AT 29 (109 page)

Both men influenced my life. I thought about them constantly as I wrestled with my conscience and all that had happened during the tour. I was restless on the farm, the recuperation all but complete, such as it could be with the fear of death always lurking. I decided to move to California and take up screen writing
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- Alice Limoges

Franco fingered the two items on his desk. One was a file, the other an inch thick booklet with the single word, LOCATIONS, printed on the cover. He opened the file first. Inside, were pages of notes, separated by date and tabbed, the sum total of Jim Buckman's four-month stay at Daylight Center in Adams, Massachusetts. He read a few paragraphs, mostly to pass the time while he waited for Jim to arrive. He didn't expect to learn anything new. After all, he'd written the words. He closed the file and took up the booklet. This was more important. A dozen more copies rested on a shelf behind his desk. Every patient received this booklet on the day of departure. It contained the address and telephone number of every Alcoholics Anonymous center in the world. That's why it was so thick. There are many recovering alcoholics. Therefore, there are many AA centers. Inside, before the list of addresses began, three telephone numbers were printed in extra large type. These were the ways to reach Franco anywhere, anytime; his office, home and brand new car phone numbers. He set the files to one side and picked up the phone message from Peggy. He'd call her later, after Jim was on his way. He smiled when he thought of her.

The counselor and the farmer's daughter went way back, Dartmouth, when he was in his third year of medical school and she was an undergrad studying economics. He had night duty at Hitchcock Medical Center. She came in with the flu. Sick as a dog, she still issued witty remarks and teased her novice examiner about his fumbling assessment.

“It's the flu. Half the school has it. Just give me something so I can study.”

“You should have gotten a flu shot last fall. Now that you have it there's no cure except rest and fluids.”

Later, he called her for a date. They went out a few times, but she wasn't interested in romance. Not with him anyway. Some guy back home, a singer. She was fun though, eager to debate current issues and plenty capable of backing them up with facts. Franco was very smart. He found her repartee stimulating, a relief from the drudgery of books and the hospital even if it would never lead to anything more than friendship.

He went on to psychiatry. She kept in touch as women do. His practice thrived in Manhattan. Rich men and women flocked to his couch for a chance to divulge every detail of their lives. They forked over lots of money for needless reassurance and placebos. He took their money and became wealthy. Nice cars, a nice apartment and not a few fast women later, he began to prescribe drugs for his friends, and for himself. He got hooked. Then he got nabbed. He lost his license. Daylight Center cleaned him up. He called Peggy when he was released, spending a week at the farm until she sent him back to Adams.

“You may have lost your license, but you still have your skills. Who better to help others than someone who's done the drill?”

The money wasn't very good. Nor were the surroundings, wasted men and women struggling to tame a lifetime of self-destruction in a forgotten western
Massachusetts Polish community, its heyday long past. Up the road was a nicer town with a collection of Williams College academics and well-heeled students. Franco attended the community theater, patronized the college library and sometimes dated an assistant professor named Agnes. It was a quiet life, far removed from what he expected, but occasionally rewarding.

Most of his patients failed. That was to be expected. The causes of addiction are as disparate as they are elusive, deep seeded insecurities, physical or emotional damage, guilt, bad genes, who could uncover the real cause? Franco tried, but he was a realist. Even if the cause could be identified, only the individual could overcome it. Success was not a singular cure. It was a lifetime of vigilant self-control that few could sustain.

This one was different. Jim Buckman, he fingered the file again, came with the apparent desire to change. He had powerful friends. Not the rich and famous kind that fawned with transparent concern, although the famous singer must have plenty of those. No, he counted real people among his supporters; Peggy, for one and the distinguished looking older man who brought him here in the early morning hours four months earlier. They called often, visited from time to time, and stayed far longer than other well-wishers. Friends like these could make the difference.

Jim put in the hours, too. He never missed a therapy session, spoke when it was his time and left nothing out. He accepted his responsibility.
“My name is Jim. I'm an alcoholic.”
Franco was suspicious at first. Plenty of the new ones put on a front, only to see it unmasked when the therapy began. The first two weeks were always trying. Years of artificial stimulation were hard to break. That's why caffeine was permitted. Lots of coffee and nicotine, too, for those who needed it. No surprise there. Tobacco will kill you, but it takes longer. Fight one addiction at a time. So imbibe as much as you please, but only for the first two weeks. At the start of week three the weaning process began. Coffee was gradually reduced. Three cups a day, then two, then one and none. Cigarettes, cigars, pipes, they all had their weaning process as well. Exercise, therapy and time to think and heal came next. Fifty percent checked out by the end of week three. Another twenty-five after a month unless there by court order. Only ten percent finished the four-month program, ready to face the world, which meant facing themselves. Different, Franco mused. Yes, you could say Buckman was different. It surfaced in their private sessions. The singer was guilty about something, not so unusual, but not easy to identify, either.

At an early age Franco became fascinated by the workings of the human brain. His father was a neurosurgeon who scoffed at any solution that did not involve a scalpel. Franco had his father's intelligence, but not his steady hands. It never mattered because he had no desire to be a surgeon. His interest centered on the way the brain works. Why it is proportionately three times larger in humans than other mammals. Why it consumes twenty percent of the human body's energy, more than any other organ. How it is that the frontal lobes are exceptionally large only in humans and, that these areas control the distinctive human capacities for self-control, reasoning and abstract thought. Most of all, he became interested in the mind, its extraordinary capacity to control everything man encounters from his internal world to the outer world in which he lives. Unlike the other organs, few biological diseases attack the brain. The human body's spectacular defenses block all but a few, such as Parkinson's, Alzheimer's, Multiple Sclerosis and a handful of others, all without a cure. Most brain damage is due to catastrophic blows to the head.
But depression, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder and more are subtler. Are these caused by chemical deficiencies, protein anomalies or electrical impulses gone wild? If so, why do some people respond to conversational therapy while others need powerful drugs? And, the big question in Franco's mind, why does hypnosis occasionally reveal such odd insights to the behaviors of individuals? That was his specialty, a private one since its legitimacy is suspect in the strict world of medicine.

He rarely employed hypnosis with his one-time patients in Manhattan. It had its temporary uses for smoking cessation, relaxation and the like, but the autonomic suggestions wore off quickly. Now, as a counselor with no license to practice, he was forbidden to use it altogether. His only role was that of confidant and guide to the sorry souls who needed him. Occasionally, he broke the rules.

The source of Jim Buckman's addiction was guilt, of that Franco was almost certain. Hours of discussion ruled out every other likelihood. The man was psychologically healthy in the clinical sense. Depression was mild, no other psychological afflictions and no physical dependencies other than alcohol. And, expensive alcohol at that, he smiled, single malt. Monologues, interrupted by promptings, failed to uncover some trauma that might be the cause of Jim's guilt. He had the typical challenges of childhood, but nothing so serious that it could be called life changing. Decent social skills, creative abilities, above average intelligence, neither timid nor overly aggressive, this was a normal adult able to handle his affairs and function in the world. He was guilty about something, that's all it could be. Or was it rage?

Jim agreed to hypnosis as a matter of trust. Neither man expected it to reveal new information. Franco merely hoped to temporarily assuage lingering emotions so that continued talk therapy might progress more rapidly. The autonomic suggestions proved successful and, over time, hypnosis was used more often, always in secret to protect Franco from repercussion. The unexpected babbling came after a dozen sessions, without prompting and accompanied by fits of laughter, singing and one appearance of terror, all murky and lacking in context. Franco took furious notes, but when Jimmy returned to consciousness neither man could make sense of the words. It remained mysterious to this very moment as the counselor waited to accompany his charge to the gate. A woman and child left behind by a man who could not return. That's all Franco could decipher. Jim was skeptical of the counselor's conclusion. Franco was skeptical as well. The knock brought him back.

Jimmy came into the office. “I'm ready.”

Franco rose and came around the desk with the list of AA centers. “Take this. I'll help you with your bags.”

“The list?”

“Yes. Keep it with you wherever you go.”

They carried his bags to the door and down the steps to the gate. A black Lincoln idled at the curb. Both men set the bags down and shook hands. Then Jimmy drew the counselor close and gave him a hug. “Thank-you for everything.”

“Remember to attend the meetings. No matter where you are you'll always be welcomed. If you need to talk call me anytime. My reach numbers are in the pamphlet.”

Miles McCabe came forward and smiled at both of them. “I'll put your things in the trunk.”

Jimmy turned back to Franco. “I won't let you down.”

Franco put his finger to his lips. “Shssh. Don't let Jim Buckman down.”

He went back into the studios at Blossom Records with a new set of songs. He didn't write them for himself. Of the fourteen creations, painstakingly constructed on the keys of Daylight Center's console piano and late at night on the Gibson, six were meant for Nigel Whitehurst's powerful lungs, three for Kate and five for Jimmy's former band, now led by Sonny. The songs needed work. Nigel wasn't due to return to Millburn for another month, Kate was still on tour, but Sonny was eager to get started. His debut album disappointed. McCabe quietly pulled it from the stores and brought the group back from touring to find a better sound. The executive still had faith in the guitarist. He was confident that Jimmy could find the right formula. And, since touring and performing were out, the best option was to focus Jim's talent on helping others.

His return was greeted with little fanfare. Everyone smiled and welcomed him back, but no one made much of his four-month absence. The fall of one of Blossom's big three was common knowledge. It created a wall of courteous hellos and light conversation, but nothing deeper, nothing that might suggest judgment, doubt, pity or desire to know more. There was too much work to do, many new artists in the funnel.

Each morning he joined Cindy in her office with a cup of coffee to discuss the plans for the day. She was five months along and showing the full bloom of her pregnancy. Her face glowed. She had gained a little weight, cheeks fuller, legs and arms a touch thicker, but the morning sickness was over and her color was back. Cindy Crane McCabe was as beautiful as ever.

“We'll run Sonny and the others through the tracks. We can finish the mixes after the band is satisfied.”

Jimmy nodded. Cindy explored his face, looking for the man she once knew so well. He was the same in most ways, but quieter, more compliant than before. The songs were good, like the ones he wrote for Nigel in Australia, but with a harder edge, perfect for Sonny's guitar. They left the office and headed for the studios. As they came out into the sunshine, she took his hand and leaned in close. “I like the songs, Jimmy. They'll all be hits.”

He attended meetings at an AA center five blocks from his apartment. Once he felt himself slipping and called Franco. They talked for two hours. Les entered his thoughts from time to time, but not like before. He no longer felt the weight of her loss. Abstinence, sleep, exercise and better eating habits, combined with a single-minded focus on music helped. He thought about calling her parents, but it had been more than half a year since his last call. Another unsatisfying conversation was not going to help. Better to forget.

“Closure is hard to achieve.” Franco departed from his normal silence when he offered this opinion about Jimmy's relationship with Les. “Some of my former colleagues have built their whole practice around it. All those self-help books spend chapters on closure. I have my doubts. People and situations come and go. That's the way of life, fade in and fade out. Sometimes it's abrupt, sometimes it's gradual, but it happens to us all. The brain eventually finds a way to let go. Memories grow dimmer, the good remains in a kind fantasy that has little resemblance to reality. The bad is more often cast into the dustbin.”

He finally contacted George. By then McCabe had communicated the truth of his relapse. The two older men were fast friends, yet to meet in person, but conversing by telephone on a regular basis.

“Smart fella,” George commented. “Cares about you.”

Three weeks of hard work in the studio produced the first signs of the new sound McCabe wanted. Sonny and the band were excited. Jimmy found satisfaction as well. He drew energy from his new songs and the way Sonny's guitar brought them to life. Ted was experimenting with the clarinet. It worked well. Melinda did much of the vocal work. That's where the new sound emerged. She was the opposite of Kate, low with a pretty voice and a sense for the key changes that Jimmy developed just for her. C to F and then to G without a miss, blending with Sonny then drifting away as the hard electric sound of the Stratocaster took over. Nice, he thought to himself, very nice. A month or two of practice and they'd be ready to cut a better album. Take the best tracks from the original debut, add the five new songs and put out a new release. Cindy was already making the preparations.