He's the Air I Breathe

1954

Dean has a headache.

The ailment has plagued him for three weeks, and the aspirins have ceased working. Pain is his constant companion, or perhaps it is the only entity he can discern. Either way, it gradually drowns all gaiety he feels with Jerry. Paramount has applauded his partner's every action, commercialized each caricature, and even expressed satisfaction with his lyrical abilities. Dean acknowledges every praise with a page turn of his comic book and remains within his seclusion on set, professedly a pawn to be called upon.

Dawn squints. Dean sits on the edge of his bed, face nestled into his palms as an ache permeates his skull and eyeballs. Jeanne stirs and lethargically sits, caressing his shoulder. "What's wrong, dear?"

As though on cue, their youngest – Ricci – cries out downstairs, then twice more, and the two wait until they hear Claudia's footsteps and gentle ministrations before the house sighs. Dean kisses the back of Jeanne's hand and lays down, finger stroking her forehead.
"Nothing," he replies. "Headache, that's all."

"You're not coming down with anything, are you?"

"' Course not. 'Just overworked."

Stillness in the room. "Can you take a few days off? We could take a short trip, and my mother can watch the children."

Dean retracts his hand and holds Jeanne in his arms. Beyond their window, settled upon an ivory branch, sits an owl blinking its feverish and amber eyes. The creature hoots and nauseatingly spins its head. "I want to Jeanne, but Paramount wants us to work on the picture, and I don't have a say in how our partnership controls my life.

******

January annihilates all warmth from Mountain Drive.

Snow falls four times and remains fixated on Dean's home. Has the singer ever seen snow so pure, so unblemished by Steubenville's coal? Has he experienced snow so deep that one foot in consumes you like quicksand, and you must claw your way out?

"You'll need a search party if you're headin' out here alone," Frank proclaims.

"At least we'll find Sammy," Dean reciprocates.

The two sit on the threshold of the latter's home; both families amalgamated into a mound of euphoria. Craig pulls Tina and Deana in a handcrafted sleigh along the glacial backyard. Air disturbed by velocity, snow piercing the pores of their skin: the expression in the girls' eyes is of wild horses, broken free of their reins and soaring through the alabaster sky.
Frank leans into Dean's coat, discussing a film or romantic conquest unceasingly. A cigarette between his fingers dies before it reaches his lips for a second interval. Dean's reciprocations are abridged, half-hearted almost, and directed to his trousers.

Frank elbows his ribs. "What's the matter, Dean?"

"Nothin', pallie."

A pause. Dean's cheeks twitch as he glances at his friend. "Do you think Paramount thinks Jerry is more important than me?"

The words aren't right. They don't come out right – it's the same problem he's had since he was five years old. Frank seems to understand, anyway.

"You're a partnership, Dean. They value you both."

Dean clutches a patch of snow and allows it to sift through his fingers. "What about Jerry?"

"I'm not following."

"Do you think he believes he's more important? 'Last picture, he got extra credit for staging musical numbers, and I'm the singing half of the act."

      Gina scampers before them, barely sturdy on both legs and still reliant on her mother's arms to remain upright. She cascades with the snow face-first. Jeanne strides forward, pasted with the thick pasture, and thrusts her daughter upward. Their breath pulses out in a collective cloud which is instantly eradicated by the wind. The child presses against her mother's thigh, panting and blinking her long lashes.

"It's his artistic creativity," Frank says. "It's only fitting he wants license for his material."

Dean tilts his head skyward. Flakes deliberately, almost lazily, shed altitude and pepper the singer's hair. Frank breathes into his hands, and the air timidly nudges them, vacant and ominous. Dean's gaze gradually fills and immobilizes the space between them, wandering elsewhere than on Mountain Drive. Frank apprehends it and feels his esophagus clench.

"A person who loves you wouldn't ever place themselves in a position to lose you," the crooner murmurs. "Jerry cares about you, Dean."

"I know he does; it's just... I feel we're drifting from each other somehow, and I can't reach him as I once used to. I know he wants independence to create his material, although I don't know how much of a role he views our partnership with that endeavor."

"What are you talkin' about? He'll never forget you."

"But he may forget to remember me. I pray if one day it all ends, he'll at least protect what we shared."

The sun punctures a hole through the pale coating, scalding what residues below: serenity in its most simplistic form. Rays of sun staple themselves to Dean's chest and neck like treasure to be scavenged for in childhood fairytales. Strips of aureate amplify the burgeoning brown of his eyes as Dean's voice drops to an almost sigh. "Before I die, I want to be someone's sanctuary – a place they can put every secret, every worry, every prayer, and be certain I will keep it safe. I will always keep it safe."

"He knows you will, Dean."

                                                                         ******

      Jubilation seeps into the Martin residence's focal point. Amid overlapping juvenile consonants, the 26th Academy Awards unveils itself through the television screen and permeates the living room. The camera spans across the acclaimed audience.

"It's Uncle Frank! It's Uncle Frank!" exclaims Dino, placing a fingertip upon the screen.

Dean leans over the lounge. "Where?"

"On the left," Jeanne replies.

"There?"

"No, there. He's with Nancy and Frankie."

Mercedes McCambridge takes to the podium, and announces the nominations for Best Supporting Actor.

"Eddie Albert - Roman Holiday, Paramount."

Silence.

"Brandon DeWilde - Shane, Paramount."

Once more, silence.

"Jack Palance - Shane, Paramount."

Ricci tugs at Dino's hair.

"Frank Sinatra - From Here to Eternity, Columbia."

Applause ripples throughout the theatre.

Dean blinks, apprehending tears. The living room looks as it always has: angelic dolls and model automobiles scattered upon the carpet, tuxedos lazily grasping the chairs, and a dozen layers of warmth peeling throughout the room. And now, within the epicentre of endearment, there is revived promise for Frank, professedly as if a mound of hope has stirred to life.

".... Robert Strauss - Stalag 17, Paramount."

Mercedes McCambridge takes the providential envelope, glances downward, and bounces, allowing juvenile euphoria to heighten her voice. "And the winner is Frank Sinatra in From Here to Eternity."

Within the television, Dean sees Frank briefly kiss Nancy's cheek and squeeze his son's hand before joyously jogging forward. The space encircling the former tears in half, seemingly as if the remaining molecules of oxygen have rippled out. One metre behind her, hands settled upon the lounge's forehead, Dean tilts his head upward and smiles. Jeanne knows this though her back is to him, though baby Ricci is nestling against her clavicle – her husband's hair is disheveled and warped into a mound of knots, his heart's rhythm has deterred itself from Jerry's and has begun to replicate Frank's, and he is beaming for his friend.