The worst thing about it all was the stillness--not the silence, not the unwashed dishes, not the mess, not the general ugliness of it all. No, what bothered him most was the fact that nothing moved. If he left a coffee cup on the table, it stayed right where he left it until he came home at night. If he did the dishes, polished the tables and vacuumed the rugs, then they would stay that way. Sterile. Dead.
When Gail and the kids had been there, the very house had seemed alive. It got messy and clean, tables moved, floors got covered with books and lined paper that disappeared just as magically, stereos would come on and telephones would ring. The house was alive then. You could almost hear it breathe.
Brent Galloway, failed lawyer, failed provider for his family, miserable excuse for a human being, poured himself another three ounces of whisky and sighed just for the sound. But it was his sound, so there was no magic in it.
All that moved of its own volition was the clock on the kitchen wall bringing the time of the meeting closer with each sweep of its hands. Closer, but not close enough, yet.
He never use to drink like this. Into his mid twenties he never used to drink at all. It wasn't drink that drove Gail and the kids away. He was never physically or verbally abusive. He was just never there. Work came first. It was work that fascinated and challenged him. It was work he talked about and work he dreamed about at night. To Gail he said, I'm doing all this for you: as if it had been a sacrificed instead of a passion. For a while, she had believed him and had been supportive. For a while she had even seemed to take pride in his accomplishments, boasting of him to her girl friends.
For a while he had blamed "the problem" for her leaving. But that wasn't why she left, why she didn't stick with him through the bad times. She left because there had never been anyone there for her to stick to.
Brent knocked back half the glass and replaced it on the table with exaggerated care.
The clock continued to tick. It wasn't as though he hadn't been warned. Gail tried to talk to him. Her mother tried to talk with him. Hell, his next door neighbour tried telling him. But when he came home and she was gone....when they were gone...Then...
Galloway staggered to his feet and went to check out his appearance in the bathroom mirror. Not too ghastly. Little old ladies wouldn't faint in the street at the sight of him; dogs wouldn't attack unprovoked; gangs wouldn't cross the street to avoid him. But he was nothing remotely like the Brent Galloway of six months ago. The pre-"problem", pre departure Galloway. The guy who had everything in his own mind and nothing in reality.
Time to go yet? The clock said no, not even remotely close; but Brent couldn't stand being in the house any longer. He threw on his winter coat, almost tripped getting into his boots and banged his shoulder against the wall. When he was finally ready, Galloway reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled business card. He remembered when it was new and clean and full of promise and hope. Chandler, Finestein and Kopwalski Solicitors, it read along the top. Then, centered in raised bolder print, Brent Galloway, LL.d.
Pathetic. What a complete farce. Yet, at first, Gail had been as awe struck by the level of clients he was working with as he continued to be, but she had recovered quickly. By the end she had begun calling his job trite and his enthusiasm pathetic. "They're just people, for God's sake. Vain and self centered people at that," she had screamed. By then, Galloway wasn't listening. It was her jealousy that was pathetic, he thought. "They're your drug," her last words to him had been before their separation.
Well now alcohol was his drug. He hoped she was satisfied. If you are going to be addicted to a drug, at least alcohol was a real drug. Not that Gail cared any longer. She didn't. And for that he blamed Garnet Chandler, senior partner of the firm, former great friend and mentor of one Brent Galloway, promising legal wonderkin extraordinair.
Galloway shook himself out of his drunken revere and staggered out of the house. A huge white stretch limousine filled the driveway and his heart quickened at the sight. The car was an almost universal symbol of prestige and power. It was now Galloways place of work. He was now driver of the symbol. The white car gleamed in the bright winter's light waiting for his touch to bring it to life.
Momentarily fighting a wave of nausea, he fell back against the front door of the house, sickened less by the alcohol as by the realization that the limo was empty of more than people, it was empty of life and hope and promise. It was just a big car for some very vain and self important people. Brent Galloway being foremost among them.
The nausea passed and as he lurched toward the driveway he thought, for a moment, that he could hear the telephone ringing in the empty house behind him. But he was mistaken. He backed out of the driveway and was already five minutes on the road before the stillness of the house was pierced by the sudden incessant ringing of the phone. It rang for a full twenty times before it stopped. Then it rang another ten before the house finally returned to a deadly silence.
Click here for "Hitting The Wall" part 2
(C) B.E. Fraser, 1997 No copying of this material without the expressed permission of the author is permitted.
