Alexander's Gift

The Playboy- 9

There was a bar across the street from the café, and for that Dean was immensely grateful. The long, almost glass-like counter was lined to the hilt with sailors on leave, forlorn businessmen, lonely divorcees, and . . . well, every manner of people. Dean didn't know which category he belonged to exactly, but thought he probably looked like one of the forlorn businessmen.

He maneuvered his way over to the only table available, a small table for two almost hidden by shadows. Lighting a cigarette, Dean slouched back sullenly into the darkness, seeing but not seen. Now he could think . . . what was he so afraid of? Well, that wasn't really too hard to identify. Surely he didn't want to hurt Dick more than he already had. Any sane person would have been thinking as much. After all, to sleep with your best friend's wife was a horrible thing to do. You might as well have just stabbed him in the back or buried him alive. And after all Dick had done for him. After all they'd done together. Dean knew by the sinking feeling as he thought about it that this was not the sole culprit of his misery. As the true reason surfaced swimmingly, he charged up and moved through the crowd to the counter. He could not think about this without a drink.

As he waited his turn with the bartender, he overheard a conversation from behind him despite himself. One voice was that of an elderly woman, the other an elderly man.

"I know, I know. I only wish- oh, never mind about that." The man was saying kindly, and now Dean could hear the woman sniffing back a sob.

"No, tell me. It's alright." The woman's voice managed.

"Well, it's just that I wish you had met Alexander Soter. You've heard of him, I'm sure. It's just that he would have been able to help you."

"Help me? How?" She was genuinely curious now, and that distracted her from crying.

"He knew just what to say to make you happy. He would show you how no matter what happened, you didn't have to stop being happy. Almost like . . . well, almost like you didn't have a right not to be happy."

Screw the drink. Screw Alexander Soter. Screw everybody. Dean shoved his way out from the counter and out of the bar, anger clouding his mind and sending blood rushing through his head.

Why did he have to go and do it? Fall in love with Mary? This was so out of character for him . . . it astonished him. It shamed him. But it didn't matter just how much he loved her, because he would not ever become a kept man. He's seen his share of friends going from high-spirited, confident, chipper fellows to emotionless cogs in a machine who, if they felt anything, hated the machine they were a part of turning, and hated the fact they were turning. It was like prison. It tied them down, and took away all the fun in life.

It made him shudder just to think about it. But it made him feel like crying to think about losing Mary. He was well on his road to becoming a kept man, and the worst part about it was that he didn't have a choice. He had to if he wanted to keep her. And he had to keep her.

With a newfound urgency given the way he left things with Mary, Dean shrugged on his overcoat and hurried out, turning up his collar against the biting cold of the evening that was beginning to turn into rain. He didn't have to worry about catching a taxi, which was always a nightmare when it rained, and called up his chauffeur.

He felt like crying as he waited for the car to pull around the corner, wondering whether he'd be able to get her back. He pushed it back with expert swiftness and just focused on the wind that was quickly making his nose and lips grow numb. He felt like the alcoholic who would do anything- even hurt himself- to distract from the cravings . . .the craving thoughts that just wouldn't stop poking, needling, driving to the very brink.

Finally the gleaming black Cadillac pulled up, its front large and bulky, but aerodynamically curved so it resembled a child's face not yet slimmed with age. The chauffeur stepped out wordlessly and expressionlessly to walk around the front and open the passenger's door for Dean. The inside of the car was genuine, new leather and smelled as such. "Take me to 213 Easton Street. Double time!"

"Whatever you say, mack."

Dean's patience was drawn thin as the rainy traffic grew lengthier and inched along seemingly infinitely slowly. As he looked gloomily out the window, cascades of rain poured from the steel-gray sky, and men and women with jackets pulled tight against the cold jogged across the streets into nearby buildings, clothes already soaked through after ten seconds outside. The shrill, annoyed beeps from car horns rose all around Dean, joining in the air as a single note of protest. The aureate lights emanating from a city full of buildings and street lamps tinged the rain-covered streets a spectrum of colors interrupted by each crack and sign of age in the asphalt. If Dean didn't know that it was going to be bitingly chilly, and that he would feel just awful after getting all wet, he would have liked to stand in the middle of the road and just . . . be there. Watching everything.

Finally the car came to a stop. Without hesitation, he raced up the shining steps leading to Dick's brownstone excitedly, only to skid to a halt at the sight of their newly painted red door cracked open. That wasn't like Dick at all- or Mary, for that matter.

Slowly pushing the door open, Dean stepped into the hallway tentatively. He was stopped almost immediately by a dozen suitcases and bags stacked to Dean's waist. Just as he was looking wonderingly at them, Mary popped into the hallway from one of the rooms, carrying a carpet bag in each hand. Her red-rimmed eyes widened a little when she spotted him, but she didn't stop and marched right past him to the cab that was parked in front of Dean's Cadillac.

"Mary! Wait! Where are you going?!" He shouted after her once he found his voice, and raced back down the front stairs to actually talk to her face to face.

"Dick's fallen ill. He's at the hospital now, and I've got to go." She said tremblingly as she put her bags in the trunk and then went back inside to grab some more. Dean followed her, dumbfounded as he picked up a suitcase to help her.

"Well . . . what does that mean for us?" He finally sputtered, still walking back and forth between the building and the taxi alongside her.

"What us? There is no us, Dean, you made that perfectly clear!" She halted and spun around to face him, eyes flashing dangerously. "You've caused me enough pain for today! Don't you think you'd better leave me alone before you force me to hate you?!"

"Wait just a second, Mary! That's what I came there to here to talk to you about! I changed my mind! I . . . I do love you!" Dean was triumphantly relieved that he got the words out, and so he was rather disappointedly astonished when she just turned away from him coldly. "Oh, so you've changed your mind, have you? Well, it's too late. I'm not just something you can have at your convenience and throw away at your convenience." A shiver of fear passed through Dean, and he grabbed her by the arm. "But you said that you love me! And I love you, so it's simple!"

The icy mask she was wearing cracked, and she seemed to melt right there in his arms. "Oh, Dean!" She sobbed miserably, "I do love you, but don't you understand? It's all over for us! We're all washed up, now that Dick's in the hospital! I've got to take care of him! I'm his wife!"

"But what about a divorce! Before you said-"

"I know what I said, but that was before! Nothing's the same anymore! Please . . . if you love me, just let me go."

Dean just gazed at her numbly as she unhooked her arms from him and gave him a final kiss. He wanted to say so many things, do so many things, but he knew deep down they would be to no avail.

So, without another word, Dean turned around and walked back down the front stairs to the car, not waiting for the chauffeur to walk around to open the door for him. Now he really needed a drink.