Two Kings (History Plays, Book 4)

6: to dwell in solemn shades of endless night

Henry— thirteen years earlier

"Why did you break?" I whisper, rolling over one of Richard's rings in my palm. Stupid fancy thing. He always wore jewelry. Stupid.
Yet it was all left behind at his house.
His shoes gone, his favorite clothes, gone. His bag, gone.
No Richard.
Where is he? And why? Why did he want to leave me?
I sit up in bed. Mary is curled up next to me, asleep. She shifts though at my movement.
"It's okay, I'm gonna get Harry," I say, standing up. The baby will be awake, as always, oh yeah he is. Mary returns to sleep gratefully, moving a bit into my warm spot, face crushed into the pillow, arm resting around her swollen belly. My son's to be an Irish twin it seems. Mary finally told me she was pregnant a few weeks ago low and behold she'd known for months. Bastard. I realize why she wasn't telling me (I would freak out) however. Now she's out of school, she'll stay home with them. We're fine.
I fetch my son from his crib, "Hey, Harry, not sleeping are you?"
He mumbles baby noises, looking at me quizzically. Dark curls soft on his velvet baby skin.
"Come here," I say, picking him up and settling him in my arms as quietly as possible. As usual he's happy to drool and be carried about. I'm wearing no shirt so he pats my bare chest with his chubby fingers.
I go to the computers. My nightly chore, now. I always think of other cameras to check. Somewhere else we can look. Somewhere new to look for him, to look for why he disappeared.
My father says he's probably dead.
I say I would know. I would feel it if Richard were dead. His heart beats in time with mine. I'd know if it stopped.
But then where is he? And why wouldn't he tell us where he went? Didn't he love us too?
Is it because I married? Was he jealous, I have a wife and a son now and him nothing? I haven't had as much time for him. And I think he was lonely living alone. And I have been busy.
It doesn't matter. He can come stay with us, he always could. We'll find him and we'll bring him home. Little Harry has always liked to be held by him anyway.
"Where are you?" I whisper, scrolling through camera feeds. No ice rinks have seen him. Nothing. Nothing.
"Why are you hiding?" I whisper, flipping through feeds. I can do it quicker than anyone else. I'd know his walk in an instant. His weird, boneless walk, light like a dancer, too fluid for any normal man. I know his step. The tip of his head. The way he twitches his cheek before he smiles.
I know him.
So why can't I find him?
My eyes grow heavy but I force myself to go on. Keep skipping and fast forwarding through surveillance videos. Never mind why I have access to all this. Technically my dad does; he gave it to me so I could look for Richard because I kept walking into his house at all hours to do it and he "has guests" and I "look like a murderer" (yeah dad that's by design). He said that if I was going to keep looking for Richard all night, I could do it from my house. I told him that's not what I'm doing. I'm not looking for Richard.
I'm finding Richard.
It's late at night when finally I see it. I jump, startlingly the baby in my arms, as I pause the video feed.
There.
There.
I see it. The jerk of his shoulders, characteristic to him. The turn of his head. He's walking along the edge of the feed, and then when he turns and sees the camera he bolts.
"No—no don't you dare. Why are you hiding from me, eh?" I start to pull up corresponding feeds. He's here. He's here he's not thirty miles away. He's here. This is from—tonight. From earlier tonight, he's right here.
Someone talks to him, a man. They leave together, go to an apartment. I've got an address. Yes. I've got an address.
"Dad?" I say, holding the phone to my ear. It's taken me three tries to get where he properly is.
"You have thirty seconds, Harry," he mumbles, and I hear a woman's voice as well. One I don't recognize.
"Who are you in bed with right now? It took me four tries to get this number," I say, annoyed.
"You now have no seconds, goodnight, I'll talk to you in the morning if I'm in the mood—," clearly about to hang up.
"I found Richard, I found Richard. I'm going to get him."
"What—no, wait, let me send someone—,"
"No fuck that, no, I'm gonna go get him," I say, "I'll bring him home."
"Call me," sounding like he's getting up, "All right? Call me, Harry, where is he—Harry—,"
I hang up on him, "You, little man, need to go back to sleep," I say, kissing my son's soft hair, before lying him back in his crib. He glares at me promptly.
"What are you doing?" Mary asks, rolling over.
"I found Richard, I'm gonna go bring him home," I say, unable to keep the eagerness from my voice. Then it dawns on me that there's a reason he left. That he might not want to come home with me. Will he even want to see me?
By the time I make my way to the apartment my hope is almost wained, replaced with anger. He surely left for a reason? He won't want to come back with me. Well, I deserve an explanation. He isn't allowed to just leave me. By the time I find the exact apartment, I'm angry enough to kick the door down without knocking.
"Hey, Richie," I say, walking into the apartment and seeing my cousin crouching in a corner. A cop looking dude stands off to the side, clearly upset at my entrance. "What is it you think you're doing?"
"You got away? How did you get past them—-block the door, they're outside!" Richard leaps up. He's in rags—he's dressed barely in rags, beard grown in in patches and hair matted. He looks like he's been living in a sewer?
"He's um—he's being pursued we're all gonna calm down," the cop looking person stands up slowly. He's a bit taller than me, and fit, crew cut, like, just cop looking.
"Who do you think you are, a cop? This is my cousin I'm getting him," I say, disgusted.
"Yes—actually, I am a cop." So I was right.
"You're one of them, then," Richard pulls a knife on him.
"He sure is, so we are gonna go, and sober you up," I say, pushing his hand down. He shoves me.
"He's not—I don't think he's high," the cop says, skittering away.
"I'm not going with you. You could be working for them now. You could be trying to kill me too!" Richard cries, nearly sobbing.
"I don't now what you're on, but you can sleep it off at home, it's three in the morning, Rich," I sigh, rubbing my face. Is he high or something? I mean, clearly. He's gotta be high. "Can we just go? It's not like there's no drugs at home."
"I think he needs a hospital," the cop says.
"I told you no hospitals!" Richard starts sobbing now.
"Wow, fuck, okay, come on," I say, taking his arm. He tries to punch my face and I retaliate immediately. He was always the stronger man. But I'm well rested and he looks like he's been living on crack for the last few months. In fact, he probably has. He's skin and bones when I have him up against me, and there's none of the usual organization or method to his attacks.
"Hey, cop, you got any handcuffs?" I ask, mid tussle, snapping my fingers.
"Yes, but I'm calling 911–,"
"No!" Richard runs to stop him. I help, ceasing our brawl to push the cop away from the phone.
"You completely are not," I pull the phone off the wall and hit Richard with it, then we are back at it, hot as ever, throwing the other about the room. Like we're fourteen and arguing over him cheating off me in algebra, again, and wrecking my mother's living room. Again. Except we're not. He's sick he's coughing so hard he can barely fend me off and he's a skeleton. I just got out of bed with my wife and am more than angry right now that this even has to be happening.
"Look you can't—-you need help to get him to a hospital!" Oh good, the cop is crying now.
"Thank you for the use of your apartment, we'll take it from here," I say, just tackling Richard through a wall and finally pinning him to the ground.
"Handcuffs, cop?" I snap my fingers.
"Fucking Jesus, Mary, Jospeh, and the cunt donkey," Richard, of course.
"Handcuffs but I think you should—," the cop hands over the cuffs.
"Will you quit wiggling? Fuck, damn it, I give up," I sigh, finally squeezing the nerves in his neck to knock him unconscious.
"You can't—He's very ill," the cop says.
"Shut up," I say, standing up and swinging Richard over my back, "Thanks again for the use of the apartment."
"Sir—I think—,"
"Please don't," I say, just leaving, my regrettably taller cousin slung over my shoulders.
It's only once I get out to the damp street that I have no idea where I'm going. I'm not deterred. I can carry him forever. I found him. I'm bringing him home. That's it. It sounds so easy. If only it were so easy as carrying him back to my house. Let him sleep it off. Be cross with him in the morning. So, so easy. Like he's drunk and I'm carrying him home from a bar that I dragged him to to begin with. It's simple, I can carry him forever.
But it's not simple. I know deep down it's not.
I have a pregnant wife and infant child at home. And I have no idea what he's addicted to. I want to lock him in a room, safe, someplace and let him wean off of it.
But what if he OD'd already? And won't he get sick from coming down? Hell, he was coughing bad what if he's already sick?
Fuck it. I'm gonna have to take him to a hospital aren't I? Yes I am. As much as I don't want to, I'll take him to a hospital. They can at least tell me what he's on, then I'll go home.
"This is my cousin, he's been missing for three months, I think he's on something," I say, dropping Richard onto a triage bed as he moans. He weighs maybe a buck fifty, he's skin and bones.
"Sir—you can't go back there with him—sir—,"
"Like hell I can't, he's mine—Richie it's okay—they're gonna help you," I say, clutching his arm as I try to follow him back.
"No! NO— they're going to kill me Harry—-Harry they'll kill me they'll put a tracker in my brain—,"
He goes on, struggling out of the bed. I have to help nurses wrestle him back down. If it weren't one of the worst things that had ever happened to me, it would be morbidly funny, Richard chanting in riddles and rhymes as I methodically remove weapons from his person and he tries to take my weapons with limited success. The nurse don't see the humor in it all after the eighth knife.
"How many knives does he have????"
"More than this—ah fuck—ow, stop that you stupid shit—I'm trying to fucking help you—this is your own fucking fault anyway—fuck you," I say all that as I bodily wrestle Richard back to the table, tossing a few more knives, throwing stars, and assorted martial arts weapons to the floor for the nurses to pick up, "But, give me those back those belong to us—,"
"Sir—you can't stay back here—half of these are illegal—sir—,"
Yeah, they evict me as soon as Richard is strapped to the table. I only allow it because I need to call my father and tell him what hospital I checked him into. I find a payphone in a grungy corner of the waiting room. I call Mary first and tell her we're both fine and they took him in. Then I call my dad.
"You have eighteen seconds," sounding like he's walking out of a meeting.
"It's me, Harry—"
"Make that ten seconds."
"I found Richard, we're in the hospital, I've got the address—he's fuck all high or something I don't—," I don't know what's wrong with him. How am I supposed to fight whatever's hurting him when I don't know what's wrong?
"I'm on my way, just stay there, don't fight with any doctors or nurses—,"
"Why would you feel the need to add that?"
"Goddamn it, Harry, did you already punch a doctor?"
"No, it was a nurse who was trying to take a knife from Richard and I needed 'em out of the way."
"Goddamn it, Harry, just stay there and resist your natural urge to start a fight with anything that moves," he hangs up.
I shrug, wondering how long he realistically expects me to do that.
They don't let me back to see Richard, so I don't do so great with my father's commands, and when I do get back they've got him strapped to a table as he struggles and sobs.
"Richard! I'm here it's okay—they're not going to hurt you you dumb bastard—," I try to call to him, as they drag me back out. He sobs and struggles harder.
"Just lie there for a goddamn minute and let them help you!" I call.
It doesn't help.
Ten orderlies wind up evicting me, and they're just finishing with that when my father and his usual entourage of security arrives. My father looks well rested, dressed as usual in one of his stupidly expensive suits, carrying two cups of coffee. He hands me one, looking me up and down critically past dark glasses, then tipping them down as though to make sure what he's seeing is accurate. Yeah, he's wearing dark glasses in a hospital. He has the obsessive need for everyone who lays eyes on him to know how rich he is.
"Thanks—how many—,"
"Sixteen shots of espresso, I know my child," he says, disdainfully, handing me the coffee anyway.
"You're all right," I say, accepting it.
"How is he?"
"He's still—I don't know. They won't tell me anything," I sigh.
"They'll tell me," he says, patting my shoulder.
"You're not his guardian anymore."
"As of two hours ago I'm his conservator."
"Percy and Glyndower and Exton and DePole are gonna hate that—," I say, as he walks past me. I'm naming Richard's usual guard dogs. My bosses and the hold overs from our grandfather's regime.
"Mmmhmm, I'm counting on it. That's my boy in there. I'll be damned if they don't let me take care of him," my father says, walking up to the nurses station, "I'll be back to get you, just wait there. I've got to go let them know I'm in charge."
I wait, for once in my life. He and his men go back, I pace. I'm out of place in the waiting room. I'm out of place anywhere, I suppose. I want to call Mary but I don't have any information and that makes me sicker. I want Richard back. I need Richard back. Why would he do this? Why is he doing this to me?
After his dad died he ran off then too. He ran off and nobody could find him.
Nobody but me.
He was down by the river, hiding, in a nook beneath a tree where we had made a fort once. We were kings of our own world there, back in the days when wooden swords and home painted flags ruled the day and could conquer any dragon. Not so anymore. Reality again had taken too fierce a hold on my Richard.
"Everyone's looking for you," I said, leaning around the tangled roots of the tree. Richard was hunched up, hidden, hugging his knees, puffy face stained with tears.
"I don't care," he said, quietly.
"Grandad said to give you space. But, my dad sent all sorts of people looking for you. He was mad at grandad for losing you. He says you're suicidal because your whole family's dead," I said, standing there, my shadow falling over his misery stricken face. He hung his head at the accusation, golden curls falling in his face.
"So, in case he's right. I came to tell you. You'd better not. You can't leave me. It isn't life if you're not in it," I said, crawling down to sit next to him.
"I'm not going anywhere," he whispered, his voice strangely strong then.
"Good," I said, and he lay his head on my shoulder.
"I just need to lean on you a while."
"Lean as long as you like. I'm always here."
I told him.
I told him I'd always be there. So why? Why would he try to leave me? Why would he do that? I promised him. I told him. How could he think I wouldn't protect him? And why? What is it, drugs, that are so much more important than us?
I get no answers and throwing my empty coffee cup as hard as I can into the trashcan is not as good as punching my cousin's stupid face. All I need is him to come home. We'll fix everything. Whatever was upsetting him. We'll get him drugs if that's what he wants. We have drugs at home.
My father comes back out and nearly goes into shock that I'm still here. However, he recovers.
"Come on, I've got a doctor reading his file; he's going to talk to us," my father says.
Reader, that means he said to the hospital manager, "I bought this hospital, my nephew is in it, a team of doctors are going to brief me on his condition you have ten minutes" or something to that effect. Normal people don't get this kind of treatment. Half normal people don't get this kind of treatment. Hell, when my little Harry was born I spent like an hour trying to go find him after they took him and nobody would tell me anything, and all the while Mary was pissed off at me because "knowing me longer is not a valid reason to stay with me and not the baby" and "no he will not be fine Harry, go get our son right now" and "no he did not look capable I realize you're worried about me I'M WORRIED ABOUT OUR CHILD" and anyway I found my infant son harassing two nurses. He couldn't talk but that's what he was doing. Trust me.
We are led into a little office type room where people get bad news. A very overworked looking doctor is flipping through a chart. The doctor glares at my dad's usual big black german shepherd dog that trails by his side.
"Um—so your nephew's drug tests are all coming back negative," the doctor says.
"What—he's fucking high," I say.
"Shh, shh," my father says, stopping me from approaching the man.
"No, he didn't see him—did you see him? He's off his head?"
"Yes, he ah, is not on any mood altering substances that we've detected so far. The first panel came back negative but he's severely malnourished—"
"So is that why he's out of it? He hasn't eaten?" I ask.
"Shh, Harry," my father says, quietly.
"No um—we are suspecting a psychotic episode of some kind," the doctor says.
"What?" I ask.
"He's exhibiting delusions, a lot of paranoia, very consistent with psychiatric diagnosis's," the doctor says.
"No—no he's not crazy," I say.
"He's sick, Harry," my father says.
"Has he ever exhibited paranoid behavior in the past? Any delusions, changes in pattern? Lack of self care?"
"Lately he's been—before he ran off he was very withdrawn," my father says.
"He told me he thought people wanted to kill him—don't look at me like that dad in our line of work that's kind of justified," I say, holding up my hands.
"Yeah we're gonna strike that one um—yeah he was withdrawn, out of it. Idiosyncrasies, but he's been like that—," my father says.
"He said he thought something was wrong," I say, quietly. "I told him he was fine."
"He likely has had a deteriorating mental state for some time, it's fairly common in these cases," the doctor says.
"He's not a case," I say, quietly.
"He um, he never would ride in cars, not in the front seat, later not at all," my dad says, quietly.
"His mom died in a car accident, you fucking idiot—what you never thought of that? The windshield damn near cut her head off he was there when they told his dad he fuckin' heard that—that's why he's afraid of fuckin' cars," I say, angrily.
"I didn't—course it is," my father says, quietly.
"The odd tendency non withstanding, right now it's looking like Richard experienced a psychotic break, or manic episode, these are unfortunately common with a variety of disorders, we're going to have to contain him for now, and then treat while we get to the bottom of it—,"
"No, no, no fuck that—he's coming home, fuck that, we'll lock him up it's fine, I won't let him run away again—he likes to be outside, he can stay with me, me and Mary she likes him, he can walk outside it's fine our baby doesn't sleep anyway so neither do we—I'll take care of him until he feels better, he's not staying here—,"
"Harry, Harry, listen to me," my father takes my arms, "He's not going to feel better, all right? They have to give him drugs, and if those drugs don't work he'll be worse. They need to keep him."
"No, I'll watch him. I will, I'll lock up anything he could hurt himself with, I can find him— you know I can always find him, he'll hate it here he hates being around people he doesn't know and he needs his stupid soft clothes—-" as I'm saying it I realize how hopeless it is.
"Harry. He's not getting better. We're going to be lucky if they can get him back. He's not well. At all," my dad says, holding my shoulders, "More than likely he's schizophrenic."
"What?" I ask, shaking my head, "How would—no—,"
"It was in his family history. His mother's side," my father says, flatly, "It's inherited. I didn't want it to be true. He's been getting worse. You know that as well as I do."
"If it is schizophrenia, then he may never have a psychotic episode again but he's always going to have symptoms. He'll need to be on medication for the rest of his life," the doctor says, "He's having delusions. He certainly believes everything he's saying. He truly thinks that people are trying to poison him."
"But for now—look at me, Harry, look at me, he's staying here. Let them take care of him. We can't anymore, this—this is what we can do for him, all right? Harry, you found him, that's it but you need to let them help him," my father says, holding my shoulders.
I nod, slowly, "So, so you can give him shit, right? Depending on what he's got? You can give him shit to make him feel better again? And then he'll be all right? He can come home?"
"Depending on how well he takes to treatment, yes, sometimes patients can return to normal lives and hold jobs, however if he does not take his medication or does not stay on it, or simply doesn't respond to it well he may need to remain in an assisted setting. I say that because at my last update my nurses hadn't succeeded in sedating him yet. He keeps attempting to escape."
"That's our boy—all right, I'm going to go talk to the psychiatric unit and see where they're putting him and who they think is treating him and tell them what doctors I'm flying in, you—go call your wife, go call this list of people—"
"Fuck dad," I say, it's a list of women's names and phone numbers.
"And tell them what's going on, they're all worried about him, thank you son," he says, walking me back out to the waiting room. "Now sit—and stay. Good boy, I love you, I'll be back in a minute."
"I'm not a dog," I say, folding my arms.
"That was to the dog," he says, tossing the shepherd a treat, "Good, Zagreus. Harry, if you're not here when I get back I swear to Christ—,"
"That felt better, bye, go frighten people with money," I say.
"I wish I was doing that—well kind of am. Wish I was doing that under other circumstances," he says, before leaving.
I look down at the dog, then flip it off. The dog wags his tail.
"You wanna go find Richard? Good dog, Zag," I say, petting its head.
Fine. Fine. I can do this. They're right. I'd leave him in the hospital if it was anything else, right? Of course I would. I'd let him stay in the hospital and get better. This is just his head.
But I need to help him. He's still fighting them. He needs to go along with it. And that cop that I found him with had him inside and safe at least, he was placating him. Like the doctor said all this that's going on in his head is real to him. But he knew who I was. I wasn't playing along because I thought he was high. But to him this is all real.
I push my way past nurses, till I get back to the psychiatric holding cell things (what? That's what they fucking are) in the back of building. The big dog helps, growling at people.
"Go find Richard," I say. I know damn well my dad trains his dogs to find us kids. Well, he doesn't do the training. He pays people to. Ever since we lost Richard that time in the woods he figured not worth taking chances.
Zagreus bolts ahead and I run after the dog. For situational awareness, I still look like the sort of person you find in an alley stabbing three people to death, and I'm running through a hospital following a huge black dog. People are not pleased.
The dog bursts into the room before me. Multiple people scream. I skid in and slam the door on hospital security.
"Harry—-Harry they're trying to kill me—Harry—," Richard is writhing in a straight jacket. I try to keep the pain from my face.
He looks like he belongs in the straight jacket. His hair is stringy, face sunken, his tics are worse than ever. He's skin and bones, filthy, his beard thin and patchy. He looks like a mental patient. He is a mental patient.
"Shhh—shhh, look I know," I say, putting my hands on his shoulders, pressing my forehead against his, "I know, all right? It's a little bit more complicated than I thought but I'm gonna get you out of here."
"You will?" He's shaking.
"I will, yeah, I promise, but for now, I need you to play along, all right? It's easier for me to spring you if you play along."
"But—but—"
"Take their pills, and they'll lower security, and I'll get you out and we'll go away someplace. Okay? Two kings, we'll be kings you and me, someplace far away from here," I say, rubbing the back of his head.
"Promise me, Harry?" His voice shaking in fear, tears in his eyes.
"I promise you. I promise you."
It's about at that point hospital security gets in and hauls me away. They're not playing either, seven of them just pick me up and I can't fight them in front of Richard so I have to let them bear me away. Richard starts crying as I leave. The dog bites like two people. It's not a great scene, but I'm hoping it'll be funny in retrospect.
"You are why we can't have nice things, Harry," my father, spiking a cup of coffee, as he calmly watches with no surprise at all as seven security guards bodily throw me back into the waiting room.
"And how did your trip go?" I ask, standing up and rubbing my head where it hit the tile.
"My doctors are flying in. Based on symptoms, we're looking at schizophrenia," he says, nodding.
"I don't know what means except crazy," I sigh, "Which is like wrong but—,"
"It means he has delusions, maybe hallucinations," he says.
"Like, hearing voices in your head? He would have told me—," I say.
"Not always apparently. Delusions more manifest like an internal voice. Like people who claim to hear a voice telling them, or a gut feeling, not to do something that could be dangerous or a bad idea," he says.
"You're saying you don't get those feelings?" I say, frowning at him, confused.
"You're saying you are the way you are and you do get those feelings?" He says, staring at me with the usual level of disbelief and utter exhaustion. We're standing identically both holding our hands up like that will help us understand the other.
"You—you don't get gut feelings when something is a bad idea?" I ask.
"No, myself and all my siblings were born without it, we blame our father, I function on logic not instinct— you're saying you do everything you do and you do get gut feelings?" He asks, breathing like he does.
"Yeah. I always have. I just choose to ignore them. That's a choice I make," I say.
"Okay, we're going to move on— unrelated to Richard but let's go another three months without having a full conversation, we can wave—,"
"Yeah let's wave for a while—,"
"Good with me. All right, point is Richard has these deep seated feelings or beliefs that—whatever, people are trying to kill him, they're trying to put chips in his brain, people are looking at him—all the time, so the drugs, hopefully, will help him ignore it at least and recognize that these are irrational thoughts," he says.
"You said hopefully."
"They don't always work."
In the next few weeks I learn more about schizophrenia than I ever cared to. What my father didn't tell me initially is the likelihood of a lowered life expectancy. Many patients die by suicide, all in all it's fifteen to twenty years less long a lifespan than a 'healthy' person, due to suicide or the side effects of the drugs, which are essentially poisoning his body as they heal his mind.
He could have another psychotic break next year, he could go the rest of his life without having one. We'll never know until it happens.
The drugs could work for a while, or quit. The drugs are nearly as bad as the illness, with a host of side affects ranging from annoying (lethargy) to life threatening (strokes, high blood pressure) then there's a host of pills he has to take to combat the various side effects. It amounts to him having to palm about a dozen pills a day. And if he forgets or misses he could go off on us again, or just kill himself. Coming off the pills is worse than not having them at all apparently.
They can do a lot of therapies, from talk therapy (whatever that is) to psychotherapy. There are many many helpful articles explaining how the patient will need lifelong care and may wind up needing permanent hospitalization.
It doesn't bode well that he already had this long of an 'episode' and was homeless for so long. Nothing bodes well really.
I read all of this in the early hours of the morning, while holding my baby son and heir who does not like sleeping. I highly recommend reading articles about mental illness while trying to get your baby to go to sleep or at least shush, it really fucks with your head. For a while, I just had him on my lap while I read then I got worried he was absorbing things from batting at the pages with his baby hands so instead I turned him around to face me and let him play with my shirt or trace the tattoos on my neck.
Mary is supportive as ever. I shouldn't be surprised anymore, but I still am.
"He'll never be all right he's—he's gonna be like this forever maybe, my dad called— it is schizophrenia, he's not responding to the drugs they have him on, not responding well at least," I tell her over breakfast.
"Will they let you go and see him yet?" She asks, coming to take Harry who is giggling and holding out his arms to her. He loves his mother, interloper. That's a joke. Kind of. He has the strange ability to wake up from naps and things or start bawling when I'm trying to kiss his mother.
"They said okay," I nod, going to get breakfast things out. Previously they had been against me going to see Richard because apparently he got like, disturbingly compliant when they brought me up and yeah they figured out that he thought that I was gonna break him out and as it happens they absolutely did not trust me to not break him out.
"Good, how many people? Can I come?" She asks, kindly, balancing Harry on her pregnant stomach.
"They barely wanted to let me go, my dad's been once, they said not too many people," I say, shaking my head, "Next time, maybe."
"Yeah, I want to see him. I know they're treating him, but he's bound to be lonely in there, he hates being around people he doesn't know," she says.
"Yeah, I know," I say, rubbing my neck, "Sit down, I'm getting breakfast."
"Haven't you been up all night?"
"I mean," I shrug as I pour coffee for myself and a cup of tea for her, "Um—I was thinking I told my dad—whenever they can get him out of there, the minute they say it's okay—I said he's coming back with me—I get, around the babies, um—,"
"Don't be ridiculous Harry of course he's staying with us," she says, taking my arm, "I'm not worried about him he isn't dangerous. He never was. He needs to come home and he needs you. You're the closest family he has."
"He did fight me when I found him," I say.
"Do you or do you not fight each other weekly for entertainment reasons and pull knives on each other over mild inconveniences, insults, bad puns, or once a weird coffee order?" Mary asks, cocking her head at me, "It doesn't mean that with you two. You'd never hurt each other."
"You make a good point," I say, smiling a little.
"He's like your brother," she says, hand on my arm, "And Harry and this new baby need to know their uncle."
"Yeah they do," I say, tugging on Harry's fat little arm. He glares at me and jerks it away. I shake my head.
"Don't, he doesn't like teasing," she says.
"Apparently not. You had better like knives and hockey, that's all I have to say, though you can substitute guns for knives that's okay I guess," I say, patting his back. He leans into her soft chest, glaring at me more.
"He can like whatever he likes," she says, kissing his head.
"Unless it's something my dad thinks is cool in that case I'm selling him," I say.
"I'm sorry, okay!" She laughs.
"Ever since you showed my dad how the kid knows how to kind of count already he's been calling him 'Mini-Jon' or some shit and saying the braincells skipped a generation and it's annoying," I laugh as well. Little Harry can count we ask him numbers and he'll hold up the right number of fingers, or if I ask him how many of spoons or whatever I'm holding he'll hold up the proper fingers. I'm sure it's normal. No, I'm really not, but I'm pretending it is. This kid wears me out and now we're having another one and if it's anything like this one I'm gonna be the one in a straight jacket.
"Hey, we're going to be fine," Mary says, tugging me from my dark thoughts.
"So long as I've got you," I say, kissing her temple. Because of course that's true.
I get to see Richard a few days later. My father comes with, warning me they've got him almost completely drugged out. He's sick from the drugs, but he's calm so that's a good thing.
"Just tell me is this gonna be as good as it gets for us?" I ask, rubbing my face, as we get in the elevator. My dad has him at some rich person hospital where rich people hide away crazy relatives. It's kind of disgusting. All posh and pretty wood floors and still people shuffling around drugged out of their damn minds.
"I don't know, we can always hope it'll get better," my dad says.
"But if it doesn't?"
"Then it doesn't. And yeah, this is all we got."
We go into the visiting area. It's got nice windows with nice bars on them. We're all expected to sit at bench tables on the honey gold wood floor and have a nice conversation with our patient. Mary sent me with a paper bag of Richard's favorite clothes and whatever else she thought of, while I discovered basically everything that I treasure is some sort of weapon ergo I cannot give it to him. That was a weird little epiphany, but I decided I'm okay with it and moved on.
My father and I sit down on the wood bench trying not to sit near each other or like we're together because we both have an image to maintain to exactly no one who is here right now. My father has to look suave, charming, and richer than anyone who has ever lived, I have to look vaguely threatening, masculine, and like I could kill you with my bare hands. These looks do not coincide and being together destroys both looks. This sounds very petty and that's because it is we're petty petty people probably the only thing I inherited from my sire, or gave to my son, is pettiness.
Two orderlies lead Richard out. It takes me half a moment to recognize him. His hair is trimmed too short, and though he's clean shaven that reveals how sunken his cheeks are. He's wearing their stupid white prison clothes and shoes with no laces. He's got a paper band on his wrist, tagging him like a dog. His pale blue eyes are dull and listless, like he's already dead inside and they might as well finish off the rest of him.
"Harry," his eyes focus on me for just a moment, and he moves from the orderlies to drip over to my side, his movements as usual fluid though now they're at half time.
"Yeah, I came to see you," I say, trying to keep the pain out of my voice.
"Harry I'm so glad you're here to take me away," he mumbles, slumping next to me with his head on my shoulder.
"Yeah, yeah we're gonna go later on," I say, my voice catching in my throat.
Richard tips his head to study me, running his soft fingers along my face, as though he never beheld it before, "No time. Nor later. For violent fires soon burn out themselves; Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short."
"You would know," I say, because I don't know what he's on about.
"He's speaking in rhymes, or verse. He was last time I was here," my father says, staring out the bars and the windows at the choppy sea.
"You're all right," I say, wrapping an arm around Richard's shoulders.
"He's not, and he may never be. I did say, this could be, all we hope for," my father says, still looking off and not at me, "All we can wish for, after all these years, it's down to this. A hospital room, tying him up, drugging him so he can hope to live. And I wish I had the words left in my life, to temper either of you."
"You have long to live," Richard says, turning his misty eyes on my father, though he himself still leans against me.
"I am an old man. You two, you are what we have left, our hope to carry on. This happy breed of men, of this little world. Feared by our breed and famous by our birth. The wrath, sheer blaze shall not last. Instead making conquests of ourselves. But perhaps you should ignore me, misery makes sport to conquest itself," he says, still looking out at the silver sea as waves crash against the rocks of the sound. "I am the old one, it is I who should get comfort in my death bed. Yet I must watch him dying more than I. I have buried too many people in my long life. I buried his father I should have to bury him. I am old and cannot stand the follies nor the deaths of young men."
"I'm not leaving him," I say, quietly, "And he's not dying."
"No more than you I suppose. I waited half my life for a son. All my boys, dying in their cradles without a year of life on this earth. And then you, my Henry. You were always so strong yet I feared for you, but you have lived with no fear of dying. I was sure I would have bury you someday as well, my fierce son who after surviving infancy as no other son could, have done everything to get yourself killed," he almost smiles, looking over at me.
"I'm too mean to die," I say, patting Richard's back as he rests his head on my shoulder.
"When I die you can't burn me up, don't let them take me, Harry," Richard says, a clammy hand on my face, "Bury me by the river where we used to hide do you remember? Just bury me there you know I love water."
"You're not dying before me you jerk," I say, rubbing my face.
"When I die there's extensive instructions for both of you; also I already selected my grave. You want something done right you have to do it yourself," my father says.
"Shh, if either of you die before me it's my prerogative to bury you how I like because you made me do it. So, I'm not doing either of those things I'll do something else entirely. So you'd better not die," I say.
"Sit here with me for a moment, my Harry," Richard says, quietly, twisting a hand in my shirt. "I'll be well soon."
"I know he may not. It doesn't matter, we won't fail as you say. And neither of us are dying. Even if this is all we get to have, we'll take it gladly. He's here, that's all we need," I say, stubbornly.
"For now," my father says.
"I'm not so inconstant that I will abandon him in his hour of lunacy," I say.
"It is not merely an hour."
"I know what I meant."
"I know you. He will never be truly sane. And when I die all you will have is the other, it has to be enough," he says.
"It is," I say, "When and if you pass— I'm sure you'll bribe god—I will be here for him"
He nods, not responding either because he doesn't think it's true or he doesn't dare affirm it.
"You look like a god," Richard whispers, draping his hands across my face again.
"You look like a knight," I say, almost smiling.
"I'm a queen I'll have you know," he says, settling again on my shoulder.
My father shakes his head.
"He was like this last time?" I ask.
"Worse—well, about the same. More rhyming last time," my father smiles a bit, "As I said, ignore me. I'm cynical by nature."
"Nothing's gonna happen," I say.
He nods, "Fifteen minutes is about up. Might want to start shifting him."
"Hey, you're gonna go back to sleep or whatever," I say, shaking Richard.
"No, just one moment more, please Harry?" Richard says, hugging me tighter, "Even if I can't turn back the clock. Give me one minute."