Resentment: A Psychological Thriller - 7. Episode 7, Part 1: Thomas

The phone was ringing off the hook again and it was driving me nuts. Ring-ring-ring. I wanted to smash the fucking thing to pieces.

I got up from the desk and stormed across the room, kicking aside discarded clothes. I ripped the phone off the cradle, gripping the handle so hard it hurt. “What?” I snapped.

“Thomas, it’s Agamemnon,” said the voice of the last person I wanted to hear from.

“Do you need something?” I couldn’t keep the tremor of anger out of my voice. It had been building since last night. Now, like a lion provoked, it threatened to attack. A thousand other words ran through my head: I’m leaving tomorrow; I wished I’d never come here; I wished I’d never met you; and last but not least, fuck you.

“Is this a bad time?” He sounded reproachful, apologetic.

Not going to work this time on me, buddy. You played that card on me before.

“I was just in the middle of writing. I’ll be heading back to town in the morning.” This was a lie; I wasn’t going anywhere. I wasn’t ready to go back to the city yet where my old life awaited me. I just wanted to cut things off with him, hurt him if I could.

“Oh,” he said, and I thought I could hear regret in his voice. “So soon?”

I scoffed, leaning against the dresser. “I’ve been here for almost a week. I have to return to my life at some point, as quaint as the village might be.”

He chuckled. “Of course you do. I would like to see you one more time before you go.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

With that I slammed the phone back down on the cradle and hovered cautiously in the silence. Don’t leave it there. That’s now how you want to say goodbye.

No - I’m done playing games!

Running my hands through hair that had become greasy, I sighed heavily and made a concerted effort to push all thoughts of Agamemnon out of my head. I had a book to write after all.

I’d managed to type another two paragraphs when there was a knock at the door. The sound was heavy and masculine. You’ve got to be kidding me.

Agamemnon stood on the other side of the door. He searched my face intently. Was it worry that creased his eyebrows together, worry that I might reject him again? I bet he wasn’t used to rejection. He was used to everyone liking him, used to being the center of attention and getting what he wanted. I’ll be damned if it’s going to work on me. “You don’t take no for an answer, do you?” I snapped.

“You’re pissed at me,” he said simply.

“Understatement of the year. You invited me out to dinner, said you wanted my company, and then barely said ten words to me the whole night. What do you expect me to think? How do you expect me to feel? Especially after you left without saying goodbye after our little swim. So, you know what? You can politely fuck off.”

“I will stand out here all day and wait if that’s what it takes. I just want to talk, that’s all.” His eyes were dark and wide and pleading. He did not look like the man who I’d eaten dinner with the night before.

We stared at each other, the door half open between us. Close the door. Deny him entry. Deny him power. But already his words were working their magic on me, unraveling the knotwork of complicated emotions inside me. Anger and hurt gave way to embarrassment and shame. “My room’s a mess,” I told him. “I’m a mess.” I looked down at myself to illustrate my point. I wore a white tank top and flannel pajama bottoms. I could smell my own sweat. God, I needed to take a shower or at least put on some deodorant.

“Why don’t you freshen up and then we can take a walk on the beach,” Agamemnon suggested lightly. “It’s a nice day outside.”

I don’t want to take a walk with you along the beach. I want to sit around in my own filth and do my best to forget you exist. I was losing the will to offer much more resistance. There was a growing part of me that wanted to hear what Agamemnon had to say. “Fine,” I said, “but you can wait downstairs until I’m ready.”

And this time I really did close the door in his face.

…

We walked side by side along the beach, our shared silence one of pride and caution. When we had walked a half mile or so I walked a bit faster. If he wanted to talk so bad then he could catch up. When this had no effect on him, I stopped and whirled around, no longer able to contain my frustration.

"Are you going to say something or are you just going to fucking stand there?" I demanded with a single rush of breath.

He looked out at the water, his expression indiscernible. "Do you feel like your living a life that doesn't belong to you, but someone else?"

"No." The question took me off guard, but already I had an idea where this was going. "But I refuse to let anyone tell me how to live it whether that's parents, friends…lovers." I'd saved this last one for last. He flashed me a guilty look and then was back to staring out at the water, no longer willing or able to meet my gaze a second time.

Then he said, "You're lucky, Thomas."

I bristled. "How exactly am I lucky?" My voice came out tight and brittle.

"You can be yourself without having to pay the cost," he replied.

My physical response to this was instantaneous. My eyes narrowed, my hands clenched into fists. I could feel all the blood in my body rushing up to my face. "You don't know me well enough to say something like that to me."

"Before I was born, my parents and grandparents moved here from Greece. My mother had just found out she was pregnant with me. My grandparents had some money but were too old to work, but had enough of the old family money stored away that we were not impoverished. So my father, Agamemnon Apaulos II built the fishing industry here. He spent much of that time teaching me how to run the business so that I could take over when he retired."

I listened intently, my rage momentarily forgotten. I could tell from the way he kept grimacing that this was difficult for him to share with me. The least I could do was give him my full attention.

Now he looked at me fully, his eyes dark in the sunlight. "You see how small this island is, Thomas. Everyone knows everyone here. There's not nothing I do that isn't being held under scrutiny. If the slightest thing of interest happens on the island, you can guarantee that everyone will know about it in a few short minutes. It may not seem like much to you, but my reputation in this town is everything to me. There's so much we are trying to do here, so much we are trying to build. I cannot let my own indiscretions ruin all that. So I must keep up appearances. My marriage to Roxanne is a front to keep up that appearance."

"Does she know that's all she is, a costume accessory?" I asked icily.

He nodded again.

"It looks like that arrangement is starting to wear a bit thin," I murmured. "I may not be from some podunk butt-fuck little island - excuse the phrase - but don't think for a second I don't know what it's like to hide who I truly am. I just don't care what people think about me like you do."

The moment I said these words I wished I could take them back. Of course I cared what others thought of me. I cared about what Agamemnon thought of me. God knows I wish I didn't. But once I start running along a track, I stick to the course. “Agamemnon, I’m not you. I was not built to live my life in the shadows. And I’m not an accessory to be used and discarded whenever you please.”

“I’ve hurt you,” he said in an awestruck voice, as if he was just now realizing the fact. “I didn’t mean to…”

“You did whether you meant to or not.”

He went quiet then, his shoulders shagging. I’d put a hole in his sails. Good.

“So, I guess this is the end of our friendship.” The disappointment in his voice sounded genuine. I wasn’t expecting it.

“Nooo,” I said, drawing the word out. “You get a freebie. But Agamemnon…there’s a lot I can forgive. The one thing I cannot forgive is being ignored. Being dismissed. Being used, which is what you did. Don’t do it again. And if we are to remain friends, what happened that night in the hotel room cannot happen again. Ever.”

He nodded, understanding, or at least appearing like he did. “Agreed.” He shifted. “So you’re leaving tomorrow? No way I can convince you to stay another day or two?”

Now it was my turn to stare at the ocean and go quiet. The truth was I didn’t want to leave the island. I was not ready to go back home to my old life. While not all aspects of my time on the island had been pleasant, to say this trip had not been restorative would have been a lie. I was writing again. I felt alive again. But it’s not home. It’s not my life. I don’t belong here. I’m a city boy at heart. The words died in my throat. I wanted this encounter to end on a positive not, so I turned to him for the final time. “You’re just a boat ride away. We can always visit. And I will give you my number. When you’re not busy maybe you can come to the city. I can show you all my old haunts.” And maybe there you won’t be so afraid to be yourself, I added silently.

He smiled, the relief on his face plain as day. “I would like that.”

…

An hour before I was supposed to leave for the ferry that would take me back to Roc City, I had another unexpected visit. This time it was from Roxanne, not Agamemnon. I was surprised when I opened the door and found her standing there in a blouse and jeans. Thus, my paranoia was triggered, and I wondered if this was an attempt to catch me off guard, to make me think she was capable of climbing down to my level. My eyes were open now: I knew how manipulative she and her husband could be and would not fall prey to their games anymore. That was what I told myself in a firm voice, the kind of voice an adult uses with a child.

“I don’t mean to stop by unannounced like this,” she said with an apologetic smile. The only makeup she had on was a bit of lipstick and eyeshadow; she didn’t need much and I’m not just saying that. Roxanne was the quintessential heartthrob beauty. The men who didn’t want to fuck her wanted to be her. “I tried calling a few times, but I guess you were busy.”

Now I was caught off guard. By her friendly smile and the deliberate plainess of her appearance. Was there a trick being played here, a trap hidden by the foliage for me to stumble into, or was I just seeing ill intentions that weren’t really there?

“Yes, I’ve just been busy with the new book,” I said in a faltering voice.

We hovered hesitantly on both sides of the doorstep, one not knowing what to say to the other and vice versa. It struck me that she was nervous and every bit as uncomfortable as I was, so I cleared my throat and tried to sound more friendly. “Would you like to come in?”

“I don’t want to take your time…” She turned as if about to leave.

“The ferry doesn’t leave for another hour. I have time,” I reassured her.

She smiled, but the rise and fall of her shoulders betrayed her and revealed the truth: She was nervous. What do you know? I thought. The famous Roxanne Lockhart is human after all. Maybe even more human than Agamemnon Apaulos III. “Okay.”

I stepped back to let her in the room. Before I could offer her the desk chair she perched on the edge of a bed like a perfect little bird. So I took the desk chair. She looked at me, the look heavy and oppressive in a room that suddenly felt incredibly small. It struck me then that she knew. Had Agamemnon told her, or did she simply know due to that strange, supernatural intuition that all women seem to possess?

“I know about you and Agamemnon,” she said in a rush and then faltered.

No shit, I thought.

Her cheeks burned, but she pressed on. “Did he tell you about our arrangement?”

Not marriage, arrangement. Guilt formed a hard knot in my stomach.

“Yes,” I said. And then, as if it could make what Agamemnon and I did the night we went to the beach right, “It only happened once.”

She waved a dismissive hand, an echo of Roxanne the actress. It was a trademark Roxanne move I’d seen in a couple of her movies. “It doesn’t bother me,” she said. “Ten years ago it might have. It might have bothered me a lot, but not much bothers me anymore. In the movie industry you have to grow a thick skin, man or woman. As a woman working as an actress, you need a shield.”

“And Agamemnon is your shield,” I stated.

She nodded.

And you're his as well, I thought. But clearly this transaction had taken its toll on both parties.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” I told her. It was the excuse a child might give in a voice made to make their parents’ ears explode: I didn’t mean tooooooo…When they damn well meant to do it. You’re not sorry you did it, you’re just sorry you got caught.

She smiled; the smile was both warm and sad and familiar. I’d seen it on the screen at the movie theater many times on date nights with Louis. But this isn’t a role she’s playing, I told myself. She’s being genuine…I think. “I know. He likes you. I like you too. A lot.”

“Why?” I asked before I could stop myself, even as a cautious voice in the back of my mind advised me not ask.

“You’re different. Especially around here. You have a very honest face that telegraphs everything you’re feeling. I don’t think you could lie if you wanted to.” Roxanne cocked her head slightly to the side. She spoke slowly, her voice soft and pondering. “Right now you look like an animal caught in a trap. Like a rabbit maybe.”

I felt like one too, sitting across from her. Why, I could not say. It wasn’t like she was holding a gun to my head.

“I know what that feels like,” she said.

“Because you’re a woman?”

She laughed and the sound was bitter and resentful. “Because of Agamemnon. To him we are all just rabbits. I came here to warn you because I like you. I don’t want to see you be hurt. And I could see how bad he hurt you the last time he came over. You are not the first man he’s done this to, and you won’t be last. Or maybe you will be.” She shrugged. “Who can say? I stopped caring a long time ago. He has a way of keeping people in his orbit. He makes you feel special by looking you in the eye and giving you his undivided attention…”

(Agamemnon and I were standing on the beach, in the bright sunlight. His eyes, so dark and rich, bore into mine, captivated and captivating…)

“...he makes you feel special. He’s a better actor than I am. If anyone deserves a fucking Oscar it’s him.” She pulled out a pack of Marboros. “Do you mind?”

“I don’t,” I said.

She opened the pack of ciggies; she’d painted her fingernails green. The tinfoil in the box crinkled as she pulled out the cigarette. Blue smoke curled sensuously in the air between us, filling the room with the smell of lung cancer.

“Why do you stay?” I asked

“Because I need him,” she said. “And he knows that I need him. And because I love him. And I hate him too. It’s not a conventional love. It’s not the love a wife has for her husband.”

“Codependency,” I said.

“Perhaps,” she said with a nod. “And yet when put that way, even that word doesn’t quite cover it.” She shrugged. “Maybe it does. Our marriage is on paper only, but it’s enough. No other man dares to touch me unless I give them permission to. He doesn’t touch me and doesn’t expect me to touch him. We don’t even sleep in the same bed together. He’s the perfect roommate.”

“And yet you want more…from him,” I said.

Roxanne blew out smoke, smiling wryly. “You’re very sharp. No wonder he likes you. Yes, there are times - not so much now as in the beginning - when I wish we were more than just roommates. I suppose it’s part of the human condition to want the things you can never have. Maybe it’s you.”

“What about me?” I asked in a tight voice.

“Maybe you’re the one Agamemnon wants.” Her eyes glinted with mischief.

I scoffed and shook my head vehemently. “No. I’ve already talked to him. He and I are just friends. Platonic friends. What happened between us was a mistake that won’t be repeated.”

Roxanne must have heard the doubt in my voice. This time when she smiled it was gentle, understanding. “It’s really none of my business what you do. You are an adult, Thomas, capable of making your own decisions. And I’m not trying to deter you from having a relationship with Agamemnon of any kind. As I said, he is very fond of you even if he shows it in the oddest of ways.”

I nodded my head to confirm I understood. The room had continued to shrink until it seemed too small for two people. We rose together from our sitting positions and went to the door. She turned, then kissed me gently on the cheek, leaving a glossy mouth-shaped smudge just a centimeter or two from the left of my jawbone.

“Please, don’t be a stranger, Thomas,” she said. “And don’t let Agamemnon suck you dry. That would be a tragedy.”