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He doesn't know why he did it. He knows that this is normal- of course Harper misses his mother- and yet he can't find it in himself to muster that same feeling. Once, Paul loved Peggy. He doesn't know when he stopped.
He also doesn't know why his hand unconsciously reaches for the telephone. An ivory shining white met with a shaking pale grasp after several missed attempts. No one would be awake, surely.
Somewhere, deep inside of him, he knows that isn't the truth.
A muscle memory pattern of numbers and the phone starts ringing, a cutting blade through the silence of the night. Or, he should say, the morning. The world is still and dull. The room is flat and quiet. His head burrowed into his hand.
Suddenly, the silence shifts into a new static.
“...Hello who’s it..”, came a slurred response. He answered the phone. He actually answered. If Pauls’ body wasn't bound from exhaustion on the edge of his bed he would have leapt up and ran a mile around his neighbourhood.
He spoke, confident in his ears and his words. No one will know. “Yeah hi, I’m…i know its late i was..”. Oh, he has done it again. Sure, his voice shook on too many syllables, but everyone is their own inner critic, after all. No one noticed. The master of foolery, the master of a facade-
“Shit, Paul?”
Oh for goodness sake. Perhaps in his turmoil, his mind had passed the opportunity to remind him of a certain flaw in that plan of confidence; he had attempted it on Arthur Garfunkel, of all people.
Sharp scissors to his scorn, “Paul? It's 2 am.”
Right. Maybe he won't do this. He didn't like that tone of voice used on him. ‘It's 2 am.’ Oh Art, such an eye for the obvious! As if Paul hasn’t spent the past 7 hours wishing it would be the next day! How foolish of him, he seems to have missed the morning transition! His fingers tightened their grip around the phone, and he held in the sigh forming around his lips.
He can put his mask back on. A smiling reminder of his grief. He almost laughed at himself. Perhaps it was the screaming child at his feet. Perhaps it was his acceptance of it all. The ending marriage and the bottles tipping from the bins. His only reminder of their constant presence when he heard the comfortable crash of glass from the kitchen. The dishes in the sink with spaghetti sauce still on them. Shame, they were such fine ceramic, once. The often empty section of the table where Paul would still leave room for a plate for Peggy. How foolish, to think himself worth occupying the time of others.
“Sorry, mistake.” He slammed the phone down back onto the hook, missing it completely and ending up just causing a dent to now live on his bedside table. He hit his knuckles on the way down as well. Wonderful. He hoped the thing would internally combust and take the table with it. He wouldn't mind if it took him too.
With that final thought, he slid his hands into the mess of dark hair he found there. His fingers tightened and he shut his eyes tighter. His forehead was clammy and his hands were hot and sticky with regret, and sadness. Sadness for the boy he promised this wouldn’t happen to. Sadness for all he has wronged. All the people he had let down. And wasn’t that list long. Harper, Peggy, his colleagues, his friends, his brother, his mother, his father and most of all, himself.
And so Paul sat there. In an unreachable void of unreadable thoughts. A trapping cage of the one night stands and the drugs and the alcohol.
The absent husband. The absent father. The absent man from his own soul.
—
It was a distraught knocking that released him from his spiral, just enough to listen. Was it his time? An angel? Paul frowned. He wasn't so sure if he believed in that anymore. He was meant to. Yes, he was definitely meant to believe that. Paul sat lifeless in dull melancholy while he watched the angel, presumably, enter through his front door. Part of his mind questioned if it couldn't just, walk through the wood. Who was he to question the divine power of Him?
Suddenly the echoing reached an end. It seemed even the angel couldn't be bothered to stay, and who would blame it. Why, anyone else who could die at this very second was surely superior to himself-
A deafening sound of a door being open from his hallway was rather unsuspected. Upon the force of being opened, the back door slammed into the wall beside it, blowing a flurry of unopened mail into the house. There was a frantic sound of footsteps coming somewhere from the floor, and Paul was far too deep into his state of mind to figure out where they were coming from. He knew they were getting louder. He could feel the oak floor beneath him pulsing with life. Louder. Heavier. Faster.
For all of his curiosity on his visit from Him; the grim reaper? The angel? He was deemed wrong when a blurred figure emerged.
“Oh, Paul.”
Rather similarly to his own actions previously, he felt two strong hands encompass his face. They were so like his own. Shaking and pale. The figure crouched down and caught his eyes within his own. A storm of blue swallowing a hazel island.
Oh.
It wasn’t the grim reaper. It wasn't his time. He was, however, incorrect on his earlier amusings. It was an angel, after all.
“Art…”. Before he could speak, he was being guided backwards. His head leant against the wooden backboard of his bed and his angel shifted, and sat beside him. From all of the pain, and loneliness, and guilt, he finally let himself be held. Held deep within his angels’ wings. Art wrapped him softly into his arms and stroked a shaking hand through Paul's hair. From all of the pain, he finally let himself feel it. A sob escaped him and he felt Art's arms tighten around his back.
“Oh Artie, I've let everyone down.” Paul whispered wetly. “Harper is so unhappy, and Peggy rarely stays the night and I let you down, Artie. I hurt you and I hurt everyone. I hurt everyone. It doesnt…it doesn’t matter who they are, I hurt them. I can’t… I hate it, Artie. I hate it.”
Paul's rambling trailed off, and he felt as Artie gently pushed his hair off of his forehead. He felt as he placed a delicate kiss onto his temple. It lingered and danced into Paul’s soul. The darkness was lit with a halo of warmth. He didn’t deserve to be treated with such fragility. Like he mattered. Art stayed there, and whispered against him, “Shhh.. you’re alright Paul. You’re okay.” Paul’s eyes grew heavier and his thoughts foggier, before he let the soothing embrace of sleep surround him.
-
A warm ray of light filtered through his bedroom window. Dust particles danced their intricate patterns around him. Paul realised he was in his bed. His duvet was tucked around him, and there was a glass of fresh, cold water sat waiting for him on his bedside table. He reached slowly for it, and swallowed it in one breath. The glass had covered the dent. Paul placed the glass down back onto it.
The previous night slowly faded back to him, in folders of random noises and blurred lines. Peggy left him alone again with Harper for the fourth time that week. Harper kicked and screamed that he didn’t want his dad, he wanted his mother back. Paul doesn’t do the story book voices like mom does. Paul couldn’t articulate his same wish that yes, mom would stay the night, and yes, he knows he can’t do the voices. So he shouted about Harper dropping his glass of juice onto the living room floor. His juice will stain the sofa. The glass has smashed. It was a perfectly good glass. It sounded so discordant when it hit the floor. It sounded ugly. Maybe the noise reminded Paul too much of the whiskey bottles. The echo of the glass. The sobbing from Harper. The sobbing that continued until 2 am.
The desperate plea for someone, anyone to tell him what to do. To help him. The silence. The sound of the back door being thrown open. A halo of curls and an ocean of sapphire. Art had held him. Art had answered his plea.
Paul swiped a hand down his face. He was wearing his old clothes and his shirt was twisted and his jeans were too far up his legs and he was sure he was missing a sock. He willed himself to get up. Paul showered quickly, changed into new pajamas. He distantly heard his mother scold him for looking too scruffy. He told her he had nowhere to be. Paul sheepishly trudged down the stairs and craned his neck into every room for other signs of life. The kitchen door was open, but no one was there. The dishes were gone from the sink and the bin had been emptied. He continued on. Standing in his living room doorway he saw Harper sat cross legged on the shag pile carpet. He had a finished plate above him, sat on the coffee table. Paul walked hesitantly into the room. Two heads turned. Four eyes peeked his way. Artie was sat, also cross legged, on the carpet. Between the pair, were a colourful set of marbles.
“Bad idea, trying to play marbles on shag pile.”
Paul lifted his view from the marbles to Artie, who was smiling sadly. Harper laughed and began arranging the orbs on Arts’ knees, watching giddily as they sloped down his leg and plop into the carpet.
“I asked Harper what he wanted to eat, I put him to bed last night, don't worry. He said eggs, sorry about using your stuff, should’ve asked. Also I am using your, your marbles so. Sorry again.” Art stood up and mumbled something about his knees and his age. Harper kept playing. Paul swallowed both the bile in his throat, and the primal urge to give Arthur Garfunkel anything and everything he could ever ask for. He would give that man the universe if it made him smile like he used to. Paul idly wondered over to them, and Harper leapt up and hugged his legs. He babbled about the marbles grasped in his little hands. Paul placed a hand on his child’s hair, and ruffled it gently.
Paul had also noticed that Art wasn’t in his peripheral anymore. He turned around slowly, and saw him sitting on the dark orange couch. His legs were spread wide as they always were. Like he had something to prove. Paul sat himself hesitantly on the other end of the couch and made himself busy with fidgeting with the loose thread of the material fraying on the arm. Harper was back to his marbles. He hasn't lost them yet.
Paul looked over to Artie and really watched him for the first time since his rather unexpected arrival. Four years, it had been. He had done his movie. And others. They had broken contact. They had broken each other. Gone were the two innocent school children sat in Art's old bedroom. The dark brown panelling making for a good poster board. Ripped pages containing the Everlys, Elvis, and the like. Art had once said that Elvis Presley was the most handsome man he had ever seen. Paul had said he disagreed, scoffed, and ignored him for the rest of the day. Paul often sees that dark panelling in his dreams. He doesn’t want think about what it means.
“You look alright now.”
Paul turned his head to Art so quickly his neck nearly snapped off. He furrowed his eyebrows and thought about his old pajasmas he was wearing. He definitely was not a contender for Elvis.
“I mean, better. You look a bit better. Feel it?”
Paul leaned back slowly, and nodded. It was true. He hadn’t drank water in weeks. Just dissolved his thirst with the whiskey, usually. He also had slept in, his body needing it. He smiled sadly, “Thankyou. Really Artie.”
Art smiled softly and placed a hand on Paul's knee. He began to rub small circles, the movement almost willing Paul back into his drowsiness. The circles stopped after a while. The silence stopped for a while, too.
“Paul, do you want to talk?”
No.
“Do you need to talk?”
Fair do’s, Arthur.
And so, he talked. He spoke about his marriage with Peggy and the honeymoon and the hotel. He ranted about their argument on the car ride to their new home together. Paul’s eyes lit up slightly when he spoke about Harper being born. The light dimmed when he remembered the distance that began to grow between himself and Peggy. He talked about coping. The drink. The drugs he stopped. The whiskey he didn’t. He lamented about how he has wasted his life. Paul talked about his parents and his childhood house and his old friends. He seethed about his managers and the journalists. He spoke again about Harper. His school, his friends. His bedtime story’s. The voices. The warm milk and the soft giggles. He spoke about how sorry he was for him. For Peggy, the managers and the journalists. For his friends, and his family, and of course, Artie. Neither of them mentioned that he had his own category in Paul’s mind.
He stopped. He took a breath. He pulled the thread off of the couch arm. His hands dropped into his lap and Art's eyes landed onto them. He looked upwards carefully, gauging Paul’s expression. He opened his arms hesitantly. An invitation. Paul took it. He reached Art, who then began to pull them both down gently. He delicately lifted his hips. Paul laid in the space he made for him, and rested his head on Art’s chest. It ebbed and flowed, and Paul remembers all of his songs he wrote, when he told himself they were about no one in particular. They were about the air. They were poems on life itself. And yet, he had always had his muse. His singing angel. Who now, despite everything, stroked his hair, and held him like he was worth it. For this one time, Paul let himself pretend that he mattered to someone.
Paul Simon hated the world. He hated when the seasons changed. He hated the papers. He hated himself for what he had done. And yet, right now, he could begin to see where love came from.