Bedeviled Ham - chapter 2
“What about Thursday? I’ve got, let’s see, ‘closed Peterman deal and celebrated with a long run.’”
Ham looked queasy as he checked his journal. “That’s what I’ve got too. What I don’t have is anything about the towel bar I accidentally ripped off the bathroom wall. I was tired from my run and leaned on it a little too much.”
Nathan checked his journal again and made a note on his pad, “Nothing in mine about that. Did you forget to tell me?”
“I didn’t forget to tell you. I told you. And I wrote it down. And you told me that you wrote it down.”
Nathan made another note. “And the next morning?”
Ham closed his eyes and sighed before answering, “It was fixed. No, not fixed. It looked like it had never happened at all.”
One more, slightly longer note. “I see. And Friday?”
Ham’s eyes snapped open and he glared at Nathan. They’d been at this for five weeks and had gotten nowhere. No matter what went wrong one day, it was magically fixed the next. He remembered everything, clear as day, but his journal and the doctor’s were always changed to reflect the new and perfect order.
He gripped the arms of the straight-backed chair - it was the least comfortable chair in the room but it seemed to fit his mood as the weeks dragged on. “You know, I’m sick of all this. My life’s a nightmare and I just want to wake up from it.”
“Ham, come on. Most people would kill for a charmed life like yours.”
Ham jumped out of the chair and lunged for the door. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. It’s not charmed. It’s cursed!”
He was out the office door and barreling down the entry hall before Nathan had even put down his pad. Nathan’s office and reception area took up most of the first floor of the old brownstone he lived in, and as he rushed past, Ham realized the finger paintings tacked to a cork board were probably by Nathan’s children and not his patients. He made it to the front door and threw it open onto the sunny street.
Nathan caught up with Ham at the top of the front step and put a steadying hand on his shoulder. Ham was a tough case, but with a little kindness and patience they’d work through his issues together to figure out the heart of his dissatisfaction.
Ham shook himself free and Nathan lost his balance, tumbling forward. Ham watched as time dilated. It was just six steps from the landing down to the sidewalk, but Ham saw every thud, bump, slip, and skip. He saw the way the shadows of leaves made freckles on Nathan’s face and arms as he cartwheeled. He saw Nathan’s shirttail pull free from his pants. He heard an oriole singing from the branch of a nearby maple, and he heard Nathan’s head crunch against the cement when he came to rest.
Ham took the stairs two at a time and knelt over Nathan. His head was twisted at an unnatural angle and his eyes were glassy and blank. He looked up and down the block and saw no one. Then he ran.
Ham always thought of himself as the hero type who’d jump to the rescue if he ever came across anyone choking or having a heart attack. But as he sat on his couch in his dark living room and counted the empty bottles of wine on the floor, he realized he wasn’t even the responsible type who’d make an anonymous phone call if he saw someone die.
Every time he closed his eyes he saw Nathan’s blank eyes staring at him. No, they were staring right through him. Nathan knew who Ham really was, what kind of man he was. He was the kind of man who’d run away.
He didn’t so much fall asleep as pass out, but even still he was haunted by nightmares of Nathan falling. Sometimes he floated gently to the sidewalk, and sometimes he bounced like a superball from step to step, accompanied by a cartoonish “boing, boing” noise. But no matter how he got to the bottom, he always ended up staring back at Ham with those dead eyes.
He woke up in utter blackness with a noise slamming against his head like Satan’s church bells. He didn’t know where he was or why the air was so hot and fetid, but he twisted and turned trying to find the source of the sound.
As his mind swam up to consciousness, he realized his shirt had worked itself up over his head. He peeled it off, saw the state of his apartment, and remembered what he’d done. He finally figured out the screaming siren was his cellphone, inches away from his ear in his shirt pocket, and punched the answer button.
“Ham, you never called last night with your journal update. Anything unusual happen yesterday?”
