"William Lynch"
by Michael Dell


CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It was Friday afternoon.  William found himself alone in his apartment.  The TV was off.  He
was sitting on the edge of his couch staring intently at the phone on the floor in front of him. 
Beside the phone, to the left, was the paper with Mr. Weaver's number.  Its role was needless. 
The number had been burned to memory.  

William had been motionless for several minutes when he suddenly lashed out and seized the
receiver with extreme purpose.  He pressed it firmly against his right ear and began to stab the
first two digits of the number before stopping short and slamming the receiver back onto its
perch.  Luckily, the phone could take the abuse.  It was a sturdy black and grey standard issue. 
William always liked it because the gang at "Cheers" had an identical one behind the bar.  

"Is Mr. Weaver there?" practiced William nervously.  That wouldn't work.  "Uh, yeah, is Mr.
Weaver there?"  He sometimes found it more effective to stammer a bit.  It showed casual
sincerity.  Then there was the polite route.  "May I please speak with Mr. Weaver?"  Nothing
seemed quite right.  He decided to just wing it.  He usually performed well under pressure.  He
picked up the phone.  

His heart began to beat a bit faster.  This time five buttons were pressed before the attempt was
aborted.  The progress did little to encourage him.

William snapped to his feet and began barging about the room.  "Just make the fuckin' call!" was
his personal pep talk.  He stomped his way to the bathroom mirror.  "Make the fuckin' call!"  He
marched back to the living room and planted himself on the couch.  After taking a deep breath,
he once again pulled the receiver to his ear.  It was now or never.  

He hesitated.  His left hand fell deathly still over the waiting numbered buttons.  Now was
passing quickly.  He hung up a third time.  It was never.

For a split second, anger flashed through his mind and he considered firing the phone across the
room and screaming obscenities at the top of his lungs.  But he wasn't one for theatrics.  He
merely ripped the phone from the wall and beat the hell out of it while skipping the obscenities
part.  Sliding back onto the couch, William realized what his failure meant.  And somehow the
rage was replaced by an overwhelming sense of relief.  He reached for the remote control.  It
was 2:30.  "McMillan and Wife" was on.

Some nine hours later William was once again sharing Meghan's bed.  There wasn't quite so
much emotion included in the usual nightly activities.  It seemed as though both their minds
were elsewhere.  Neither one noticed.  Upon conclusion, they were left lying side-by-side staring
at the ceiling.  Silence.  It was very reminiscent of their first time together; except on this
occasion, they both had things they wanted to say, that they needed to say, but were too scared to
voice.   

William turned his head to look at Meghan.  She did the same.  They both smiled and then
returned to gazing at the ceiling.  It was a waiting game, each one trying to fill their own
personal reservoir of courage.  Several more moments passed before Meghan finally stepped
from the ledge.  

"He'll be home tomorrow," she said, the words splintering the air like a hammer.  

William waited for the shrapnel to fall before responding.  "Did he like Buffalo?"

"Yeah."

"That's good."

The conversation took a needed intermission.  Meghan regrouped and started again.

"I'm thinking about having a talk with him."  William didn't offer anything in the way of a reply. 
She continued.  "I think I might break it off with him."

William was hoping it wouldn't come to this.  He thought somehow, someway, the situation
would pleasantly resolve itself without any emotional confrontations.  If he ignored them, things
would merely fade away.  Now that wasn't going to happen.  He was going to have to risk
hurting her.  And he never wanted to hurt her.  At least no more than was required.    

He knew what he had to say next, yet the line wrapped its way around his throat and rendered
him momentarily mute.  Meghan wasn't expecting such an extended pause.  William could feel
her looking at him as he began to form his response.  

"Are you sure that's something you really want to do?" he asked, never taking his eyes from the
ceiling.

"Don't you think I should?"

"I'm just not sure it would be the best thing for you."

Meghan returned her focus in the direction of the heavens.  "What are you trying to tell me?" 

William closed his eyes.  He dug deep and did what he knew was right.  "I think you should stay
with Mark."  

There was no reaction.  He slowly turned to look at Meghan.  She was still staring upwards,
showing no signs of movement at all.  She had to have heard what he said.  It would be
impossible for William to repeat the words.  He gave her ample opportunity to say something
before attempting to elaborate on his point.        

"It's the best thing for you..."

Meghan snapped up and nearly bore a hole through him with a furious stare.  "Don't you think I
know what's best for myself?"

William eased himself up with his arms and rested his back against the headboard.  "You have to
understand, I can't give you anything.  He can take care of you."

"I can take care of myself," she fired back.

"With me you'd have to.  And you deserve better than that.  Look at me.   I'm nothing.   I'm
nobody.  I don't have money.  I don't have a job..."

"You could get a job," interrupted Meghan.

"No, I couldn't." 

"Why not?  You don't have to quit painting.  You could just get something part time and paint on
the side."

"It's not me.  That's not who I am.  I can't be like everyone else.  I just can't."  

"I don't think you could ever be like anyone else even if you tried.  And whether we're together
or not, you're going to need money eventually.  You're going to have to get a job sometime."

"And then what?  Say I do get a job, and then what?"

"Knock it off!"

"No, seriously, and then what?  There's just no point to it."

"Don't talk like that.  I don't like it when you talk like that."

"I'm sorry.  But I just can't do it."

"You did it before."

"I had to for my art."

"You won't do it now for me?  For us?"

"Of course I'd do it for you.  I'd do anything for you.  But is that what you really want?  I'd no
longer be me.  Would you still like me if I was like everyone else?  I wouldn't be happy.  You
wouldn't be happy.  No one would be happy."

She wasn't sure what to say.  Her perfect posture was a memory.  She appeared broken, her body
hanging limp with defeat and her eyes doing little to hide her emotions.  "Why don't you just tell
me the truth?"

"That is the truth," assured William.  "I just don't want you to make a mistake you'll regret 
for the rest of your life.  Promise me you won't do anything with Mark until you think this 
thing through completely."

"I already have."

"Make sure.  Take this weekend to make sure.  Spend time with him and make sure.  And we'll
talk on Monday.  But don't break it off with Mark until we talk again.  Promise me you won't
break it off with him until we talk again."

"Why not?"

"Just promise me you won't."

She didn't say anything.  William reached out and took her hands in his.  She grudgingly allowed
him to pull her towards him.  He nestled her at his right side, joining his arms around her.  "My
life is never going to get any better than it's been the past couple weeks.  You know you're the
one.  You were always the one.  You'll always be the one."  He kissed her on the forehead.  

She pushed back from him and asked, "Then what's the problem?  Either you do or you don't."

"It's not that simple."

"Tell me why."

"You know I do.  It's not a question of that."

"Then what?  What is it?"

"There's just something... there's something I... I just want you to be sure.  Think about it this
weekend and we'll talk on Monday.  Promise me you won't break it off with him until we talk
again.  You have to promise me."

"I still don't see why that's important."  She turned her back to him.  "My mind's made up. 
You're the one who seems uncertain."

"You're the only thing I've ever felt certain about."

She spun back around to face him.  "Then why don't you want to be with me?"  

"Believe me, there's nothing I want more.  You have to believe that.  I just don't want you to
make a mistake."

"Do you really hate yourself so much that you can't imagine someone else loving you?  Is that
what this is about?"

He wanted to tell her then and there, but he couldn't.  He was doing the right thing.  
In his mind, he kept assuring himself that he was doing the right thing.  When her 
question received no answer, Meghan, feeling she had found the root of the argument, returned 
to the comfort of his arms.  "I promise I'll be sure," she relented.  "I promise I won't 
do anything until we talk on Monday.  If that's all it will take to convince you, I'll gladly 
do it.  But I'll feel the same.  I'll always feel the same."

She could have sworn she heard him whisper "I love you."  But she wasn't sure.  Not wanting to
spoil the moment, she never moved her head from his shoulder and merely closed her eyes and
smiled.  Whether he had said it or not wasn't important.  She knew it was true.  

And so William held her.  He felt her fall asleep in his arms, contented and proud, and he held
her.  He never wanted to let go.  But when Meghan woke up the next morning, William was
gone.