Alexander's Gift

The Maverick- 3

1946

Three jarring knocks on the front door sent Monty reluctantly up from his bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he shuffled through the hallway and the living room. He had known Will was dropping by to see his flat today, but he had stayed up until 2 last night, so he hadn't especially felt like getting up early.

Jerking open the door to reveal a shocked Will, he just gave him a nod with an accidental yawn before going into the kitchen to make coffee. Will tentatively entered the apartment as if he was walking into a war zone and gaped around in awe. "What-" He began, looking at the carpeted living room devoid of furniture, unless he counted the cardboard boxes stacked to the ceiling that had yet to be unpacked. His dismayed eyes landed on Clift gulping down a carton of milk in the kitchen that hardly seemed bigger than a closet, with him still in his striped pajamas.

"Why did you get this dump? And-and why haven't you unpacked yet? It's been three weeks, and you haven't even had to go to work yet!" Will finally managed in bemused exasperation, and Monty turned to him with a foam-lipped grin. "Don't be such a snob. In case you haven't noticed, I'm the only person living here. I don't need a four-bedroom house like you think you do." The sharp words would have been taken with offense if they had come from anyone other than Monty. But as it was, he said everything sleepily and with a lazy grin.

Will shook his head in resignation and pulled out a rolled-up newspaper from his coat. "Listen, Mon . . . I picked up yesterday's paper and they had an article on you, so I thought you should hear it." He said it all rather hesitantly, and Monty's heart dropped when realized what that meant. His brows lifted, and his eyes roamed the kitchen nervously as he said, "Alright, then, read it."

"Well . . . the headline reads, 'Brooks Vallen's Son Bedridden with Crippling Depression.'" He stopped guiltily, but Monty's face held no emotion, so he continued: "It's been six months since the President of the nation's biggest railroad died of heart failure, and the eyes of the country have turned expectantly to his eldest son, Montgomery, who will take over as President of Vallen Railroad. However, onlookers have become increasingly impatient as Montgomery hasn't made a single public appearance. Personal informants have told us that he took his father's death very hard and has been confined to bed ever since."

Will folded the paper and looked up at him sympathetically. Monty chewed the inside of his lip silently for a moment, and then exhaled loudly through his nose. "Isn't that something? They don't know me at all!" He strode past Will with a hard expression, coffee forgotten, back into his bedroom. He'd heard about this too many times to be seriously hurt anymore, having grown up as the Brooks Vallen's son. But it still irked him to no end. He had been intentionally avoiding the press, but not because he was depressed. What personal informant? They had none! Over the years, he'd learned that most writers didn't need an interview to write about him.

"You're right, but I don't think we can tell them that. It does stink, but it's just gossip." With a barely suppressed look of disapproval, Will followed Monty into the bedroom, the only place in the house fully put together, with wall-to-wall bookshelves and a bed with a striped quilt matching his pajamas. Not at all Will's style, but it served its purpose for Monty.

"I know- listen, why- why don't you let me know what's been going on at the railroad? I've only got a few more days til I've got to be in the office, and I know you've been down there a lot recently." He lay down at the head of his bed resignedly, with legs hanging off the side. Will sat beside him and shook his head in mock offense. "I should've known you'd use me like that instead of doing your own damn research."

"Well? Are you gonna help me or not?"

"I'll help ya, I'll help ya. Just give me a second to think . . . Well, let me see . . . they've got a new steel manufacturer- no, that's not important. Oh yes, I remember now! They're thinking of converting the railroad into being almost exclusively freight. You see, we wanted to keep the press's nose out of the fact that we're achin' a little for money, so that's why no one knows, of course, but going freight would fix all the railroad problems easy." Will turned to Monty, pleased with himself, and Monty found it passingly odd that everything had been said rather matter-of-factly, without a hint of personal investment. To Monty, the deal sounded straight-forward, but he'd rather take a trip down to see how things were running at least once before making any major decisions.

###

It was hopeless. Monty had tried for nearly two hours to fall asleep and had found himself waking up every ten minutes- thirty if he was lucky- and every time  found his mind racing in a dozen directions at once without his permission.

He switched on the bedside lamp for the final time in bitter defeat. He knew he wouldn't get a wink of sleep as long as he was still torturing himself over his father's death. To be honest, he just wasn't sure what to feel.

He remembered the moment he first heard the news, and what he felt. A passing moment of shock, and then . . . nothing. He searched desperately for something, because he was supposed to feel something, and he found . . . relief. He felt like a psychopath, feeling relief that his own father dead!

But it was honestly confusing for Monty . . . one part of him was in miserable disbelief that he'd never see him again, never talk to him again; but another side- the dominant side- was glad because he wouldn't have the terrible pressure on his chest all day every day. Only . . . the pressure wasn't entirely gone. So not only was he an unfeeling monster, but it didn't end up doing anything for him.

He hated the mounting feeling within him that constricted his throat, and he lit a Lucky. It didn't help much except to serve as a distraction. Sometimes it soothed his nerves, other times . . . not so much.

Another ten minutes passed, and Monty felt like crying as it seemed the night would never end. He climbed over his bed to the bookshelf, his thin pajama shirt clinging to his back with sweat. He distractedly picked up "Pride and Prejudice", a favorite he would never admit to anyone.

Five pages in, he paused and realized he had no idea what he had just read. With a frustrated exhalation of smoke, Monty snapped the book shut and, shuddering, leapt up to brew a pot of coffee.