Those Weekends In New England

Chapter Seven

Take the chance. Sing the song. The voice will get stronger. And clearer.

Al tried to discourage Denny as he readied to leave the hotel to meet this new woman. This Hannah. "You don't need the aggravation," he told him. Al felt more than a bit of guilt knowing he was the one who'd brought her to Denny's attention. His friend's sudden interest in Hannah bordered too closely on obsession. Denny had been up half the night, sitting silently in a chair in the corner of his hotel suite in his stark white Fruit of the Looms, simply staring into the darkness. Al had tried to get him to go to bed. After close to an hour of unsuccessful cajoling, Al had given up and gone to his own room. When Denny did finally retire, his cursing and moving around as he tried to get comfortable had been loud enough to keep Al awake, too.

This morning the fatigue showed in Denny's sluggish walk and the darkness under his eyes. "You know what the doctor said," Al dogged on. "Take it easy. That was the one condition he put on you for this tour. It's only been three months, Denny. You can't go on under stress like this."

"Al, please stop."

"Your accident caused you a lot of problems." Al ignored the interruption. "You know I'm right, and I know I'm right. The rest of the world doesn't know the whole story. Not yet. But with the way you're going, news of your breakdown will soon be on everybody's kitchen table with their morning coffee. Nobody will want you anymore. They'll be afraid you'll crack again." He was almost yelling now. "At this rate, maybe you will. Denny!"

Denny buckled his pants, his hands shaking but his voice quiet and steady. "Listen to me. I agree with you. You're right, but I can't help myself. I can't." His words sounded with a calm that belied the shine in his eyes and the thickening of his Brooklyn accent.

"Have you ever had to do something? Something which might cause grief for everybody involved?" He didn't expect an answer. Taking a deep breath, he fastened his Star of David around his neck and continued. "Well, I'm forty-five years old. Not all that old, yet, but every day I feel as if I get a year older. I'm missing something...." His voice trailed into depths of ignorance. What was he missing?

"You're tired, you're just tired, Denny. You need to take some time for yourself."

"No! I'm ..." he almost cried the next word, "...empty. Big, gaping-hole empty. And I don't know how or why but Hannah's made me see this. Somehow, by simply meeting her, my problems have been forced to stand at attention, and now they're screaming at me. Up to this point, I'd kept them in the back of my mind. But I can't ignore things anymore. Nothing is right, nothing's been right for a long time. I can't find anything that much matters to me anymore."

Al looked at Denny. Everything about him seemed to sag. "I thought things had gotten better since you left the hospital," Al replied quietly. "Why haven't you talked to me about this?"

Denny just shook his head.

His eyes searching his friend's face, Al tried to find answers. Denny's returning stare was blank. "I knew there was still some depression but we were told that was part of your healing process." A thought hit Al. "Denny, about the accident.... You weren't trying to—"

"Oh hell, Al!" Denny spit the words out. "Of course not. Elaine made that accident happen. We've gone over this already." He stood with hands at his side, looking at the floor, immobile.

"But did suicide ever cross your mind?"

"I felt this way long before the crash, but suicide, or murder—not in me. I'm too much of a coward." He clenched and unclenched his fists. "Elaine and I created our problems. Her selfish, nagging refusal to believe in me. My need to achieve, my 'could-give-a-shit' attitude to her needs, my screwed-up priorities. Enough, or you want more? This is nothing new, Al. We've had this conversation too many times already, and we've gotten nowhere."