The Julian Year Read online

  Dedicated to Adam Mock, who had faith in me to write the first TREEbook

  Published 2015 by Medallion Press, Inc., 4222 Meridian Pkwy., Suite 110, Aurora, IL 60504

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  is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.

  Copyright © 2015 by Gregory Lamberson

  Cover design by James Tampa

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress

  ISBN #9781605426136

  Part I

  The First Day of the Rest of Your Life

  “One of the illusions of life is that the present hour is not the critical, decisive hour. Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year. No man has learned anything rightly, until he knows that every day is doomsday.”

  —Ralph Waldo Emerson

  One

  On the last New Year’s Eve before everything went to hell, Julian Weizak drank a pint of Guinness at the long wooden bar in Stony’s Tavern on the Upper West Side while on TV one million cheering people waited for the Times Square Ball to drop. A round clock mounted on the brick wall ticked the countdown to what Weizak hoped would be a fresh start. God only knew that the past several months had been miserable thanks to his breakup with Lauren.

  Breakup? Interesting description. She dumped your sorry ass.

  Weizak didn’t find drinking alone on holidays depressing; after Thanksgiving and Christmas, he’d made a tradition out of it. He enjoyed this tavern’s warm glow, the mellow rock songs playing on the Wurlitzer CD jukebox, and the aroma of whiskey-soaked wood. The polished floors and brass railings made Stony’s joint brighter than a lot of other bars in the city, and leftover green and red Christmas decorations added to the festive atmosphere. Some of the younger clientele shot pool at two tables in the back.

  Dropping his gaze to the bar mirror, Weizak realized he still wore his New York Rangers hockey shirt. He hadn’t worn it on purpose; he hadn’t even planned to leave his West Ninety-fifth Street studio apartment on this cold, final night of December. The impulse to venture outside in search of other people had developed late in the evening.

  Stony wiped down the bar, his eyeglasses reflecting the glare of the ceiling fixtures. He wore a green vest with a red tie over his white shirt, just as he had on St. Paddy’s Day and Christmas. “How about a little shot?” The older man possessed a hint of an Irish accent, alleviated by thirty years of Manhattan living.

  “I can’t resist an offer from a man with a rag in his hand,” Weizak said.

  With almost palpable anticipation, Stony set two shot glasses on the bar.

  “I thought you were dry these days.”

  The pub owner filled the glasses with pale whiskey, his warm smile contradicting the craving in his eyes. “Not when the wife isn’t around.”

  Weizak raised his glass in a toast. So what if the old man tipped a few back on New Year’s? At least he was enjoying himself. The whiskey went down sweet and hot.

  “Happy New Year,” Stony said.

  Weizak stared at the empty glass. “It’s my birthday too.”

  “Really? Well, then!” Stony refilled both glasses. “Happy birthday.”

  They downed their shots, and Weizak had to admit he felt better.

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-four.” It didn’t sound so bad when he said it aloud, but it still didn’t sit well with him because he had realized few, if any, of his dreams since becoming an adult sixteen years earlier.

  Perhaps seeing the disappointment in his eyes, Stony said, “Ah, you’re a baby.” Then he moved down the bar to a waiting customer.

  He doesn’t want me to kill his buzz, Weizak thought. Sometimes he felt like a baby, with his blond hair, blue eyes, and chubby cheeks. He’d never really lost his baby fat, but the right clothes made him appear stocky.

  On the TV, Ryan Seacrest—or was it Carson Daly?—flashed bright white teeth at the camera. New Year’s Eve was one of Weizak’s least favorite holidays and only in part because it coincided with his birthday. Weizak disliked rowdy college jocks and obnoxious Wall Street hellions who drank themselves into stupidity. He preferred the company of mellow drinkers, people who had learned to live with their disappointments.

  He didn’t know how long the woman had been standing beside him, but he had noticed her across the bar earlier. How could he not? Her blonde hair whispered over her shoulders, her tight black dress emphasizing her full breasts. Weizak guessed he had ten years on her. She swayed to the Traveling Wilburys’ “Handle with Care,” a song she should have been too young to know.

  Meeting his eyes, she smiled, revealing teeth almost as white as Ryan Seacrest’s. “Hi.” She leaned closer.

  “Hello.” His polite smile felt strained.

  “My friend left without me,” she said.

  “Oh?” Was her friend male or female?

  “She got lucky.” She looked into his eyes. “Now she doesn’t have to bring in the New Year alone.”

  Weizak gestured at the crowd. “We’re not alone.”

  “You know what I mean. I don’t know any of them. I can’t talk with any of them.”

  I bet you can. “You’re talking to me.”

  She blushed. “I’m sorry. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.” He couldn’t recall the last time an attractive woman had approached him in a bar.

  She extended one hand. “I’m Cathy.”

  He shook her hand, which felt smooth and warm. “Julian.”

  “It’s nice to meet you. I guess I should go home, but I don’t want to, you know?”

  He knew. “Would you be offended if I offered to buy you a drink?”

  “No.”

  “What’s your mode of transportation?”

  “I’ll have what you’re having.”

  Weizak could no longer ignore the signals she radiated as clearly as the RKO tower at the beginning of an old black-and-white movie. Motioning to Stony, he made a circular gesture with one finger, and the tavern owner nodded. Weizak slid off his stool and motioned to it. “Please sit.”

  “Thank you.” Cathy sat down, and Weizak hoped his admiration for her figure wasn’t too obvious.

  Leaning on the bar, he nodded at the TV. “Why aren’t you down there?”

  “Why aren’t you?” She emphasized each word in a good-natured mocking tone. At least he hoped it was good-natured. His inquisitive mind loved a mystery.

  Stony set two pints on the bar, and Weizak gave him a ten-dollar bill. Winking, Stony sauntered over to the cash register.

  “Don’t you love him?” Cathy said.

  So this wasn’t her first visit here. “Yeah, he’s great.” He said it in such a way as to make her wonder if he was being sarcastic, just in case she loved mysteries too.

  They sipped their dark beer.

  “You’re not married, are you?” Cathy said.

  Now we’re getting somewhere. “No, I’ve never had the pleasure. You?”

  She waved her naked fingers in the air. “Always a bridesmaid . . . What do you do?”

  “I sell cars.” His stomach tightened. Why had he just lied? Because it sounds better than the truth.

  “Oh.” There was a hint of approval in her voice. “I’m the receptionist a
t a medical office. It pays the bills.”

  The other patrons chanted, “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”

  Weizak glanced at the TV as the incandescent ball descended to Times Square.

  “. . . seven . . . six . . . five . . .”

  He returned his attention to Cathy, who stared at him.

  “. . . four . . . three . . . two . . .”

  Harboring no illusion that he stood a chance at a relationship with her, Weizak hoped he could at least get her drunk enough to sleep with him once.

  “. . . one . . .”

  She leaned forward and kissed him.

  “Happy New Year!”

  Noisemakers blared around them.

  Cathy pulled back, a half smile on her lips and confetti in her hair. She sipped her Guinness, and Weizak knew they were going to sleep together.

  The New Year was off to a great start.

  Weizak held the front door open for Cathy, and as they stepped out into the cold a siren wailed in the distance. The sound’s familiarity comforted him despite its implications.

  New York, he thought.

  Cathy grabbed his arm, which he moved around her shoulder.

  “I’m only two blocks away,” he said. Two long blocks in the cold.

  As they crossed Broadway a second siren joined the first, both growing louder, and Weizak realized the vehicles approached from opposite directions. A third police cruiser sped by them, its strobes flashing and siren screeching.

  “It must be a full moon tonight,” Cathy said.

  “Meet the new year, same as the old year.”

  The sidewalk sloped down, and they passed the Columbia, a thirty-two-story condominium building that dwarfed Weizak’s five-story walk-up. A fire horn stitched the night, followed by the bleep-bleep of an ambulance. More police sirens filled the air. Weizak was glad when they reached his building.

  “I’m on three,” he said as they climbed the narrow stairway, their shadows darkening the brick walls.

  In the upstairs hallway, the ceiling fluorescents cast unhealthy-looking light over the dingy sky-blue walls and white stucco ceiling.

  Weizak unlocked his door, turned on the inside light, and held the door open for Cathy. “Mi casa es su casa.”

  Cathy walked in ahead of him. Following her, he closed and locked the door. An Oriental rug covered the hardwood floor, and track lighting illuminated a single painting on one wall. Cathy took off her coat and handed it to him, and he hung it in the closet. She passed the futon he used for a bed. At least he had picked up earlier. Bending over, she studied the contents of his bookcase, and he studied the contents of her black dress.

  “Hunter S. Thompson, Woodward and Bernstein, Richard Wolffe . . .” She looked over her shoulder at him. “Are you sure you’re a car salesman?”

  He felt himself turning red. Okay, she was no bimbo. “It sounded more glamorous than the truth.”

  “Which is?”

  “I write obituaries for the Daily Post.”

  “You’re a reporter?”

  “That’s being generous.”

  Straightening her back, she turned toward him. The sensuality of each movement seemed calculated, not that he minded. “Why would you think selling cars would impress me more than writing for a daily newspaper?”

  “Car salesmen make more money than obituary writers do. So do used-car salesmen. Women like cars. Nobody likes obituaries. My profession is a dead end—pardon the pun. A constant reminder that I never became what I wanted to be.”

  “Did you want to be a muckraking journalist?”

  “See? You make a better reporter than I do. I imagine that writing obituaries is comparable to working in a funeral home. It takes a certain set of skills, and people need the service, but no one exactly embraces it.”

  She turned her body at an angle that showcased her finer attributes. “Put the right music on and I’ll embrace you.”

  Weizak appreciated Cathy’s forthright nature and liked even more that they had moved on from his career. Attempting to walk straight, he went to his iPod station and pressed the options on the screen. He selected Achtung Baby by U2 and the song “Even Better Than the Real Thing.”

  When he turned back to his guest, she bopped her head and danced in his direction, her body moving in a manner he wished to see unobstructed by fabric. He concluded she was older than she looked.

  Cathy slid her palms up his chest and wrapped one around the back of his neck, pulling his mouth to hers. When they stopped kissing, Weizak switched off the lights but opened the blinds, allowing the city’s glow to illuminate the room. They undressed in front of each other, and Weizak found himself as aroused by her taut stomach as her large breasts and shaved pubic hair. He tried not to worry about what she thought of his physique.

  They moved to the futon, climbed under the covers, and rubbed their feet against each other. She kissed him again and they made out to “One.” Weizak caressed her wet spot and Cathy spread her legs. He teased her with his erection, and she pulled him inside her. As Weizak rode her, he tried to ignore the sirens that continued nonstop and focus on the music.

  Whenever he thought of Cathy in the months that followed, he pictured the rapturous look on her face during Bono’s crooning of “Until the End of the World.”

  Two

  Marcus Daniels shivered as he watched the bright glowing ball descend One Times Square. He had hoped that the stage lights and one million bodies crammed into the neon-soaked square would generate enough heat to fight off the cold, but standing outside for almost eight hours had taken its toll. He wore layers of clothes and a knit ski cap beneath his hoodie, but the frigid temperature had invaded his body and chilled his bones, and his toes and gloved fingertips ached. That was okay, though, because Shyla pressed against him for warmth. He was enduring it for her because she was his girl.

  They were the same age and had attended high school together. Two years after graduation, Marcus worked as a security guard in a downtown office building populated by law firms, and Shyla worked for one of those firms as a clerk. It had taken months of effort for Marcus to convince the beautiful young woman to go out with him. She made it clear that she was looking for someone serious about his future, and she had strong recollections of his rambunctious behavior in school.

  Her stance had forced Marcus to change up his game several times, but he had kept at it, winning her favor. He had taken it slow with her, so she knew he was after more than just her body. They attended movies and concerts and got to know each other’s families. And they had shared their first kiss at a New Year’s Eve party in her mother’s apartment.

  Now, one year later, they were not only lovers but in love, and Marcus carried a diamond ring in his pocket. He had saved up for the down payment for almost six months.

  So far, everything had been perfect tonight. The musical acts had been hot, the TV hosts lively, and the crowd jovial, with no troublemakers in sight, just a sea of people bathed in the colorful lights of Times Square.

  As the glowing ball descended the twenty-five-story skyscraper, Marcus could barely contain his excitement. New Year’s Day was Shyla’s birthday, and in just a few moments he hoped to give her the biggest surprise of her life. She was in great spirits, singing and dancing as best as she could in her bulky winter garb.

  The crowd counted down, their voices unintelligible, but Marcus heard Shyla’s joyous voice clearly: “. . . three . . . two . . . one . . . Happy New Year!”

  The crowd’s roar grew deafening. Streamers and confetti filled the sky, illuminated by sweeping spotlights.

  Marcus and Shyla leaned closer at the same time, kissing, and Marcus tasted her sweet tongue and smelled her perfume. She pressed against him, and he felt her exhaling as she stood on tiptoe, throwing her arms around him. After the kiss, they embraced. When Shyla settled back on her heels Marcus removed his gloves, unzipped his coat pocket, and took out the ring box.

  Shyla stared at the felt-covered box for a moment,
unblinking.

  Marcus opened the box, his fingers trembling from more than the cold, revealing the ring inside. Gold gleamed and diamond sparkled.

  Shyla covered her mouth with both hands and jumped up and down. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”

  Swallowing, he summoned the words he had been waiting to utter. “Will you marry me?”

  “Oh, God, yes!”

  Removing the ring with one hand, Marcus used the other to return the case to his pocket. “Give me your hand.”

  With tears streaming from her eyes, Shyla held out her left hand.

  Marcus slid the ring onto her finger. “There, it’s official now. We’re engaged.”

  Shyla threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. It was a different kind of kiss than he had ever experienced before.

  My girl, he thought. It was all so surreal, like the crowd was cheering for them.

  Shyla wiped the tears from her eyes. “I love you so much.”

  “I love you.”

  She gazed at the ring. “It’s beautiful . . .”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  Shyla stiffened, the expression draining from her face. Her eyes widened, and she cupped one hand around her mouth.

  “What is it, baby?”

  Her face turned pale and she doubled over, spreading her arms wide. A stream of hot vomit drenched Marcus from his sternum to his crotch, a foul odor rising with the steam.

  “Oh, shit!” a blonde woman said a few feet away. Then she laughed.

  Shyla sank to her knees and heaved vomit all over Marcus’s white sneakers, which lost their luster.

  People moved away, clearing a circle around Shyla.

  Getting down on one knee, Marcus set a hand on the small of her back. “What’s wrong?”

  She looked up at him, her eyes half shut and her lips parted. Except for the white vomit around her mouth, she appeared drunk, even though they hadn’t been drinking, and aroused.