A Song In The Dark by P. N. Elrod Page A

freezing wave churned my insides around so much I had to grip the table again, head bowed. “Oh, damn.”
    Almost as a physical effort I pushed the shuddering away, then dropped weakly back in the shadowed plush of the booth.
    â€œIntellectually,” Escott said, “you know the ordeal is over.But your body and, certainly, your subconscious mind do not understand that yet. Your reactions are to do with survival instinct, the overwhelming need to escape. It tends to hang about long after the threat is gone. The symptoms will subside, given time.”
    â€œI want it to stop now. I’ll be fine, then right outta the blue it hammers me flat. Am I really nuts or just being self-indulgent and looking for sympathy?”
    â€œThe latter? Certainly not. You’re nuts.” He said the so-American colloquialism with such matter-of-fact conviction I came that close to taking him seriously. Then I wanted to sock him one. Then I wanted to laugh.
    â€œMaybe I’m just half-nuts. Should I see a head doctor about this?”
    â€œThe best thing for you would be a vacation. That’s nearly the same as escape and might fool your internal watchdog. Go off someplace where it’s quiet.”
    â€œThen I think too much.”
    â€œDon’t we all.” He made it a statement, not a question, giving me a sideways look. He’d been through his own version of hell and survived. “That’s why they invented this marvelous stuff.” He lifted his brandy snifter. “Have you tried mixing alcohol with your preferred beverage? You might begin with a really good vodka. It will likely not alter the taste, only thin things a bit, and there’s the added advantage of no telltale smell on your breath—when you bother to breathe, that is.”
    I’d already tried that ploy. It hadn’t worked. “You wanna turn me into a drunkard?”
    â€œIf it will help, yes, of course, certainly.”
    What threatened to be another shudder turned into a half-assed chuckle. Not much of it, but better than screaming.
    He lounged in his end of the half-circle booth, failing tokeep a smug look in check. It was the first time in days he’d seen me give out with a smile. His pipe apparently finished, he tapped it empty in the ashtray and laid it aside to cool.
    â€œI used to be a drunk,” I said.
    His smile faded. He’d been down that road, too, knew how rough it could be. I’d never before mentioned my own irregular trips. The new ground must have surprised him. “Indeed?”
    â€œBack in New York, after Maureen disappeared. I could only manage to do it part-time. The newspaper job didn’t pay enough to buy a lot of drinks, so I’d have to wait for my day off to get in one good binge a week. Now look at me: I got a bar full of booze, and it isn’t doing me a damn bit of good.”
    â€œQuite ironic, that,” he agreed. “But perhaps just as well. The consequences of too much of a good thing are not pleasant, and one tends to offend one’s friends while under the influence. I had Shoe Coldfield around to bludgeon sense into me once he was sufficiently annoyed by my being a drunken fool. I doubt there’s anyone about who could do the same favor for you.”
    â€œThere’s Barrett.”
    â€œTrue, but he’s far off in his Long Island fastness, happy with his dear lady. You’d have to delve yourself into an incredibly deep crevasse to warrant my asking him to come all the way out here to bash you between the ears for the salvation of your soul and restoration of sanity.”
    â€œDonno. He’d probably enjoy it.”
    Jonathan Barrett and his reclusive girlfriend Emily were the only others like me that I knew of; we’re a rare breed. He’d been the one who’d made Maureen, who, some decades later, made me before vanishing out of our lives forever. We’d both loved her. She was a sore spot between us,