Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [70]
Eddie was seated at his favorite table in the far corner, underneath a billowing canopy of purple cotton fabric. He waved to Lee as he entered.
“How’s it goin’, Boss?” he said, popping a piece of golden, crispy pappadam into his mouth. Eddie was in a good mood. But then, Eddie was always in a good mood in public—or pretending to be.
“Okay,” Lee said, taking a seat across from him. “How are you doing?”
“Oh, just great. You know me—I always land on my feet.”
Lee knew that wasn’t true; a suicide attempt had put Eddie in the bed next to his at St. Vincent’s. Eddie had slashed both wrists and lay on his bed in an SRO hotel, waiting to die. He hadn’t bled out, though, when his neighbor at the Windermere Hotel found him. When Lee met him, his wrists were still heavily bandaged, and he was on daily doses of Haldol.
Lee must have glanced down at Eddie’s wrists involuntarily, because Eddie looked at him sharply.
“Somethin’ wrong, Boss?”
“No, I was just thinking.”
“Yeah? About what?”
“About how circumstances bring people together. I mean, if you hadn’t been my roommate at St. Vincent’s, we wouldn’t both be sitting here.”
It was only after Lee played his words back in his head that he realized the implication of what he had just said: one or both of them might be dead.
“Coupla nut cases, that’s what we are. I’ll have the vindaloo, extra spicy,” Eddie said to the approaching waiter without missing a beat.
The waiter wrote on his notepad and turned to Lee. “And you, sir?” He was a slim, handsome Indian man with very dark skin and a thatch of glistening black hair.
“I can never resist a good chicken kurma,” Lee said, closing the menu. “Thanks.”
“Very good, sir,” the waiter replied. He picked up the menus and withdrew into the kitchen. Indian waiters were always so courteous they made Lee think of the days of the British Raj, when exaggerated manners and politeness covered a desire to murder the occupying white regime.
After the waiter had gone, Eddie leaned into Lee, his voice quieter.
“You, uh, been having them again?”
“What?”
“You know—urges.” Eddie meant suicidal thoughts, but he never used those words, as if saying them would make it too real.
“No, not lately—thank God,” Lee answered. He looked at Eddie. “How about you?”
“Naw…I’m fit as a fiddle!” Eddie responded a little too vigorously. “Strong as an ox, this boy.”
As if to prove it, he gave a sharp smack to his stomach with his open hand. His belly, while thick, did look hard. Lee didn’t believe him, though, and sensed an even greater restlessness in Eddie today—a disquieting, reckless energy.
“Are you taking your lithium?”
“Sure I am!” Eddie shot back, a little too fast. Lee was concerned, but didn’t want to press his luck. Something told him that if he lingered on Eddie’s mental health, his friend would shut down completely. Eddie was a great listener, and they had shared many things during that bleak week in St. Vincent’s. Eddie was comfortable playing the role of confidant, but getting him to talk about his own problems was another thing. He liked being in control—in fact, he had let his bipolar disorder deteriorate because he enjoyed the manic phases too much. During that week in St. Vincent’s, Eddie had talked about the feeling of freedom, energy, and power, the sweet illusion of omnipotence. It was seductive, and it wasn’t hard to see how someone like Eddie could get used to weathering the depressive phases of his disease just so he could get back to the heady whirlwind of the manic state.
“Look, I think I got somethin’ for you,” Eddie said as he wolfed down the last of the pappadam.
“So you said.”
“Oh, not that thing I called about the other day—that turned out to be nothin’. But this I think is really something.”
“What is it?”
“A guy. A guy who may have seen somethin’.”
“Yeah? This guy—who is he?”
Eddie looked around the restaurant as though checking for spies, but the only