Layla did not emerge from her room until the overwhelming day perished at the hands of tomorrow.
Mort was sitting on the couch, as though waiting for her, resting his chin in his hands and staring into space. On the table in front of him sat his usual bottle of ol' Jack and a near-empty pack of L&Ms. He was only jerked out of his trance when he heard her wary footsteps nearby, and he turned to look up at her. She was standing just beside the couch, clasping her own bottle of Jack Daniels in her good hand. Meanwhile, she was gazing down at the four thin scars on her palm from earlier, as though she didn't really believe that they were there.
"Of course it happened," Mort slurred, speaking so loudly, his voice seemed to reverberate off the walls. "Wasn't just another of your bizarre-o dreams." He seized his bottle of comfort, tilting his head back and guzzling another mouthful of the bitter stuff. When he had had his fill, he slammed the bottle back on the table, the liquid inside sloshing tempestuously, before he looked back to her. He wanted to know just what she had to say for herself.
Layla said nothing, but her pale cheeks flushed scarlet, and she ceased examining her scars, letting her hand drop to the side. It was true that whiskey had a tendency to make you a bit mean and it seemed that Mort had fallen under that intoxicating spell. She herself didn't feel an ounce of meanness in her, not just then. She was probably far more gone than Mort, and too hammered to feel anything but hopelessly lost and inferior. Still, as she stood there watching him brood like that through cloudy, drunken vision, she decided that whether he was drunk or not, he did have a right to be sore with her. He was interested in the situation at hand and she had refused to tell him what happened, hypocritically; up till that point, all Layla had ever wanted to do was sit down and talk openly about whatever problems or feelings they had regarding their failed marriages and cheating spouses.
Despite his drunken state and his animosity towards her, Mort couldn't help feeling the slightest bit sorry for Layla. She had been through so much up till this point, but never had her appearance so reflected the misery within. Her sad gray eyes were terribly swollen and bloodshot, her lengthy eyelashes standing upright from their lids in a shock, due to her incessant weeping. Before this, he would've doubted that Layla had ever had a bad hair day in her life; now, he knew better. He thought momentarily about getting her to put on his bathrobe, to see how much of a mirror image of himself she created.
Minutes ticked by, without either of them speaking a word. Mort continued what he had been doing for hours since before Layla left her inner sanctum, puffing away, gargling his whiskey, while Layla stood there, feeling uncomfortable, having nowhere to look but down at the floor. She had never been a great apologist, especially when she was truly sorry. Not to mention drunk. She thought she came off as a blithering, emotional idiot, the words leaving her mouth too fast and without much thought. But Mort deserved an apology, and she didn't want to keep him wondering just when the hell he was going to get one.
First, she started with a plea for peace, to show him that she was no longer angry, at least not with him. "Do you think I could have one of those?" she asked, motioning towards the pack of cigarettes sitting on the table. She was dimly aware how slurred her speech was, and she hoped he could understand her.
Mort looked up at her, skeptically. "I thought you only smoked Pall Malls," he said bluntly. Layla usually refused to smoke any brand but.
"It's okay. I'll smoke if you are." Without waiting for his approval, she plopped onto the couch beside him, setting down her whiskey bottle next to Mort's.
They stared at each other for a second, Mort still looking hostile, and she wondered if he was just going to tell her to sod off back to her room. He had every right to do it. Instead, he just shook his head. "Get it yourself…" he muttered.
Reasonable enough. She picked up the pack, shaking out the last L&M cigarette, and clamping it between her lips. She lit it with a match and inhaled deeply, then turned her head to blow the smoke away from Mort.
"These aren't bad, actually," she commented.
"Hmm," said Mort.
If anything he said demanded point-blank for an apology, this was it. "I didn't mean to blow you off like that earlier," she blurted. In ordinary circumstances, she knew she would've been on the verge of tears right then, just thinking about anything revolving around her husband's "happy" news. But drunkenness and depletion of every tear her eyes could manufacture combined to form a sort of detachment. "I mean it, I'm sorry for that. I don't know what you must have been thinking all this time…I don't mean to come across as so self-centered, as though I'm the only one with problems. I had no right to treat you that way, what with you carrying the same burdens."
Mort sighed, about to take a swig of liquor, but changed his mind as soon as the rim of the bottle touched his lips. "Bottom line is, I can't help you unless you talk to me about these things," he said forcefully, obviously frustrated. He never mentioned that she was forgiven.
"Yeah, I know…" she said, taking another puff on the cigarette and dabbing at her eye, at a tear that had earlier gotten stuck in her lower lashes. "If anything, I guess this incident helps me to better understand how you feel. Always wanting to be alone, have time to yourself. I just…didn't think I could handle having to answer to somebody right then. But it still doesn't excuse—"
"Enough already. What did he say to you? The suspense is killing me," Mort interjected, wildly flicking the ashes from the end of his cig.
Now it was Layla's turn to take a drink of Jack Daniels, a long urgent sip, as if to prepare herself to unfurl the shocking announcement. "Him and Natalie. They're getting married." As many times as she repeated it to herself in her head, she still couldn't fully convince herself to believe it was true.
Mort just about choked on his cigarette at hearing this news, and she had to thump him a few times on the back. "What?" he managed to ask, before coughing up a storm.
"That's the whole reason he called me. To invite me to the wedding."
He suddenly grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her to face him. His eyes were now like twin conflagrations behind his glasses. "You're not serious. Tell me you're joking."
"I wish…" she said quietly, dropping her gaze. "I'm not surprised he did that. I know the man pretty well, and I'd say that it was more out of ignorance than nastiness. He doesn't understand that things don't work that way. It's not okay, and we can't be friends again, as though nothing happened."
Mort almost seemed to sober up just then. Realizing he was holding onto her shoulders a little too tightly, he released his grip. He shook his head, not believing it himself, thoughtfully stroking his goatee. "I see now. I see. Your reaction--"
"I mean, how would you feel if you found out tomorrow that Amy and Ted were tying the knot?" She took one last drag on her cigarette. She wasn't lying when she said the taste wasn't bad, but it did nothing for her. She stabbed it out in the ashtray, half-smoked. "If he calls again, just hang up."
The suggestion about Amy and Ted's own marriage only served to further inflame his temperament. "If he calls again, I'll assault the asshole via phone line."
"Who? Frank?"
"No. Ronald McDonald."
Layla groaned at his sarcasm, "Come on. Doing that isn't going to keep him from marrying her. Don't waste the effort on him."
Mort raised an eyebrow, "Are you suggesting a different kind of assault? Sans phone line?" Layla just looked at him, blinking. "I'll do it," Mort offered. "We can both travel on down there. I take him, you take his girlfriend. Then we'll head back up here and perform another double assault."
"Mort, you're a lunatic. Just forget it, alright? Let it go…" Layla glanced down to her clasped hands, then ran her thumbnail over her other set of scars, across the knuckles of her ring finger. When she'd tore off the wedding ring.
"'Let it go?' Yeah, you were doing a great job of 'letting it go', considering all the noise you were making in there," Mort retorted, violently flicking cigarette ashes all over his bathrobe.
Layla rolled her eyes, "Crying does help, you know. It lets things out. What's wrong, are you not man enough to cry?"
"Not in front of you," he muttered. Come to think of it, he really hadn't cried very much since it happened. Sure, he felt like it sometimes, but it was awkward doing it if he wasn't alone. And it was a waste of time anyway. For some reason, being comforted just made him even more emotional.
"Well you shouldn't feel ashamed of it. Hell, I wasn't." She took one last drink of whiskey before she decided that that was enough for the night. She knew she'd be hurting in the morning, as it was. Not that she wasn't hurting now. Leaning back against the pillows Mort had arranged on the couch, she watched him finish off his cigarette. "It's so hard, isn't it?" she wondered out loud.
"What?" he asked, turning to look at her as she spoke.
"Pretending like you don't care."
Mort didn't reply, but she could tell he was thinking about what she said. He looked away, letting himself go into another trance again, staring off into the distance.
She continued, "Just…someone that's been in your life for so many years…the most important thing in your life…and then when they up and leave, you feel like you've lost everything."
He rested his chin in his hands, sighing deeply. "Yeah…I mean, it's…" He stopped mid-sentence, as though trying to formulate his thoughts. He took in a few shaky breaths. "I…I don't miss her. Really. I miss the woman that I married…the woman I thought she was…but I don't miss the woman I found in that motel room."
Layla eyed him, surprised. Rarely had he been this open in talking about Amy. He usually avoided the subject altogether. "Aww, Mort…I know…" she murmured soothingly, reaching her hand towards him and gently stroking his back. He suddenly buried his head in his palms, his shoulders beginning to tremble with sobs. The tears were so long in coming. As she began to scoot next to him, to comfort him, Mort abruptly stood up, knocking over his bottle of Jack Daniels onto the floor, where it shattered, and stalked upstairs to his study. He sat down at his desk, willing the tears to stop, as he listened to Layla set to work cleaning up the mess of whiskey and broken glass. He did not move until he heard the door to her room shut behind her.
"Shit…" he cursed under his breath. "I didn't want to talk about it. I shouldn't have had to talk about it." Spotting a bag of Doritos on his desk, he snatched it up and ripped it open, before chomping away at the crispy cheesy goodness.
(Well obviously, YOU thought you did. You're the one who started yammering on.)
Mort removed his glasses, brushing away at his cheeks, slick with tears. "Noo. She coaxed me into it. Trying to manipulate me. It's mind tricks she's got. Just like Amy."
(Mind tricks? What, are they Jedis now?)
"You know what I mean." He sniffled, booting up his word processor. Perhaps this outburst of emotion could birth some good, powerful writing for once.
(I swear, the two of you are singing the same song. And badly, I might add. Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, guess I'll—)
"SHUT UP!" Mort shouted, unable to take his inner voice's singsong taunts. He regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth and found himself listening intently, to see if he had disturbed Layla. But there was no noise from downstairs, no Layla calling up to him to ask if he was alright.
(You both have got to get over it sometime, you know…)
"You try getting over it sometime, see how easy it is," Mort frowned, bringing up a new Word document. Unsure of what to write at first, he typed a single sentence: 'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.'
(Stunning. Now let's see you copy and paste that a few hundred times…)
As Mort sat upstairs, babbling on to himself, Layla collapsed into bed again. The taste of the whiskey in her mouth had begun to disgust her. She wondered if she ought to try to vomit, in case she had consumed a dangerous amount, but she was too emotionally exhausted to drag herself up again, after she had just gotten comfortable. Rolling over onto her stomach, she buried her face into the pillow, hoping to God she wouldn't dream of Frank and his bride-to-be. It would be more than she could take.
The first thing she laid eyes on was the sun showcasing its beautiful demise, bleeding deepest mauve and lavender across the never-ending sky. The sight near took her breath away. When she could bring herself to remove her eyes from the glorious spectacle up above, she realized she was sitting on the wrap-around porch of an aged farmhouse. A barn sat just to the left, not more than a hundred yards from the house. In the fenced-in fields before her, cows were grazing peacefully. The flawless atmosphere looked like something out of a postcard.
She rose up from her seat, as a pleasant breeze cooled the air, her beige cotton housedress billowing around her ankles. She peered into the house through the screen door, but she couldn't see much, as the sky was beginning to darken, and the lights in the foyer, and on the nearby staircase, were turned off. Glancing over her shoulder, back at the cows and the dreamy sunset, she then apprehensively opened the door and ventured into the house.
The door shut behind her, making a metallic creaking noise that alerted the other person in the house. An unfamiliar man's voice, bearing a heavy Southern accent, suddenly called out, making her jump.
"Darlin'? Is that yew?"
She stood there a moment, trying to collect her bearings. "Er…yes. Yes, it's me." She really hoped she was the 'darlin' he was referring to, and not trespassing on his property. When he didn't answer back, she decided that she must be. The tap-tap-tapping of a typewriter could be heard to the left, so she followed the noise.
She found herself in a study of sorts, as cozy as the rest of the house. The walls were covered with various photographs in black-and-white and sepia-tone, as well a cultured array of familiar paintings: the very same paintings that adorned her own walls. A man, the man who had called out to her, sat at his desk with his back to her, typing away. Beside the typewriter sat a black, wide-brimmed hat, as well as a pack of Pall Malls. She walked into the room hesitantly, her bare feet making no noise on the carpet, but he raised his head almost immediately, sensing her presence. Her eyes widened as he removed his hands from the keys and turned around in his seat to look at her. A crooked grin spread across his tanned face. He was obviously happy to see her. "Weyll look who's back in the land o' the livin'. Didja hayve a nahce nayp?"
A smile came easily to her lips. Whoever he was, she liked him already. "Yes. You should've seen the sky."
"Beautiful, was it?" She nodded affirmatively. "Weyll, if I wawna see somethin' beautiful, I doan need to look up at no sky. I got beautiful rahgt here." His smile grew wider, and she could feel him looking her up and down. She was only wearing a simple housedress, yet there was so much passion in his gaze, causing her cheeks to flush. No man had looked at her like that in a long time. He chuckled at seeing her red-faced, then motioned for her to come closer. "Come 'ere. Ah waw-na show yew somethin'."
She obeyed readily, wandering over to his desk. He scooted his chair back and, still smiling up at her, patted his lap. Finding herself giggling girlishly, she sat down, crossing her legs. It was when he placed his arm around her waist, protectively, possessively, that she realized that it was not the first time this man had held her. With his free hand, he pulled a page out of the typewriter, exhibiting only a few lines of print.
"It's that stoh-ree ah've been writin'. 'Sowin' Season', remember? Well ah done finished it. I waw-na know whatcha thank of the ending. It's the mos' important part o' the stoh-ree, aftuh awl. And yore opinyin mattuhs the most."
She gently took the page from him to read for herself, dimly aware that he was watching her as her eyes began to scan over the print. She paused and looked back to him again, studying his features. She had so badly wanted to see the face of the man who drove her through the peaceful landscape, and now she had gotten her wish. There was something almost intimidating about him. For all she knew, a madman could reside behind those deep brown eyes. But the way he looked at her, the intense love that reflected so conspicuously in his eyes, and the way that he held her, as though he would never let go, made her think otherwise. She gave him another smile, fully relaxed now, and slipped her arm around his shoulders, lightly tapping her fingertips against the sky blue fabric of his shirt. She leaned into him, laying her head upon his chest, while he rested his chin on her head; she began to read to herself from the page:
"I know I can do it," Todd Downey said, helping himself to another ear of corn from the steaming bowl. "I'm sure that in time her death will be a mystery even to me."
"So? Whaddaya thank?" he pressed. "See, ah was debatin' between this ending and that other wun ah showed yew. Now this wun's the more sinister of the tew, but ah decided to let yew pick. Yew've nevuh let me down before."
She sighed, taking in his scent of fresh dairy cream, peppermint, and the faint smell of his cigarettes. Quickly, she sat upright again, knowing that if she lay against him much longer, she would faint from absolute bliss. "I prefer this one, personally. This ending…is very good. This one is perfect."
He smiled down at her, as she set the page beside his typewriter, on top of a stack of already typed pages; the rest of his story. "Wut wuld ah do without yew?" he asked, his voice dropping down to an almost sensual whisper that sent shivers down her spine.
By now, she was well aware that this was all a dream. Life was not like this, could never be like this. So she would get as much out of this as she could. Caressing his face with her fingertips, lightly brushing at the stubble on his chin, she gazed up at him, drinking in his every aspect, never wanting to forget this. "The funny thing is, baby, you think YOU'RE the lucky one," she murmured in reply.
He leaned down to her level, and before she knew it, he had pressed his lips against hers. She melted in his grasp, his heat passing through to her. Sighing in euphoria, she let her hand fall from his face as he deepened the kiss, letting it settle upon his own hands about her waist.
As he moved down to her neck, trailing kisses across the delicate skin, she allowed her eyes to open. They fell upon a painting on the wall ahead of her, one of her favorites by Diego Riveria, entitled "Blood of the Revolutionary Martyrs Fertilizing The Earth" and depicting two men laying buried beneath the soil, while corn thrived on the surface, greedily stripping nutrients from their corpses.