me.

I craned my head back to look at the floral-print wallpaper. “I forgot to ask. I doubt something like that would be in the brochure. We’ve stayed in worse. Remember the Motor Lodge we stayed at in Georgia with the mutant cockroaches?”

While Duane busied himself with searching up the island’s local cuisine on Google, I slipped into the bathroom to change my shirt. With my wrists exposed, I held them up to the mirror where the reflected light illuminated the three vertical scars that went from both wrists to the inner cups of my elbows. Even now after two months the scars looked deep and angry. They would never go away; they would always be there like lines carved into clay.

“You okay in there?” Duane asked from the other side of the door.

I jerked guiltily, reaching for the toilet. As the water circled down the drain, I slammed the lid down and pulled on a fresh shirt. Duane had changed into a functional polo-and-khaki combo. “It’s a little warm for long sleeves, don’t you think?”

“Not really.”

He gave me a look but was wise enough not to persist with the subject. On the walk into town, Duane pointed at a statue in the middle of the street. “That’s interesting.”

“Wanna check it out?”

The statue was elaborate, showing five sailors standing atop a sinking ship. While Duane stooped to read the plaque, I looked up into the grim faces of the sailors. Something twisted in my gut. This is a tombstone, I thought.

“There was a storm thirty years ago,” Duane informed me. “These sailors died when the boat, The Lady’s Corset, sank. It says the statue was funded by Agamemon Apoulos III.”

“Apaulos. Sounds Greek. Isn’t your mother’s maiden name also Greek?”

He nodded. “Adamos.”

Duane’s father was Puerto-Rican and his mother was Greek. He resembled his father more strongly with dark almond-shaped eyes and olive-complexion and his broad, boxer build. “Isn’t that a Greek surname?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Isn’t your mother Greek?”

Duane nodded. “Her maiden name is Adamos.”

Duane’s father was Puerto-Rican. I’d only met Duane’s parents twice. Neither of them had ever come to accept the fact Duane was gay; parental estrangement was just one of the few things he and I had in common. He resembled his father mostly, with his dark almond-shaped eyes and olive-complexion and his broad, boxer build. I assumed he got his height and introspective nature from his mother.

I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Duane had become sullen. I knew he was thinking about his parents. Neither of us were good with family. “Hey,” I said gently. “Let’s go eat before my stomach caves in on itself.”

…

In the end we decided on an Italian joint called The Olive Branch. Duane ordered a bottle of Chianti. When our waiter stopped over my glass to pour, I waved a hand. "No thank you, I won't be having any. I'll just have a Coke instead."

"You're not having any wine?" Duane asked, looking disappointed.

"Not while on my medication."

"Surely one drink won't hurt."

After some coaxing from my partner, I lamented to have one glass of wine. We were trying to have a good time and I needed something to help me unwind.

"This is nice.” I smacked my lips.

“It’s been awhile since we’ve been to a place this nice.” Duane reached across the table, sliding his fingers through mine. "I've missed you."

It was hard not to look away. Memories of the days when I was his student and he was my English professor bubbled to the surface of my mind. In those days, to have him look at me in such a way would have made me feel as if I were floating; now I felt like a bug under a microscope. I wanted the waiter to hurry back and take our orders.

"I've missed you too." The air inside the restaurant was beginning to feel stuffy. We're here, I thought. We're actually here, just he and I. How is this possible?

I ended up having two more glasses of wine. After a bit I began to relax. It felt like old times, when life had been simple and there was a sense of direction. Of cohesion.

We spent a minute or two arguing over who would cover the bill. "I'm a writer for God's sake," I told him boldly, bolstered by the wine. "My net worth is greater than yours." So I won that argument.

By the time we made it back to our room we were both riled up. He kept pressing himself up against me, kissing the back of my neck. I laughed, trying to get the key in the door. It was hard to concentrate with him doing that. “I want you,” he said, pressing me up against the door when we were inside. “I want you so bad.”

“I want you too,” I said. My blood felt thick and hot in my veins. I was so painfully hard.

He cupped the sides of my face with both hands, lips clamping over mine. A moment later we fell on top of the bed, his weight bearing on top of me. He began to unbutton my shirt, hands massaging my navel, tongue tracing shapes across my flesh. I looked up at the ceiling. My entire body tingled.

When he stopped moving I didn’t realize things were about to go wrong, that I had made a mistake. In the heat of the moment I’d forgotten all about the scars. Duane didn’t know about them because I’d kept him at arm’s length, to keep their existence a secret. He held my right wrists clamped between both his hands—he had broad, powerful hands. “What the fuck is this?” he asked, holding up my other arm towards his face.

I tugged my arms from his grip and sat up. All the air had been sucked out of the room. My ears were ringing. I stood up, back turned so I didn’t have to see the expression on his face. “They’re nothing.”

“Don’t fucking do that,” he said; his voice vibrated with anger. “Don’t do that thing you do, Jude, where you bury your head in the sand to avoid conflict.”

I whirled around to face him. Now I was angry, too. The room was shrinking around us, growing too small to contain two people. I brandished my wrists at him. “What the fuck do you think they are? They’re scars.”

“How did they happen?” The anger was gone, replaced by confusion.

Are you really going to make me tell you? I thought. You already know, you just don’t want to admit that you know. You want to pretend like you’re ignorant. All the nerves in my body that had been shaking grew still. “I did them.”

“Why?”

“Why do people usually cut themselves, Duane?”

“So you wanted to die?”

I raised my eyebrows, letting my expression speak for me. What do you think?

“When?” He was still lying sprawled on the bed, looking up at me.

“After you and I had separated. After the court date with Savant.”

His head dropped into the pillows. “Jesus Christ.”

“I stayed in the hospital for a couple weeks afterwards,” I said. “Lisa stayed with me for a couple weeks to look after me.”

“Why didn’t Lisa tell me?”

“She wanted to, but I told her to keep her mouth shut.”

“You told me you’d tried before when you were a teenager...with pills. You never cut. What else?”

“While I was in the hospital the psychiatrist diagnosed me with borderline personality disorder,” I replied.

“I thought you were manic depressive.”

“Technically I still am, but now I’m also borderline.”

“That’s bullshit,” he said.

I laughed bitterly, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Not really, when you think about it. The symptoms have always been there: The unstable relationships, the insecurity, the need for validation, the unrealistic expectations I placed upon the people in my life...particularly you.” I turned to face him once more, feeling brave, feeling righteous. The anger I’d held back for so long since the situation with Savant had begun to come out in little pulses. “You were the rock that filled the void inside me. Then you went and fucked Savant...one of your students...behind my back. Then he started with the prank calls, showing up at my doorstep while you were out with your English department buddies. I thought things would be better after they put him away, but even after everything that happened I felt so alone...so helpless. I was marinating in my own misery. I felt like I had no one to reach out to. Killing myself seemed like the only option.”

Tears formed in Duane’s eyes; his Adam’s Apple bobbed. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“There is nothing to say. It was a clusterfuck.”

“Why are you here? How can you even bear to be in the same room with me?” he asked. His voice halted, tears spilling down his cheeks. My heart melted, the anger flooding out of me in waves. There was too much of it to hold onto. And I still love him. God help me, I still love him, I thought.

I slid into the empty spot next to him. He rolled over so he was looking down at me. I caressed his cheek with my hand and his fingers wrapped around my wrists. “You’ve always evoked the irrational in me,” I whispered. “When I’m around you inertia takes over and I lose all sense of direction. The laws of gravity change: up is down and down is up.”

When he said nothing, I continued, needing to fill the silence. Really I was just afraid he would leave me again and this time we wouldn’t get another chance. “When you came back to me you said you would do whatever was necessary to make it up to me. So do that.”

“I will.” He nodded shakily. “I will.”

Then he kissed me deeply.