AT 29 (107 page)

The doorman signed her in and summoned the elevator. On the ride up she thought about Alice and the good news she could share about her recovery. Jimmy's door was closed, but unlocked. She knocked several times and when he didn't answer, turned the knob. The interior was dark, the curtains drawn tight. She called his name as she ran her hand along the wall, seeking the light switch. When she flipped it on she let out a gasp. Empty bottles occupied every table. There were dirty glasses next to most of them. Pizza and Chinese food boxes littered the floor and couch. Dust was everywhere.

She called his name again as she walked into the kitchen. The scene was the same. Dirty dishes filled the sink and the refrigerator door was ajar, filling the room with the odor of spoiled food. She walked out, following a path littered with discarded clothes. The bedroom door was closed, but she could hear heavy snoring. She opened the door to find Jimmy asleep on the bed in a tee shirt and jeans, no socks. One arm was draped over the side and a bottle had fallen from his hand onto the rug where its contents had spilled.

She went over and picked up the bottle. Then she shook her friend. He turned onto his side and resumed snoring. She sat down next to him, studying his condition. He reeked of alcohol and hadn't shaved for days. She stayed there for a minute, trying to decide what to do. He probably needed the sleep. A combination of anger and pity forced her to stand and survey the surroundings once more. She decided to clean the place.

Two hours later she took the last of the empties to the trash chute down the hall. Her years as a farmer's wife and daughter taught her how to make a domicile clean. The kitchen counters were washed down along with the refrigerator and the stovetop. The kitchen floor was mopped, rugs vacuumed, tables dusted and furniture straightened. From the floor and bedroom she retrieved his dirty clothes and washed, dried and folded them all. Through it all he continued to snore, dead asleep. She called her mother from the kitchen phone.

“We can't leave yet.”

“Jim?”

“Yes, I'm going over to New Jersey. You stay with Alice. I'll be back later.”

She took down the address from the telephone book and checked a roadmap. Then she waded through the Manhattan traffic to the Lincoln Tunnel. Peggy Limoges wasn't one to swear, but she did it now as she pressed the accelerator of Hillary's beat-up old station wagon, forcing its tireless engine to climb the ramp into New Jersey.

“Damn, damn, damn!” she said with rage. Alice, Jimmy and countless others, caught up in the music business. Encircled by its vortex and slowly drawn to the center where lives were wrecked.

She waited impatiently for the receptionist to announce her presence to Miles McCabe. The place was full of activity. People came and went from office to office, all looking busy. She hated them. This was about making money from someone else's talent. No one cared about the havoc it caused. Ten minutes she waited, but the receptionist did not return. ‘Let her wait. Maybe she'll go away.' She suspected a charade. After another minute, she charged down the hall, reading the nameplates until she came to McCabe's closed door. She didn't hesitate, deeper rage boiling up as she threw the door open and burst into the room.

The well-dressed executive was seated behind his desk reading some papers. The gatekeeper, if she ever announced Peggy's presence, was nowhere to be seen. Miles looked up in surprise. He didn't know this woman. She went for the jugular.

“WHAT KIND OF PEOPLE ARE YOU?”
She shouted at the top of her lungs.

The papers slipped from McCabe's hands as he straightened in his chair, taken aback.

“I beg your pardon?” He couldn't hide his confusion tinged with a little fear.

“DO YOU USE EVERYBODY? SUCK OUT THE MONEY THEN CAST THEM ASIDE!”

“Miss, ah, what do you mean?”

Cindy heard the outburst from her office next door. She scrambled to her feet and hurried to her husband. Miles saw her over Peggy's shoulder in the doorway. He mouthed the word Felix. Cindy rushed off to find Blossom's head of security.

“HE'S HALF DEAD IN HIS APARTMENT!”
Peggy continued, without lowering her voice.

“Who are you?” Miles asked, trying to lower the volume.

Felix slipped into the room with Cindy close behind. They came around to face Peggy, forming a line with Miles still seated in the center. Felix looked the enraged woman up and down then turned to McCabe.

“Police?”

Peggy turned on him with fury.
“POLICE? YOU THINK I'M A THREAT? YOU'RE THE ONES COMMITTING A CRIME! I'LL CALL THEM MYSELF. GIVE ME THE PHONE!”
She moved toward the desk, but Felix stepped in her path. As he closed in Cindy caught his arm, stepped in front and looked into the hysterical woman's eyes.

“You're here about Jimmy,” she said, coming close. “You're Peg.”

Peggy looked at Cindy and shrugged. Her voice dropped. “He's killing himself.”

McCabe rose from his desk. “Felix, we'll handle this.”

Felix eyed Peggy warily then walked past the two women and out the door. McCabe came around and gestured to the couch as he closed the door.

“What do you want us to do?”

“Help him!”

They arrived at Jimmy's apartment building the next day at noon. Peggy met Cindy and Miles in the lobby. Sonny came a few minutes later with Ted and Travis. Kate was touring. Melinda begged off. Her father was an alcoholic. She wanted no part of the scene. Eugene waited behind the wheel of McCabe's Lincoln in the basement garage, ready to follow instructions when McCabe returned. Ellis was in London, but he dictated a few words for Miles to use. Alice wanted to take part, but Peggy said no. Hillary stayed behind with her youngest daughter.

Jimmy opened the door. He wore fresh clothes, a similar ensemble of jeans and tee shirt, but clean. In his left hand he held an unopened bottle of single malt as if getting ready to break the seal and start in. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked thinner than the last time McCabe had seen him and frighteningly pale.

Peggy led the way into the apartment followed by Cindy and the others. Miles was last. He closed the door. Jimmy waited beside the entrance and watched uncertainly as everyone filed into the room silent and serious. He didn't speak.

“Why don't you sit down, Jim.” McCabe pointed at an upholstered chair next to the couch. “We want to talk to you.” Jimmy did as asked, clenching the bottle tight as he went to the chair. He kept his eyes down.

Peggy began the intervention with a carefully rehearsed speech. She described the scene she had come upon the day before, the drawn curtains, shadows obscuring the drab interior with bottles, trash and dirty clothes on the floor. She portrayed the way he looked when she found him on his bed, the sound of his snoring, the open bottle on the rug, its spilled contents staining the carpet, a drunken coma. Then she chronicled their friendship, the happy years during college when kinship flourished through their summers in Vermont. She reminded him of his disappearance back to Massachusetts, abandonment tempered only by his unknown presence at her graduation from Dartmouth. How she waited for him to come back. How she made the trip to Cambridge to bring him back and, the years apart, culminating in the climb to the top of Mount Pisgah where they found their bond again.

She accused, made excuses for his drinking and pleaded for him to seek help. Skip came in for a heavy dose of criticism, as did the world of popular music, touring and the inevitable mixing with unsavory characters. Even Blossom Records took some blame. The money game that made people big stars always perched precariously for a fall. But, in the end, she brought it back to him. He was the one who let himself slide into the abyss. He was the one who seemed to climb out, only to fall once more. He needed help. It had to stop.

Peggy shouted, she whispered, and she cried. Jimmy never raised his head. When her voice rose in anger, demanding an answer he kept his eyes on the floor, gripped the fifth of single malt tighter and simply said, “It's my life.”

One by one, they all spoke. The afternoon hours passed. Cindy gave her story of their years together, revealing intimate details known only to them. Miles listened closely as he became aware of a part of his wife he didn't know. Sonny, Ted, Travis - they all had something to say, sometimes bordering on the humorous despite the solemn purpose of their visit. Jimmy refused all arguments, voiding hope. He deflected their accusations with indifference, their pleadings with silence. Miles read Ellis' message. It had no effect. The executive did not speak for himself. Instead, he listened to the others, watching as Jimmy slouched lower in his chair with the bottle in his hands.

At four, the words trailed off. Peggy's eyes glistened with tears. Cindy searched her husband's face for more ideas. Miles looked away. Sonny, Ted and Travis left the apartment first. Each one went over and patted Jimmy on the shoulder, asking him to seek help. “We need you with us,” they said.

Peggy went next. She brushed her hand across his hair and kissed the top of his head. The tears had wrung themselves out.

“I have to go. We're taking Alice home to Vermont. There's room in the car. Come with us.”

“No, Peg,” he answered, without looking up. “I'll be okay.”

Miles led Cindy to the elevator a minute later. They took it directly to the basement garage where Eugene waited in the Lincoln. On the drive back they dropped him at a restaurant where Sonny and the others waited. Miles continued on to the New York apartment in silence. Cindy berated him for his failure to speak. Reading the message from Ellis wasn't the same as offering his own words. As they entered the apartment she was still scolding her husband.

“We needed you. He needed you.” Miles ignored her as he crossed the room to the bar. He went behind and surveyed the bottles. A fifth of Jack Daniels caught his eye. He picked it up and headed for the door. “Where are you going with that?”

“Don't wait up.”

***

Jimmy opened the door, still clutching the single malt. When he saw that it was Miles, his shoulders slumped and he walked back to his chair. McCabe followed him into the room and removed his coat. Earlier he had spent the hours leaning against the wall near the door. This time he took a seat on the couch. Jimmy resumed his staring at the floor, slouched low in the chair with the unopened bottle of scotch in his lap. Miles looked around the room, which was darkening as the early autumn sun fell toward the horizon.

“I see you haven't opened your scotch.” Jimmy didn't answer. “Cindy is upset with me. I thought it best to leave her alone. Of course, that meant I had to go somewhere. I wasn't in the mood for the office, so here I am. I hope you don't mind.” He waited for a response. None came. McCabe settled in.

“It's funny how people gravitate to different kinds of whiskey. In my youth I hated the stuff. Gin was my drink, a nice martini or two with a large olive. As I got older my tastes changed. I tried that scotch you're holding, but it didn't work for me. People say it's the best. Mostly, the Scots who make it, but I came to prefer our southern concoctions. They say it's inferior, harsh taste and all, but it works for me. Jack Daniels, that's what I drink now. I brought some with me.” He held up the bottle. Jimmy didn't look. “Well anyway.” McCabe ran his eyes around the room, settled on the door leading into the kitchen and turned back. “Do you mind if I get a glass with some ice and join you?” No response. McCabe stood up. “I'll take that as a yes. I'll bring a glass for you.”

He strode into the kitchen, spotless after Peggy's clean up. A minute later he came back with two tumblers filled with ice. He placed one on a small table next to Jimmy.

“There you are. Shall I open that single malt for you?” He made a move to take the bottle, but Jimmy pulled it closer to his chest. “No? Later, perhaps.”

McCabe returned to the couch and poured two fingers into his glass. He raised it to his mouth and stared at Jimmy over the rim. “I know it was rough on you today. They
don't understand. Good liquor is a refuge.” He took sip. “I thought I knew about you, but I learned a lot more this afternoon. I can see why you wrote your song about Peg. She's quite a woman and smart, too. Dartmouth is a fine school. I had no idea how you got your start. Until today, I thought it was here in New York. Now, I realize the genesis was Vermont.
Peg
is the best song you ever wrote. It makes sense that it was written in Vermont about her. She's a true friend.

“I didn't know much about your time with Cindy, either. I have to admit I didn't really want to know. She was in love with you. I still wonder how she came to be my wife.” He caught himself. “No, that's not right. I know she loves me. The mystery is how you could let her go.” He put his glass down and leaned forward. “How about now, can I get you started with that scotch? It's tough to drink alone, tough for me anyhow. I guess you have more experience.” Jimmy remained still. McCabe sat back and picked up his Jack Daniels, continuing to drink in silence.

The shadows in the room grew a shade darker as the sun dropped behind taller buildings outside the apartment windows. The only illumination came from the kitchen where Miles had left the light on earlier.

“I have to admit I don't know much about friendship. Love? I get that, but friendship has always puzzled me. As a child I had friends. All children make friends easily. They come and go. Maybe a few ties become close in high school and college, but, as we age, they fall away. My problem was ambition and a big mouth. I always looked upon others as competitors. Business cultivates competition and that's where you spend the most time with other people, day in and day out, working in the same space often doing the same things. It ought to bring people closer don't you think? Competition gets in the way. I suppose it's not only work. We compare houses, cars and vacations, always competing to one up our neighbors. That's what I did.