A week can be pretty weak. It depends on what a person spends their time doing. If they’re taking rodeo riding lessons in Oregon, or camping out in a tent in the Sierra Nevada’s, a week can last a lifetime. However, this week had the opposite effect on Sky. She came to see her city, and loved every minute of it. Charlie and Tabitha made it fun. She was glad to spend some time with her friends. Luanne and Maxwell were generous and cordial, but now she was leaving again. The idea of going back to New York was nice, but the realization that she was leaving without contacting her family caused her to experience stomach cramps.
Saturday morning arrives without hesitation. Sky packs her suitcase with freshly laundered clothes. She zips the baggage closed. “Too bad we didn’t get a chance to drop in on my mom, huh? I’m sure she would have been thrilled to see me. I’m so popular in that house. I wonder if my brother’s still live there. Zeke was talking about moving to Florida for college last time I talked to him. Manny probably moved in with his girlfriend Lisa by now, and he probably took his dog ‘Bits’ with him.” She pushes out a breath of laughter at the thought. “You know he named the dog Bits because he thought that it was funny to call him back into the house. When he yelled ‘Here Bits!’ It sounded like he was saying ‘Here Bitch.’ My family has a history of giving strange names to animals. We had a cat named Wobbles, and a gold fish named Fluffy. Of course, my dad named the cat and the goldfish. I guess that his sense of humor rubbed off on my brother’s more than it did with me. I would probably name a dog Spot or Bandit. You might think that I would be more creative, but no. Maybe it’s just that rebellious part of me. I have always refused to try and out do anything that my family members have done. I always just ended up looking stupid in the end anyway. Why bother when you know that you can’t possibly compete.”
“Oh honey, I know you must feel like shit right now. I’ve been worried about you all week. I had a feeling that you were thinking about your family. I didn’t want to mention it because I felt like that would be adding insult to injury. Are you going to be okay? Is there anything that I can do to make you feel better? If it helps, I love you.” She stands behind Sky and wraps her arms around the girl’s chest, resting her forehead in between Sky’s shoulder blades.
“I love you bunches, and I want to take you home with me. We can get a dog if you want. You can name him Spot, Bandit, or even Rex. We can get a dachshund named Slayer, or a cat named Dog if that’s what will make you happy. Anything for you, honey.”
The warmth in Charlie’s voice is comforting to Sky, and she almost misses the subtlety of the woman’s words. Reality sets in right between her eyes. “What do you mean we? I don’t live with you, and you can’t have pets in your apartment. Which is ironic because you are a vet.”
“I mean that I want you to move in with me. We can get a new apartment that allows pets. I think that I’ll be able to afford to move sometime in the fall. What do you think? Do you think that we could live together, despite our extreme differences?” The words leave her throat with remarkable ease. She hadn’t planned this for very long, but somehow it just felt right. Sky should be with her always. That is just the way that it needed to be in her mind, and more importantly, in her heart. Sky is her lover, and her soul mate.
“Well, it worked out this past week. We’ve been together for eight months now, and by the time we found a place…okay. That is, if you’re sure that you want me invading your space on a daily basis. You do know that I’ll expect a lot of sexual attention. I am a complete fiend you know? I’ll be chasing you around the kitchen table all of the time.” The girl speaks as though her girlfriend may suddenly take it back and change her mind about the whole thing. Sky uses sarcasm to protect herself when she’s feeling vulnerable. She hasn’t felt this level of vulnerability in a long time.
Laughter builds in Charlie’s chest. “I know that you’re a sex fiend. Why do you think that I like you so much? I have analyzed the pros and cons of spending every waking moment with the porn queen, but it’s too late. I love you despite the fact that you’re a piglet.”
Sky swings around to face Charlie, imitating a look of complete astonishment at the very accusation. “Fuck you! I’ve never heard you complain before. Just because you’re too much of a chicken to buy your own porn, that doesn’t make me the piglet. You like it just as much as I do. Don’t even lie like that. Big fibber! That’s probably why you want me to move in with you, so you don’t have to buy any filth on your own. I’m just your middle-man. Now I get it!”
Charlie kisses Sky softly on the lips. “Yes, that’s it. You got me there. I only want you to live with me so that I don’t have to purchase my own smut. I tried to make up other reasons like loving you, or wanting to be with you, but you saw right through my little charade. Can’t get anything past you. Are you a member of the C.I.A? You’ve been tapping my phone haven’t you?”
Sky crinkles up her nose and growls at her lover. She lunges forward, grabbing the woman on either side of her ribs. Charlie can’t stand being tickled. She begs Sky to stop, but the girl is insistent upon revenge. Sky pushes Charlie on the bed and continues to tickle her until she is forced to laugh out loud, and pull her knees up in defense. “Had enough? I got a whole bunch more where that came from. Ha Ha…Thought you could mess with me did ya?”
“Okay, okay I’ve had enough! You’re not a piglet. You’re not a piglet. Let me up.”
New York lives in four stages, four elements, four states of mind. Seasons are bookmarks in the folds of memory’s pages, marking the points of light and sorrow on the year’s calendar with bold checks from a red inked pen.
Autumn creeps in on cooling breezes. She slinks from solar eclipse to lunar shadow, seducing leaves into abandoning their chlorophyll until the hills blend into hues of gold, scarlet, yellow, and burnt orange. Bushes of fire add points of bright plumage to wrestle with tarnished silver clouds. Wispy raked strings of bleached cosmic dust that stream across the late summer sky are replaced with puffy drab cotton, pregnant with an unpredictable amount of fledgling snowflakes.
Winter is often discourteous in her approach. She leaps into a room with two heavy feet crashing to the hardening soil. A dominatrix of unparalleled power, demanding that her fertile army of clouds labor into the beginning months of spring. The first snow babies born to a clan of watchful mothers that hover between the air that we breathe and the sun’s warming glow. Winter months bring a generic brand of death to the gardens of the Northeast corner of America, slowly smothering all living things into frozen compost. Trees bare their fleshy underbellies for the relentless whippings of frigid wind. Their spindly black snarled arms reaching out and up in pleading prayer for the protection of lush clothing.
Spring is a mistress, the illusive and aloof calendar girl of every adolescent’s passionate dreams. She is beautiful and fleeting like the first love in youth. Her body a model of even temperate proportions, pleasing to the senses of all who appreciate what is grand in the world. She carries the hopes of mankind across the planes of deserted hearts. The whole of human joy and pleasure sits atop the palms of spring’s delicate feminine hands. Realistic fantasies and fantastic realities exist in the spectrum of her carefully crafted rainbows. This mistress is a mistress because she refuses to marry. She teases and seduces without the bounds of commitment, divorcing herself from heartbroken mortal mates in a heedless annulment. She disperses as misty tears, leaving as quickly as she arrives. Her fully bloomed children wave good bye, having grown their own protective thorns.
Summer is the sister of spring, and she is anything but delicate. A feisty lusty wench that follows through with springs insincere promises of heated passion. Spring is the sweet virginal girl next door, and summer is her whore of a twin. Her descent is not subtle, and her heat has made an early appearance this year. Humidity builds from zero to ninety in less than a day at times, mixing hot bodies with rising tempers until the heavens gather beads of sweat into sweet release in the atmosphere. Twenty-four hours of stillness turns to seventy two. Every blistering moment that passes adds a new number to the odometer of psychological warfare, mileage on the urban soul. Pheromones leaking into the environment. The venomous stimulant that makes people behave as animals. Exhaustion from hunger, and lethargy from thirst putting lowly humans in their place. A sip of satisfying raindrops, or a distraction from flesh bound pain is all that a body can think of in its primal state. As though God were playing a cruel joke on his marionettes, sending forth the extremes of wrath and the limits of righteousness in a display too vindictive to deny. Thunderstorms are the only relief, the orgasm of a smoldering city in the throws of July. Clouds swelling to their breaking point, building and building until they burst into tears from frustration. Even the vault of heaven is pushed to the very limits of tolerance, and the edge of sanity.
The four seasons of Earthly delights and human suffering exist in this place. One extreme overlapping the next until they melt together into a decipherable chain of events. California has no such luxury. Steady warm climates produce no significant measure of time past. Eighty degrees in December and eighty degrees in August although delightful, can become tedious and mind numbing.
New York summers give a whole new meaning to the word humid. Most of the state is saturated with freezing slush for seven months out of the year, a rainbow of delicious leaves for two, and with slimy sweat for the other three. Instant hot, that’s how the summers work in this city.
This July morning is just waking up. The steamy breath from summer’s sultry lungs is just beginning to drift in through the metal netting of Charlie’s kitchen window screen. The temperature outside has reached a peak of seventy-six degrees before the clock hands circle to ten.
Charlie can’t complain. She loves New York. It is a place of colorful weather and of colorful people. Being trapped indoors for so many months out of the year builds character, and New Yorkers are characters for sure. She sits at the kitchen table, going through the mosaic of yesterday’s mail. “Bill, bill, junk, junk, dentist appointment next Friday, I may already be a winner! I never get any good mail. No one loves me. Okay, maybe the credit card company cares. They send me love letters all the time.”
Sky stands with the small of her back against the counter. Her left palm curved around her hip. Her legs crossed at the ankle. She reaches into her pocket to retrieve a new pack of cigarettes, extracting the first filtered delicacy by pinching it between two fingers. Flammable liquid pours over the clear plastic barrier in the middle of the lighter as she ignites the flint with a flick of her thumb. Trails of blue smoke reach for the ceiling from burning tobacco and smooth white paper. The sweet embrace of nicotine curls itself around her teeth and throat before ripping the flesh of her newly healed lungs back, exposing the deep and hungry need for instant gratification.
Charlie stands and turns quickly when the sound of the sparking lighter travels to her eardrums. Her heart is instantly shocked with one part surprise and one part disappointment. “You haven’t smoked in a week. I thought you quit.”
Flaking white ashes peel away from a smoldering red core. Sky exhales, forcing smoke to inhabit the space surrounding her. “Shut up and get over here. I’ve been thinking about you all morning. I might blush about it if I had any shame at all, but I don’t. Lucky for you.”
“Oh I get it. That’s why you’re smoking again. You do realize that associating nicotine with sex could lead to health problems. If you really wanted to quit we would have to stay away from each other forever. I guess everyone has their little fetishes. You’re a peculiar little vixen aren’t you?” She slides her arm around the middle of Sky’s back, trapping the girl’s hand at her hip.
Sky holds the cigarette away from Charlie’s face, extending her arm past the flaxen mane of the woman’s hair. Careful not to set her beloved ablaze. She aches for Charlie’s touch, to feel the heat from familiar flesh, but begging is completely out of the question. Luring proved to be more effective in her experience. Making a woman want her was far easier than admitting that she wanted anything.
Unlike Sky’s language, her body cannot feign disinterest. Her nerve endings respond instinctively to her woman’s advances much like a lion would react to hunger pains. In opposition to her instincts, she maintains her distance. All the while feeling contempt for every saturated air molecule between them. “Yes, I suppose that I am peculiar. What can I say?”
Charlie pushes her body closer to the girl. Her heart skipping beats and creating artistic rhythms. Brushing her lips against Sky’s, just enough to make the girl whimper softly. A slip up that does not sneak past Charlie’s radar. “I think this heat does something to you. You were optimistic in the fall, warm in the winter, loving in the spring, but summer really brings out your lusty side doesn’t it? ” She clasps her lover’s waist tighter to trap her arm permanently. Sliding the tip of her tongue along the edge of Sky’s ear and kissing her neck sensuously. Just the scent of Sky’s skin is enough to drive a sane man crazy.
Sky’s pulse responds automatically, jolting her to attention. Charlie’s kiss still makes her weak in the knees. She runs her fingertips up the woman’s back, and wraps Charlie’s long hair around her palm, jerking her head backward and then pulling it forward again. Commanding that the woman kiss her immediately, or risk a lifetime of servitude in purgatory. With one hand dictating Charlie’s movements, and the other raising the warmed filter to her lips, she takes a long satisfying drag. The heavy smoke exits through her nose, giving her the appearance of a mystical dragon of celestial lineage. Exhaling thoroughly, she flicks the expanding charcoal embers into the expectant ashtray.
Charlie drags her tongue along the girl’s lips, teasing, but never entering her mouth. Both of her hands are holding tight to the back of Sky’s thighs, lifting her from the linoleum tiles, and placing her down on the cool counter top. Charlie squeezes her fingers between the elastic of the girl’s thin white cotton shorts, tugging the cloth from Sky’s heated skin. She positions herself squarely between the girl’s knees for an unobstructed view as she raises Sky’s white tank top up past erect nipples.
Sky feels her body tensing as it begs her for the freedom to beg. Permission is very rarely granted. Demanding is easy. Everyone makes demands, but asking for something is an admission of need. She is far too proud to need sex. She controls sex, harbors it, owns it. Sex is her forte. She had asked for love, and received it with a welcoming sigh. During the course of events with Charlie love has become easy, but somehow sex has become complex. This concept is confusing for the reigning queen of seduction. Somewhere along the line she has lost all sense of separation between what is performance and what is real. The distinct difference between sex for entertainment and sex with someone she loves.
Charlie approaches Sky’s chest under the girl’s silent direction, lingering there for a minute. Surveying the naked creature before her and realizing that she has never seen a body this flawless. Not a single blemish or hideous scar to be found. Usually an epiphany of this magnitude would start a tornado of self doubt for the woman who is so conscious of her physical self, for the woman who was never sure of her femininity or masculinity. She always felt like she was caught somewhere in between the two. Not entirely male for certain, and not entirely female either. A mixed breed of sorts. A mutt of gender. Nondescript in so many ways. She recognizes her body as her own, but she treats it as a body in and of itself. Being androgynous is not and never has been an act of defiance, just the plain truth of the matter. This vision of Sky before her, flawless and raw, does not induce jealousy. It does not provoke doubt. Her only thought at this juncture is of taking the girl into her arms, of making love to such a brilliant spirit, of being herself and never having to worry about her partner questioning the validity of her gender.
Charlie kisses the satiny skin that lay in the valley of Sky’s breasts. Savoring the fragrance of the girl’s skin. Freesia coupled with the pleasing scent of freshly laundered linen still warm from the dryer. She colors in the lines of pink and pale with her tongue, tracing the distinction between smooth and rough within the same proximity. Her eyes closed as she burns the image of Sky’s soft breast into her mind by memorizing the braille markings of her nipple. If she were to forfeit her eyesight tomorrow, she would forever see the map of Sky’s form. Vision is only a luxury for her now. She could live without it if she were still permitted to call upon her sense of touch. Everything about Sky is etched into her memory. The girl’s manner, her voice, her movements both in waking and in slumber, the contours of her face, and every idea and sentiment that she has ever expressed. Charlie has memorized it all. She knows Sky’s favorite color, favorite movies, favorite music, her dislikes and extreme dislikes, her passions, and her pitfalls. Her love and lust for the girl are not two separate entities. They go hand in hand and one intensifies the other. The more that she knows about Sky, the more she wants to be near her, both spiritually and sexually. Knowing someone intimately is more important to Charlie than simply being intimate with someone. As her love for the girl deepens, so does her ardor.
Charlie’s advances are methodical at first, then fevered, wanton. The cigarette is dangling ominously from Sky’s fingers. Her mind is drawing a blank. Thoughts are drown out, and her body is drawn in by Charlie’s caress. A slight case of madness slithers in through the cracks in her façade. This time her body is not permitting thought to hinder ecstasy, sheer pleasure from the noblewoman that she adores. Collecting her faculties proves difficult. Remembering that she is supposed to be the one in control is a more strenuous task. Charlie’s locks are still spun around her hand. She folds her fingers into a tight fist around it, pulling her servant closer. Taking another drag from the cigarette, she allows the smoke to penetrate her lungs. Pure sensation overrides conscious thought. It is her last sober decision to extinguish the burning tobacco in the ashtray before all reason escapes her. She crushes the filter into a crooked comma and drops it.
One of Charlie’s hands is creeping up Sky’s thigh, the other massaging the small of the girl’s back. Sky leans into the hard wood of the cabinets. A substance that is as unforgiving and unyielding as an object can be. She tries to convince the former trees that they should heed her word, but processed planks of oak rarely do as they are told. Sky is the party that must move. Readjusting her body on the counter is not easy. She slides her hips toward Charlie. Her heart is beating like that of a hummingbird. Her legs are shaking. Not only does she want to be fondled, she needs it. The time has come for her to beg for something.
Charlie is not going to allow Sky the luxury of winning all of the time. She puts her hands between the girl’s thighs, pushing them away from each other as a chambermaid opens heavy drapery to welcome sunlight into a dull room. Her hands sliding up and around the curve at Sky’s pelvis where her hips marry her thighs. Thumbs following guiding fingers as she grasps the girl by both hips. Kissing the ethereal skin of the girl’s neck, and along the edge of her jaw until she reaches Sky’s eager lips.
Sky’s breath is cutting short without consulting her first. The force of Charlie’s kiss is astounding. The back of Sky’s head is pressing against the oak of the cabinets. She is not sure what to do with her hands, her legs, or her passion. She has never felt this awkward during sex. She had always controlled the environment, employed her tricks to take women, but it is different with Charlie. One touch from Lenore catapults Sky into a virtual coma. Her eyes roll back under the direction of Charlie’s roving hands and fierce kiss. Making promises to the girl with her movements.
The rigid edges of Sky’s spine press against the middle of Charlie’s palm as she holds the girl in place. Her hand spread out between Sky’s shoulder blades, and one of Sky’s breasts in her mouth. Droplets of clear sweat break out on Sky’s skin as Charlie’s fingers probe the wet folds of her labia.
The first knock at the door sends a jolt of anger up Charlie’s spine, followed by profound disappointment, and finally acceptance.
“Fuck!”
She grits her teeth together and whispers her extreme frustration. “I suppose I have to answer that now don’t I?” Her lips inches from Sky’s, she is praying that the rude person forgets what they have come here for. “Who? Why?” She is so close to being a child in this instant that she is tempted to throw an old fashioned fit right there on the floor of her kitchen. Kicking and screaming until she gets what she wants, but the time for such things have passed for her. She is not four years old. Temper tantrums are so unattractive from twenty seven year old doctors. The thought sneaks away as that mature part of her reasons with her first instinct, dismissing it as juvenile. “There’s always later, right.” She pushes away from Sky’s chest and helps the girl settle both of her feet back onto the ground. “You better hide out in the bedroom and put some clothes on. I’ll get the door.”
Quick feet carry Sky into the bedroom. She is rushing off in a daze, still half drunk on Charlie’s affections. She stumbles behind the door and closes it with a click. Retrieving clothing from Charlie’s dresser drawer as she listens for the voice of said intruder with disgust. All dressed up and no place to go. Why oh why does this shit always happen to me? She thinks as she wiggles into a pair of Charlie’s navy blue cargo shorts.
Charlie stomps off through the living room toward the bolted door swearing to herself in low whispers.
“Fucking, fuck, fuck, shit, I hate these fucking people, knocking on my door when I’m trying to…son of a bitch, bastards. To early for visitors…better be the best damn reason ever…Mood shot all to hell…crappy fucking knocking ass bastard bitches…fuck me…”
Traveling at a snails pace with her head hanging down and nostrils flaring with rage. She tries to add some sugar to her voice as she inquires about the party behind her door. “Who is it?” She almost sings the question as not to sound abrupt. It’s not like this person is intruding or anything. Why be rude about it? It could be important. Maybe little green men have taken over city hall, and my super powers are the only hope for all of New York. Aside from alien invasion it had better be an old man with a substantial check for me.
Monica is far too giddy for this time of day. She is ecstatic about her trip to New York, and slightly surprised to see Charlie standing before her in a pair of boxers and a black sports bra, the smile on her face obviously plastic.
“Good morning Charlie! Nice boxers. Is Sky around? Our bus came in early this morning. I know that you weren’t supposed to pick us up until noon, but Tabitha brought us over, and well, here we are, in New York, hanging out for the fourth of July with you guys. I’ve had way too much coffee. Long trip from Buffalo to New York. Didn’t get much sleep you know? Scott kept snoring, and I have a hard time sleeping in a chair. I was too excited to sleep anyway. When I saw the size of these buildings and how many people were walking around. I just love it already. I can see why Sky moved out here. She always wanted to move here. Even when we were kids she always said that she was going to move here like if we saw it on t.v. or something. Anyway, are you hungry or anything? Did you guys eat already? I want to at least go out for coffee or something. I want to see the whole city you know? I want to experience the place. This is so cool. I have had too much coffee. Can I use your bathroom?” Her eyes wide with wonder and untamed inquisitiveness. She knows that she should be exhausted, but the city has given her a boost.
Charlie smiles because she isn’t sure what else to do in the presence of such zeal from the tourist. It does strike her as funny, but she is not yet distracted from her hormonal disruption. She points to the hallway.
“Down the hall. Second door on the left. Sky should be out in a minute. We can hang out here for breakfast if you want. I’ll make some bacon for my old friend Tabitha.” A slight dig directed at Tabby for bringing ‘tribe flighty’ to her door without notice.
“Hey, take it easy kid! Don’t bother the woman when she’s in her unmentionables. Which by the way, are mentionables now. I see London. I see France! You in a bad mood, Dr. Crab Ass? Come on, Chuckles, laugh it up old bean. Can’t you see that Monica needs some of that famous New York hospitality? We don’t want the rest of the world thinking that we’re a bunch of Rudie McRudies who skulk around in our short pants with tude problems.”
“Okay, sorry guys. I didn’t mean to sound rude. Come on in. I’ll put some clothes on and we can go anywhere you want.” Charlie directs Tabby, Yvonne, and Scott to her living room as if she where inviting vampires in with garlic hanging around her neck as repellent. “I’ll go get Sky.”
“I live in the penthouse, but oddly enough, the landlord has never asked me to pose for the center fold. Tabby the pin up girl? That’s a frightening image. I wonder if they would want me to keep my boots on?” Tabitha pulls the metal gate closed on the elevator. “I probably should have warned you kids that my place is kind of small. Do you mind standing up to sleep?”
“Astronauts can do it. Why not?” Yvonne adjusts the strap of her heavy backpack to avoid a deeper dent from forming in her shoulder blade. She is so tired of carrying luggage and traveling in general that she wouldn’t care if Tabitha lived in a box as long as it had indoor plumbing.
The elevator jerks and jumps with excitement as it makes acquaintance with the baseboards of the top floor. Monica can’t wait to step out of the box, as she is terrified of elevators. She pushes past the shoulders of her companions in a slightly rude manner.
“Whoa, Monica, where’s the fire?” Images of the hotel nightmare flash before Tabitha’s eyes as the words leave her mouth, and she suddenly feels an urgency to exit as well. She has never thought about that elevator before. She just travels up and down on a daily basis, a routine without special attention. Sometimes people function within their own world without realizing risk or consequence. That’s the way that Tabitha has always lived. Today is today and tomorrow is tomorrow. The philosophy of the musician, a typical Pisces in most ways, Tabitha lives by the seat of her pants with her heart firmly stitched to her sleeve. She shows no fear and she has learned to sew patches over her exposed heart. Life would be no fun for her if everyone could see the pulpy pulsating mass beating against her bicep. Kindness has never been a difficulty for her, but any show of fear or vulnerability were completely out of the question. There is a distinct difference between Pisces and New York City Pisces. New Yorker’s are a special breed, and Tabitha is the epitome of the word. Hard as roofing nails on the outside, and soft as poodle fur on the inside. She turns the key in the highest lock on the door and moves her way down to the fifth lock on the bottom. “Fear not young ones. It’s not a bad neighborhood. I just wouldn’t want thieves to break in and steal my unbelievable riches. I haven’t been able to trust the stock market or banks since that little incident in 1929. You understand?”
The apartment isn’t as much an apartment as it is an example of modern industrial art. A living room/ dinning room/ bedroom are living as one in the middle of the domicile. Steal beams decorate the unfinished ceiling in straight lines between two large sky lights. There is one finished wall painted in pale blue at the far left of the room next to Tabitha’s unmade bed. At the foot of the bed nook is half a wall and a few steps are set down to the small bathroom. The kitchen is separated from the living area by a crooked brick wall, chipped red stone glued together at the seams with white cement. Windows make up the whole of the outside wall of the studio, topped by several rolled bamboo shades. Clear glass stretches from ceiling to floor, giving the average person a fear of heights were none existed before. The illusion is complete if one walked to the edge of the floor, invoking frightening visions of plummeting to one’s death with another step forward. A flaming orange sun is setting behind buildings, sending out an invitation to nightfall.
Decorating has never been Tabitha’s strength. The whole place is a work of art, as close to the thoughts of a madman as an artist could compile. Red shag carpeting covers most of the floor, holding up a wobbly wooden dining room table, four mismatched chairs, a green plaid love seat covered in a black throw, and two glass topped end tables. A three foot tall scrap metal sculpture of a naked Viking woman holding up her sword and shield in victory stands in front of the window. Pencil sketches of the view are taped to the walls next to posters of punk rock band members and clipped phrases from magazines that Tabitha found amusing. Above Tabitha’s bed a quote is printed in big bold black magic marker.
Live life like it’s the only one you gots. Leave the planet better’n you foundered it. Don’t put nickels in yer nose holes.
“Cool digs, Tabby.” Scott’s usual monotone voice gives a hint of being impressed. The last time he was impressed was when he was about five years old. That was the year that his dad took him to the circus, and he saw the high wire act. After that everything else seemed blasé for him. “How did you manage to find a nifty place like this? It’s like all shabby sheik, dude. My place seems so boring now.”
“Ghetto fabulous, huh? The view is good, right? I won this place in a card game against the landlord. Can’t bluff the Tabster. I have a criminal mastermind.”
Monica’s naiveté shows through her skin like varicose veins on an old woman’s legs. “Really? That’s pretty cool.”
“Monica, honey, doll, I’m just fuckin’ with ya. The landlord is a pally of mine by the name of Skippy, or Wallace Hawthorne if you prefer. I call him Skippy cause he hates it. Skip-dog gave me this chill pad at a considerable discount on accounta I took on the job of super. That’s right. I’m a handy woman. Squeaky door hinges, plugged up terlets, and cleaning hallways is my game. Skippy swept out this big ol’ storage closet for me. I installed a bathroom and kitchen, ta-da, the rock star has a rooftop palace in the heart of Manhattan. Speaking of which, you Buffalonians wanna see the roof?”
Two by fours are assembled into a seven by ten foot shelter next to the exit with four lawn chairs resting comfortably on the black tarred roof. A stand up ashtray and small table make this shelter a neat little hideaway, like camping grounds amidst the hustle and bustle of the business district.
Tabitha puts one hand on her hip as a show of satisfaction with herself. “Can you dig it? I built it myself. The other tenants don’t know that this place exists. I hang out up here to think. I scribble out a few sketches when I want to be alone, or I have friends over to watch the sun set. Central Park is thata way. Battery Park’s down there, and me hometown of Brooklyn is waaay over there across the ol’ East River. You’ll see that tomorrow. We’ll have a bite in Chinatown before we see the fireworks, deal?”
The group sits on the roof until the sun covers itself completely with the blanket of stars. A city takes on a new persona with the addition of thousands of lights that twinkle and glow from windows and street corners. Life does not stop here, but rather transfers hands from inhabitants of the day to creatures of the night. Nothing pauses, nothing halts, it is truly a city that never closes.
Tabitha takes a deep breath of humid evening air, holding on to that millisecond before making a declaration. “Let the drinking games begin! I stocked up on booze for this special occasion. Beer pong anyone? Downstairs I say.”
Monica shows that she is unable to hold her liquor as well as the rest of the clan. She also proves that she is not good at drinking games. Four drinks later she is feeling a certain detachment from that place called reality. She stumbles toward the stairs to the bathroom, unsure of her footing.
Tabitha watches the inebriated girl wobble toward the washroom with concern that she may take a fatal swan dive out the window. She jumps to her feet and skips over to Monica, acting as a great wall between the girl and certain death.
“Whoa. Stumble this way sweetheart. You got a pretty face. I’d hate to see it smashed against the sidewalk below.” She stands at the top of the stairs waiting for Monica to emerge so that she can guide her back to the safer section of the apartment.
An hour later Monica is swerving in her seat like a ceiling fan stuck on the lowest setting. Tabitha picks her up gently by the arms and walks her over to the bed, removing her shoes and tucking the girl in.
“Good night, Lightweight.” She whispers to the passed out guest on her mattress.
In the morning tiny hangover elves are slam dancing against the interior of Monica’s cranium. Sharp points of morning light slash widening wounds between her eyelids, forcing them open despite her stubborn protest. The blurry room slowly spins into focus as her pupils squeeze themselves into specks of black dust. The body next to her is warm, but unfamiliar. Tabitha’s faded black T-shirt is pulled tightly over her breasts, and her arms are flung carelessly over her head. Mouth gaping, she snores lightly from the back of her throat. Just now Monica realizes that her forearm is sprawled across Tabitha’s stomach. Old habits die hard. Monica is not yet used to sleeping alone. She had grown accustomed to having her girlfriend next to her. No one would be the wiser if she just inched away from Tabitha before she woke up, but that kind of luck is rarely bestowed upon Monica.
While the unluckiest girl in the tri-state area studies her arm across the belly of the sleeping stranger, admitting to herself that she likes this feeling for whatever reason, Tabitha opens one eye undetected.
“Was it good for you?”
Monica just about jumps out of her bruised skin. “What?”
“You know. Last night. Was it good for you?”
“We didn’t?…”
“Play beer pong? Yes. Yes we did. You lost badly my little chulupula.”
“That’s good…I mean…never mind.”
“Hanging baby? I have the perfect cure. Sure to put the spring back in yer short ones. An old Puerto Rican recipe me dear grandmammy taught me. I’ll fix er up lickity split.”
Tabitha rolls out of Monica’s clutches to make some necessary noise in the kitchen. The sound of the spinning metal in the blender grinds against the painful mass in between Monica’s ears. She buries her head under the pillow, face down on the bumps in Tabitha’s mattress. “Uggh…”
Tabby returns to the bed by stepping over the other two bodies on her floor, and hands Monica a plastic cup full of a mystery beverage. “Here. Drink this. Watch out for lumps.”
“Lumps?”
“Kidding, Squirt. Broken glass is what you should worry about. That’s the secret ingredient.”
“Funny. What is it exactly? It smells like tomatoes and turpentine.”
“Just drink it. Hold your nose and chug.”
The liquid in the glass goes down surprisingly well. Monica stares down at the sediment at the bottom of the cup. “Not bad. Not particularly good, but not awful.”
“Works every time. Give it fifteen minutes. You’ll be right as a politician running for mayor.” She chugs her own glass of goo and shakes her head. “Ahhh. Breakfast rocks!”
Sky and Charlie meet up with Tabitha, Yvonne, Monica, and Scott in the florescent halls of the subway station, right next to the big poster that reads “AIDS in the age of complacency…It still happens. Get tested.”
“We have to wait here, guys. Penny, Smew, Shontai, and Vanessa are meeting us. I told them we’d be standing next to the poster of the unsuspecting AIDS victim at this stop…It still happens you know.” Tabitha points to the bold letters of the phrase like a game show girl.
“Vanessa?” Sky is feeling somewhat perplexed. As far as she knows Tabitha and Vanessa aren’t the best of friends. At least, that was the impression that she always got from Tabitha. She has an afterthought about asking questions, but it is too late now. The question already left her vocal cords, and is floating around in the air.
“Yup. I invited her. She is still my sister. Not a bad person…most of the time.” Tabitha’s decision is final. How often does one have a twin sister in any given lifetime? They have been talking on the phone for the last few weeks, and everything seems fine. They fight as siblings do. That is just a fact of nature. Survival of the fittest is not only a theory, but it is in practice within families every day.
No sooner than the words leave Tabitha’s mouth, Vanessa strolls out of the train’s open doors. Her face a mirror image of Tabitha’s (minus several piercings and drained of all of Tabitha’s personality traits.) If the polar opposite of Tabitha could be found, it is right here in her identical sister. She keeps her naturally brunette hair at shoulder length, pulled back loosely in acceptable corporate executive style. Even when she is wearing jeans the woman demands professional courtesy with her stride. People know who she is before she steps into a room, and everyone remembers her long after she has departed. This is Vanessa, strong, confident, intellectual, Vanessa. Tabitha’s older sister, the Aquarius.
Although they are identical twins, they were born on separate dates. Vanessa was born under the Aquarius moon at 11:46 pm on February eighteenth. While her sister was fashionably late at 12:23 am on February nineteenth. Their mother, Carmen, is a Gemini. She always declared that the two girls were born as her split personality, Gemini existing in the flesh. This was true in most respects. Even as children the twins did not see eye to eye. Their signs traveling the span of West to East along the zodiac belt.
“Hello, Tabby. It’s good to see you!” Vanessa exclaims as she gathers her sister in a hug. Her white teeth gleaming from a smile that has obviously been treated with braces and possibly bleach. “Is everyone here yet, or am I early?” She looks at her wrist watch behind Tabitha’s back.
“Nopers. Still waiting on the band mates.” Tabitha’s tone takes on a new pitch of accusation, as though her mentioning the music business in any fashion will start a colossal battle about being an adult and taking on “grown up” responsibilities. She waits patiently for Vanessa to make a dig about their lifestyle differences. No reply from her sister makes her a little edgy, like standing under a storm cloud with a metal pipe in her hand. She has to talk herself into relaxing. The girl with zero worries is only tense in the presence of the all-powerful Vanessa.
The unspoken tension is broken with the arrival of the band crew. Shontai is lecturing Smew about some social obstruction of justice, and Penny bounds toward Tabitha as if she were a safety net from the madness that must have occurred between the other two on the train ride.
“Hey, Penny! You crazy little lemming. How’s tricks?” Tabitha is ready to accept the distraction of the outlandish Penelope McGarret, famed drummer for the infamous ‘Mental Floss’. She is a character right from the pages of the comics with her big blond mall hair, and Jersey City chick denim overalls.
“Sorry I’m late. Had to give old Harry a bath.” Penny tucks a chunk of that stiff hair sprayed tangle behind her left ear.
“Who is Harry? That your kid or something?” Scott studies the girl in front of him, wondering where she kept that stock pile of blue eyeshadow. He thought that the whole eightees look died around nineteen ninety four.
Penny tilts her head at the short chunky boy, happy that a new person asked who Harry is. For some reason this joke never gets old for her. “Na uh. He’s my tropical fish.”
“Tropical fish don’t need to bathe, do they?” Scott is intrigued and slightly concerned with the mental health of Tabitha’s friend.
“They do when they’re tattooed on your ankle.” She lifts her left pant leg to expose a brightly colored tattoo of an angel fish inked along her ankle bone.
Scott nods his head in agreement, deciding immediately that he likes Penny. “okey dokey then. I’m Scott, but my friends call me Scott.”
Introductions are a formality that takes less than a New York minute. The gang of mismatched tweens seem to herd together like a pack of wolves immediately. The energy among them buzzing with familiarity. Kin folk need not be related in order to relate. Ironically, the only two persons in the group that are related don’t relate to each other that often, or that well.
East River Park kisses the water at the edge of Manhattan. The sun hesitates to set on such a perfect day, like a child that refuses to go to bed when something exciting is happening in the house. Independence day for America. The biggest birthday party in the free world happens on this night. Perhaps the sun sets at the usual time. Perhaps it just seems to take longer due to the mounting anticipation of the masses. Either way, the fourth of July could quite possibly be the longest day of the year.
Hoards of humanity gather rapidly to set woven blankets atop the freshly shaven green grasses of the park. Children squeal in chirping delight as only children can. Adults have lost the ability to shriek with such ferocious might as they have forgotten what childhood is. Tall people direct small people to stay still, a command that is only reasonable to humans over the age of thirteen. If children ever sit still it’s because they are sick, or scared. Yet, parents of all ages assume that toddlers have the strength to fist fight with their own biology, and the battle rages on.
The ten grown up children gather on blankets amidst the large crowd, securing their spot on the soil. Surprisingly, Vanessa plops herself right in between Tabitha and Sky to engage in conversation with her sister. “Remember watching the fireworks when we were little kids? Mom used to dress us up in those stupid matching outfits. I didn’t mind that much, but you screamed about it for hours.”
“Yup. She finally wised up. She put you in red and white stripes, and bought me those silly blue polyester pants with the sparkly stars on em. They were horrifying. Still have nightmares about those things, you know.” Tabitha laughs at the memory, secretly hoping that there are no existing pictures of her in those hideous star laden pants. She looked like a five year old version of a polyester clad lounge singer reject in that gettup.
“Oh no, dearest sister. Mom didn’t buy those pants for you. She made them.”
“Yeah! That must be why the kids at school told me that I was ugly as homemade pants.”
Laughter is escaping Vanessa uncontrollably as she conjures a mental image of young Tabitha skipping out of her room in the starry elastic banded symbol of patriotism that their mother had sewn together on the old Singer. Tabitha’s eyes wide with excitement because she was permitted to be different from her twin for the first time in her life. Vannessa reminds Tabitha of her youthful enthusiasm on that fourth of July.
“You didn’t mind those pants when you were five. Always had to be an individual, Tabby. Right from day one. Mom couldn’t get you out of those hellish pants for at least a week, and when we started kindergarten you wanted to wear them every day!”
Tabitha turns to Sky, making her an unwilling participant in this act of reminiscing. “That’s not nearly as bad as the Halloween costume that momster threw together for Vanessa when we were about nine.”
Vanessa shoots a look at Tabitha that could kill the average man. “You promised that you would never speak of that again.”
“You started it.” Tabitha looks back at Sky with a gleam of evil amusement in her eye. “My sister here wanted to be a dinosaur, T-Rex I think. Anyway, Carmen didn’t have enough money to buy the costume, so she made it herself. That would have been okay, but the only material that she had came from two pairs of grandpa’s plaid wool slacks. Vanessa showed up for the school’s Halloween party in a patched up costume made of green and brown squares. The generous part of the whole outfit was when our dear mama used both of the zippers from the crotch as the dinosaur’s mouth. It looked like Vanessa was trapped in the fly of some gigantic man’s trousers! When the other kids made fun of her she hid under the table for three hours. For the rest of the year they called her ‘Tinkles’. Right, Tinkles?”
“Shut up and watch the fireworks, you star spangled weirdo.” There is no sense in Vanessa getting angry at her sister. After all, she did start the embarrassing childhood stories, but somehow she still feels the stinging humiliation of that wretched homemade costume. Nothing forms an adult’s personality quite like relentless torment from one’s peers. Since high school Vanessa has made a point of being extremely fashion conscious. She always has to look her best for any occasion. She does not possess the utter disregard for apparel that her sister holds so dear. In her view, Tabitha goes too far with her forms of expression. All of that metal sticking out of Tabitha’s face makes Vanessa nervous, and she must admit that she is somewhat embarrassed about being seen in public with her sister. The fact that they are getting along is a nice development. It’s is better to just leave it alone before it turns into a real argument about costumes. She bites her tongue for the sake of having a good time with Tabitha and her friends. “It’s getting dark now. They should be starting any minute.”
In the meantime, Scott is flirting shamelessly with Penny. She is completely oblivious to the young man’s advances as she usually is to any man’s flirtation, but she likes him enough to be friendly for an evening under the Manhattan stars.
Smew is preoccupied with the cute girl two blankets in front of him, and Shontai is explaining the roots of American history to Monica. Of course, Shontai’s version of the story is nothing that a child might find in any text book. She explains to Monica that these little tidbits of democracy are never explained to Americans until college.
When the fireworks begin Charlie puts her arm around Sky’s shoulder, appreciating her warmth. Sky snuggles closer as the huge crowd of people owoo and awww at the light show over head. The night sky is crystal clear, not a cloud to be found over the entire city. Charlie whispers into Sky’s ear. “I love you…no matter how wacky your friends are.”
Summer never really came to a screeching halt for the city of New York, but rather slowly opened the door to autumn without explicit weather requirements. The sun still shown as brilliantly as it had for the past several months.
Charlie rolls over in bed to be greeted by Sky’s grinning face. “Good morning, my love! Aren’t you glad that you took the day off so that we can start packing boxes?”
“Honey, we have until the first to move into the new place. You just slyly talked me into skipping office hours today. You sneaky thing you.”
“Yes, but it’s eight o’clock in the morning, and you’re just getting out of bed. You should thank me for a day of rest. Feels good doesn’t it doc? I skipped three classes today. Taking the summer semester off made me kind of lazy I think.”
Charlie groans the way that she always does when Sky is making her crazy first thing in the morning. “Don’t worry about school. I’m sure that you will be on the dean’s list again Ms. Smarty Pants! Just think, we might actually get some work done today. I already know what to pack up first.” She points to the corner of her bedroom where Sky’s laundry is piled up past the second drawer of her dresser. “That definitely needs to go.”
Sky caresses her woman’s cheek with her free hand and looks at her with complete adoration. “How about some breakfast for my hard working veterinarian on her sick day? I’ll make you one of my famous cheese omelets. We can sit in front of the t.v. all morning in our underwear. Nothing quite like eating eggs in your skivvies right?” She separates from the warmth of Charlie’s body, throws on her bath robe, and pads off to the kitchen.
Charlie pulls on a pair of gray sweatpants and a yellow T-shirt from her top drawer and meanders into the living room in her bare feet. She pauses at the picture window, caught by the sight of a crisp blue sky that hovers above the courtyard below. There isn’t a cloud in sight. It is as if summer refuses to release the city from her clutches, and the lush green grass will never be devoured by a white blanket of snow. She watches an elderly woman sitting on a bench throwing birdseed to a flock of hungry pigeons. Joggers bounce by in spandex shorts and running shoes. Charlie crosses her arms, takes a deep breath, and tries to remember the last time she has seen such a clear day.
Sky is in the kitchen scrambling yolks in a glass bowl with a large fork, whistling the theme song to a nineteen seventies sitcom. Charlie snickers a little at the sound when she recognizes the melody. That girl is a piece of work. I might stay young forever with her around. With that thought she flops down on the couch and turns on the television.
With two plates balancing on her hands, Sky walks back into the living room. While attempting to hand one of the plates to Charlie, one of the forks falls to the floor. “Yikes! Cheese omelets don’t taste very good when your eating utensil is covered in lint. I’ll take this one.” She wipes the fork on her robe and takes a bite of the warm eggs.
They sit and watch a morning news show shoveling breakfast into their faces. Charlie turns to Sky. “I forgot how terrible daytime t.v. is. I haven’t watched it in such a long time.”
Sky puts her empty plate on the coffee table to recline into the soft burgendy couch. “Just sit back and relax for awhile.”
A few minutes later a news flash runs across the bottom of the television screen, and a picture of the World Trade Center appears. Black smoke is billowing from the North tower. A news anchor’s voice interrupts to say that a plane had flown into the building at 8:45 am.
Sky looks over at Charlie with disgust in her voice. “What kind of idiot pilot could accidentally fly a plane into a huge building like that? They’re pretty easy to spot! I hope that everyone is okay.” Her tone turns immediately from disgust to genuine concern. “Vanessa works there, but I can’t remember what building she’s in. I’d better call Tabby to find out. Jesus, look at the smoke!” She grabs the phone to dial Tabitha’s number.
Tabitha’s voice is broken as she breathes into the receiver. She is still sleeping. “Hello? This had better be good. I was dreaming of male strippers covered in whip cream!”
Sky doesn’t laugh. “Tabby, turn on the news.”
“Why?”
“Just turn it on now. Someone just flew a plane into the North tower of the trade center!”
Tabitha is startled to attention and jumps out of bed with the phone at her ear. “What? My sister works in that building!” She pulls on the string to roll the bamboo shades to the top of her window. There before her eyes, smoke pouring into the heavens above the Southern tip of Manhattan. She stands in complete puzzlement at the sight before her. “How?…I have to get down there. Vanessa will be freaking out! She doesn’t start work until nine. What time is it?”
“You only have five minutes. Just stay on the phone with me. Turn on the news we don’t know what’s happening yet.”
Tabitha reaches for a pair of jeans that are crumpled up on the end of her bed. She slips on her back boots without tying the laces. Then pauses again at the window, confused. “Why would?….”
As Tabitha looks on another plane hurdles toward the South tower. She feels her stomach tie itself in a knot as the second jet slices through the mighty icon like a circular saw. A streak of yellow flames rips through the side of the skyscraper and explodes in a tremendous ball of blazing orange fire, smoke and debris.
Sky’s heart stops. Her palms begin to sweat. “Oh my god! This is no accident!”
Pieces of the South tower shoot out in a tidal wave of scorching lava covered in charcoal tinted smoke. Burning shrapnel scatters above the landscape, showering the earth below with twisted shards of fiery wreckage from sixty floors up.
Sky stares at the images flashing on the television screen trying to fathom the human casualties. People work in those buildings. Tabitha’s sister is in the North tower. She swallows against her own tears in an attempt to speak. “Tabby…”
The voice on the other end of the line lowers to a faint whisper of a lost spirit. “I’m coming over. Wait there.”
Tabitha flails her aching limbs through the city streets, ignoring the people gathering outside. She can’t see anything through the blurring tears welling up in her eyes. Her thoughts are racing. She sees flashes of her sister’s face. Childhood moments resurface in her mind like a rapid slide show. Arguments that had kept them distant for so many years, and what she would do if she were given the chance to do it all over again. In these few short moments she promises herself that she will never fight with Vanessa again, if only she is alive and well.
Sky stands next to Charlie, feeling her muscles seize. Her mouth hanging open in disbelief. The doorbell rings. Sky jumps about a foot in the air. “That’s Tabby.”
When Charlie opens the door Tabitha is standing there, as pale as ivory dipped in bleach. She is panting for air and clutching her chest as though death had placed a snarled bony finger on her heart. She is unable to speak, and Charlie is not sure what to do. She reaches for Tabby and gathers her into her arms. Tabitha slams her forehead onto Charlie’s shoulder in complete exhaustion and searing grief.
The three of them drag their lifeless bodies to the couch and fall into the cushions on the wings of angels. Sky holds Tabby’s head on her left shoulder, stroking her fire engine red hair in an attempt to comfort her. They watch the screen helplessly as fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars rush to the scene to save the survivors.
Television cameras show people gathering in the streets with looks of terror plastered to their faces. Then they show office workers trapped in the upper floors of the towers. People hanging out of windows in a frantic attempt to breathe fresh air. Some of them jump ninety stories to their inevitable deaths. The choices are limited. Asphyxiate from smoke inhalation, or leap from incredible heights. The line between lifeless debris and desperate bodies blur together as they fall from the point of impact.
It is like watching an action movie in the middle of the night, but the movie is real and there is no script. Whatever happens next will be unrehearsed. The realization sets in for all who stand witness. The land of the free is under attack.
Another terrifying image splashes onto the screen at 9:43 am. A third hijacked airliner slams into the Pentagon in Washington, DC. Apocalyptic smoke expands like a mushroom cloud of destruction from the open wound on the Southwestern wall of America’s impenetrably fortress. Jet fuel ignites, causing raging hell fires along the charred wall of the building. Fire hoses project thick streams of rushing water at the gapping hole in American security.
At 9:58 am the unthinkable happens right before the eyes of a terrified nation. While firefighters, rescue workers, police officers, and civilians are entering the burning buildings to save innocent office workers from a needless demise, the South tower collapses. One hundred and ten stories of steel and glass implode like a house of cards blown over by a slamming door. The top floors fall inside of the floors beneath, sending the ashy remains into the air, covering lower Manhattan in soot gray death.
Sky holds Tabitha closer to her body as they listen to that horrifying sound. A roaring sound that fills their ears as the floors of the World Trade Center collide with the floors below in a steady succession of beats, similar to that of dominos toppling over.
From the shores of the Atlantic to the edges of the Pacific, grief reigns supreme. From middle American wheat fields to Southern swamp lands, a feeling of defeat and a growing sense of unity. What lingers in the minds of mad men and the heart of heroes is not easily defined. Traumatized children wander playgrounds, bearing the sorrow of their significant adults. A tidal wave of sorrow emanating from the new scar on America’s face. America stopped breathing for a moment. One collective gasp of horror from sea to crying sea. Purple mountains majesty weeping into the mouths of mighty rivers.
The air is still and stagnant in the seconds following the firsts. Words are beyond the use of language, and language is lost for those who parish. A pendulum swinging about the vault of heaven, disembodying the clear blue sky from earthbound flesh. Living on the surface of a volcano. Creeping over the magma of human feeling.
Anger arises from the ashes, along with empathy, sorrow, questioning and camaraderie. America is united by surgical intervention. In order to hold together, we must hold each other together.
Other parts of the world have suffered these shock waves. America the mighty gains a new understanding of their plight. A new understanding of their politics, their suffering, and their disdain for Americans. United we stand, divided we fall apart, and some of us did. America the mighty. America the great has been attacked on her own soil. This is a new and stunning example of our vulnerabilities. Just a few days ago we felt safe in our own beds, safe in our own skin.
This is precisely the kind of morning that makes Shontai crazy. She woke up early to shower and dress in acceptable clothing. This job interview is extremely important for her. She completed her degree in library science in June, and the campus director at Hunter college called her in to interview for the librarian position that is opening up at the campus. She hops on the 6 train at 125 St. to head down to the college.
The subway ride is fairly uneventful. Somehow, watching the crusty old man across from her talk to himself in low tempered whispers does not strike Shontai as being odd in the least. She pulls her headphones over each ear to drown out the muttering of other passengers. The mundane conversations about the weather creep over the plastic ear pieces without ever seeping into her brain. Peaceful classical music begins to elevate the mood of the day, and by the time the train reaches Hunter she is feeling far less stressed out about her meeting.
The secretary sitting at the desk looks up at Shontai with complete indifference, like the woman is looking right past her rather than at her. Shontai is trying to breathe normally as she states her name and reason for being there.
“Have a seat over there. I’ll let Mrs. Haderson know that you are here.” The busy receptionist picks up the plastic receiver of the phone. “Yes. Mrs. Haderson. Ms. Fontaine is here to see you…yes I will. Thank you.” She hangs up the phone to address Shontai briefly. “She’ll be right out Ms. Fontaine.”
Shontai takes a seat at the far wall, her spine straightened more rigidly than usual. She wouldn’t want to slouch in front of a perspective employer. For several minutes she flips through pamphlets and magazines sprawled out across the table in front of her.
“Ms. Fontaine? Hello. I’m Mrs. Haderson, the campus director. Please step into my office.”
Very nice office it is at that. Mrs. Haderson must have worked extremely hard in her life to obtain such a beautiful place to store her desk. The woman begins to ask some basic questions of Shontai, trying to gain an understanding of Ms. Fontaine’s personality and qualifications. It is a good thing that Shontai is used to performing. She just imagines this interview as a performance, making it easier for her to answer questions without sounding like a complete idiot. Regardless, everyone feels like an idiot when they have to answer for their own life experience and educational achievements.
“I have always enjoyed research and history. That is why I decided to pursue a degree…” A knock at the director’s door interrupts Shontai’s thought. Her initial reaction is anger as she is frustrated enough in this situation. After all, who knocks on the door when an interview is going on? That is just plain rude in Shontai’s opinion.
The very same secretary that seemed abrupt just a few minutes ago is standing in the doorway with tears rolling down her cheeks. Her words are broken as she tries to convey a message to her superior. “It’s terrible…I have to go. I have to go home. We need to go home right now!”
Mrs. Haderson walks quickly to the distraught receptionist with sincere concern in her voice. It is obvious that she has never seen this employee in such a state before. “What? What is it, Helen? What’s terrible?”
“I…turned on the radio, and we’ve been attacked!”
“What do you mean attacked? What happened?”
“Two airplanes full of people were flown into the twin towers! The South tower is gone! All those people are gone!”
“Gone? What do you mean gone?”
“Collapsed! Lord Jesus, it’s awful!”
Shontai feels a lump lodge itself in her throat. Collapsed. It can’t collapse. Those buildings are enormous. Thousands of people work there. She jumps to her feet. “I have to get down there!”
Mrs. Haderson turns to Shontai. “No Ms. Fontaine. It’s too dangerous. I’m making an announcement to the staff and students. Classes are canceled. We can gather in the cafeteria to watch the news. I’ll have all of the televisions moved down there. Stay put until I get back.”
The sound of the phone’s annoying ring pierces through the bathroom door. Penny likes her hot showers and disturbing her alone time can have dire consequences. She waits three rings before throwing a towel over her torso and running into the kitchen, leaving a trail of puddles behind her bare feet. “Smew! Get your ass up and answer the phone once in awhile. It better not be for you!” She wipes the warm water from her ear before picking up. “Yellow.”
“Penny, are you watching the news?”
“No. I was trying to take a shower, but your roommate won’t get his lazy ass up to answer the phone!” Penny yells in the general direction of the living room. “What’s up? I’m getting ready for work, standing here in a towel, dripping all over the floor.” She sniffles.
“You’re not going to work today. Some bad shit’s going down. Wake up Smew this is important.”
“Was the interview that bad?” Penny sounds sympathetic despite her shivering.
“No Pen, terrorists just flew a couple of airplanes into the trade center. One of them fell…The other one’s not looking so good either.”
“You’re fucking with me right? Is this some kind of joke?”
“Turn on the news if you don’t believe me.”
“What channel is it on?”
“All of them.” Shontai slowly realizes the weight of what she is saying to her roommate, band mate, and friend. Hot tears begin to well in her eyes. “Those poor people. All they did was go to work…” Shock is temporary. Adrenaline is lasting. Pain sears through her stomach, giving her acute cramps. “I’m at the college. Glad your home. I’ll call you soon.” She hangs up the phone because there is a line of people behind her waiting to tie up the lines by checking up on their loved ones. Some of the students are frantic. Some of the faculty members are frantic. Both parties trying to hold each other together. Both parties trying to figure out what’s going on.
Smew is sleeping on his sofa bed in the living room. Penny runs in, shaking him until he comes around. The drool is still suspended in a warm string from the corner of his mouth. “What the hell! I worked till seven.” He pulls the beige blanket over his head, falling back to sleep in the middle of his sentence.
Penny is frustrated. She shakes him again. “Get the fuck up! Shontai just called. Some crazy bastards just flew jets into the twin towers, Dude!” Tired of searching for the remote control, Penny hits the power button on the front of the t.v.
“Holy shit!”
The image of the tower takes up the entire screen. One skyscraper is left standing with black smoke and fuel injected flames roaring from its core. Right before her disbelieving eyes the tower begins to falter, then implode. She sits on the edge of the mattress at Smew’s feet. Her soul is sinking as the floors of the trade center break away into mid air. Her mouth gaping, eyes wide, blood running cold, as she sits in the middle of her life wearing only a cotton towel. None of that matters at this moment. She could be naked on a hot skillet in the August sun. It wouldn’t matter. She can’t feel anything. Numbness trickles from her skull to her toes. Black and white dots flutter before her eyes like a channel with bad reception.
Smew taps Penny’s face with his fingertips. “You okay? I think you fainted.”
Penny comes around slowly. She’s laying naked on the floor. Her towel jumped ship. “I switched shifts with Jill…She took breakfast so that I could take lunch today. I’m sorry Jill…” Her head falls backward again as her waking nightmare continues. Penny works in a small café in the South tower.
Gary is a drug representative for a large medical company in New Jersey. Most of his day is spent traveling to various doctor’s offices, giving the doctor’s staff free lunches and trinkets that the company produces for promotion. Medical assistants all over the city smile when they see the up beat gay boy prancing through their office doors. Seeing Gary is a guarantee of free food, pens, and small stuffed animals.
The man with it all has a stupendous track record with his company. They may not be able to survive without him. Not only is he charming as hell, but he could sell charcoal to the devil himself. Gary is a dapper gentleman with a pretty face and a knack for talking physicians into prescribing massive quantities of allergy medications from his company. He always wanted to help people, it is his natural instinct to be helpful. He loves his career. He makes oodles of cash doing it, and traveling is a bonus. A man with his energy cannot be crammed behind a desk all day. It would be a crime against his basic nature.
“It’s raining men, Hallelujah. It’s raining men…” His voice echoes off of the interior of his compact car as he rounds the Jersey turnpike, tapping his palms against the steering wheel to the music blaring out of his speakers.
Gary pulls a fresh piece of spearmint gum from the warm pack in his pocket as he steps out of the car and heads into the office of Dr. Yanishi. “It’s time to show out, girl. Let’s work it out.” He strides through the double glass doors with leather briefcase in hand, full of brand new pens and a rather convincing speech that he has prepared. “Good morning! How is everyone today?” His bright teeth sparkling white in contrast to the navy blue of his neatly pressed suit.
The secretary behind the desk looks up at Gary as if her best friend was just hit by a pickup truck. Her lip is quivering. The sweat on her brow glistens under the overhead lights.
Gary studies the poor woman for a few seconds. “You don’t look so good. Are you feeling well enough to work?” Her response is shocking.
“You haven’t heard anything about the trade center, or the Pentagon, or that other plane that crashed in Pennsylvania?”
“Back up a second. What’s all this about planes and such?”
The parking lot at Buffalo State College is a nightmare to maneuver out of. Cars are lined up with honking horns and panicked students trying to rush home. When personal safety is tested people react on pure adrenaline, instincts that are rooted in our earliest evolutionary development. People do not react to tragedy. People react to fear. Tragedy is an afterthought. To feel safe is an immediate need.
Aimee’s body is coiled like a rattlesnake that is trapped beneath a heavy rock. Her incomplete thoughts stagger across her line of vision as a drunk stumbles out of a bar at four in the morning. The What? Why? and Who? ramble their greetings of confusion to her central nervous system. With no pictures to inform her brain of the magnitude of these events in New York City, her mind conjures its own interpretation. She has only seen the twin towers on television. She regrets not visiting her friend Sky on the fourth of July…What if she’s dead? What if her friend’s are dead? Where is she living again? How close is that to ground zero?….Sky said about twenty blocks.
Aimee’s foot is cramping up from holding the clutch down on her imported car. Stop and go traffic out of the college’s parking disaster is difficult on the best of days, but now it is damn near impossible. Her ears ring with the silence of anxiety. There is no loud music blaring from other student’s cars, no cheerful greetings yelled across the pavement to acquaintances, just the sound of car engines and one’s own heart beating. If there is other sound it isn’t important enough to find its way into Aimee’s car. She is essentially deaf to all things not included in her worries about her friends in the bowels of hell.
It must have been a horrific scene. It must have been a terrifying experience for those who went to work this morning. She envisions well dressed office workers strolling over to their desks, maybe engaging in some small talk with the people that they see everyday, personalized coffee mug in hand. You know, the one with the dark brown stains reaching up to the lip of the white ceramic. That old crusty mug that says ‘World’s greatest mom.’ Just people sitting at their desks. Filing through paper work that means nothing, thinking about phone calls that need to be returned. Pictures of their families lined up in a neat little row across the face of their desk.
The thoughts are too painful for Aimee to endure. She has to get home right now. Fear is slowly transforming into grief. Her mother is going to be a wreck.
“I need the number for Sky Madison in New York City…I don’t know the address. Sky M.A.D.I.S.O.N…thanks anyway.” Dawn slams the phone down, her heart sinking in its cage. She doesn’t know where her daughter is, where she lives, where she works, or if she even goes to school. Communication between mother and daughter has been cut off since Sky left the homeland Buffalo. What in the wide world is Dawn Madison to do now. Her eyelids flutter in the presence of blabbing news anchors, spewing out the same information over and over to a camera lens. “I know that we don’t know any details! Stop showing the same pictures over and over! I can’t take it anymore!”
In all of the years preceding September 11th 2001, Dawn had taken her offspring for granted. They both had said some unforgivable things to each other. She cannot help but feel some level of regret in these seconds. Picturing Sky as a baby in her arms, not really fussing, just content to be held. Why couldn’t things be simple in family relationships? When did things go so terribly wrong that the child that she gave birth to is not willing to tell her where she even lives?
Crisis brings out both the best and the worst in people. In Dawn’s case an awakening is taking place. It is as immediate as it is powerful. She wonders if she is in the thoughts of her daughter, if anything that has been between them matters anymore. The world seems very small right now, and it is getting smaller by the minute. Where is her baby girl? All she can do is hope that Sky is in the hands of god, and under his watchful eye. She prays like she has never prayed before.
The sun is just starting to peek over the waves of the Pacific Ocean. Gulls are singing off beat melodies with screeching voices while soaring over salty waters and white sugar sand. Peace visits the shores of California.
Yvonne is glad that she took the semester off from school. This trip to her uncle’s beach house is just what she needed to get away from scholastic demands. Student burn out is not something that Yvonne would place in the ‘fun things to do’ category.
With one week in paradise down, and one more to go she is feeling quite content. Steam rises up from the hot pekoe blend tea in her mug, the only humidity to be found on this warm September morning. She sits at the glass topped table in the tiny kitchen, flipping through a clothing catalog. She would never wear any of the preppy clothes offered by a large manufacturer, but it’s only 6:00 am. The newspaper doesn’t show up on the front porch until around seven thirty.
A spiraled sketchbook with heavy white pages is sitting at the edge of the table next to Yvonne’s favorite pencil. She takes a sideways glance at the morning world outside the sliding glass doors. The yellow sun stares back at her, whispering inspiration.
Her nephew’s birthday is in two days. He will be four. She has been accused of being the motherly type, but she has never considered herself a great buyer of gifts for young children. The idea for the perfect present for a fledgling Virgo surfaces before her eyes. In her estimation young Joseph will appreciate the sentiment when he is a tad bit older. For now, the gift is more for his parents.
Yvonne’s brother Adam is a wonderful father. He would sacrifice life and limb to protect his son from harm. He also spends hours reading to the boy. Not your usual children’s books, Adam recites lines from his favorite poems, and chapters of classic works of literature. Yvonne is convinced that her four year old nephew will have a better vocabulary than she does by the time he sets foot in any classroom. Joey is already brilliant. The child knows all of his colors by sight and shouts them out when the mood strikes him. This thought brings a smile to Yvonne’s face as she glides the pencil lead over the wide paper.
A picture of young Joseph starts to emerge from a series of free hand lines, his eyes bright with childhood wonderment. Yvonne has seen this expression on his face so many times. The first time he rode his tricycle, when his father got him that Labrador puppy for Christmas, when Aunt Yvonne helped him with arts and crafts at Adam’s kitchen table.
Music is important to Yvonne’s artistic moments, but she doesn’t have a CD player in the house. She plugs in a portable radio to the socket on the counter, and starts flipping through the scrambled channels. “No music this morning? Guess I’ll just wait for the commercials to be over.”
To her surprise, what she is listening to is not a commercial. The voice emanating from the small black piece of plastic is talking at an almost panicked pitch. “This report just out. A second passenger jet has just exploded into the side of the South tower! Black smoke and fire are engulfing the upper floors!…”
Morning people always irritated Tabitha. That is probably why Vanessa irked her so badly all through their childhood. Vanessa believes that being early is not only to her advantage, but to the advantage of others. Making people wait for her seems incredibly discourteous, and it makes her angry when other people are late.
This morning is of the utmost importance. Vanessa dresses sharply for the closing of this multi-million dollar deal with wealthy investors. She stands in front of her full-length mirror, tightly wrapped in a stunning red cashmere suit that has been tailored to perfection. Just a hint of breasts curves the soft material overlapping her white collared shirt. The heels of her red pumps cradle her stocking feet, making her taller than usual.
Vanessa enjoys feeling powerful, height helps, and red is her power color. Whenever the stakes are high red is her faithful companion. A nice color for the kill in her opinion. The lawyers are being kept in their dens until the appropriate hour. The investors are all ready to go. Never has there been a more beautiful morning.
By the time Vanessa reaches the lobby elevator her stomach begins to growl. In her great rush she forgot to grab any breakfast, but no matter. She needs to stop for a beverage anyway.
Caffeine is an addictive substance that Vanessa always had a weakness for. The means of injection varies, but coffee is by far her favorite method when administering a boost to her tired bones. The solution is clear.
“Good morning! I’ll have a tall cappuccino and that apple Danish. I can’t allow my stomach to growl during an important meeting. Am I right?”
The young woman behind the sneeze guard smiles broadly at Vanessa. “No. That wouldn’t be a good thing. Here you are. One tall cappuccino, and one warm apple Danish. Have a nice day.”
“Thank you. You too.”
To the meeting room she strolls, trying to contain her excitement. Vanessa was built for business. Human relations is her specialty, and it shows in every tiny smile line on her face. What might seem boring to the average Joe is this woman’s driving force. She is one of the stuffed shirts that actually laughs at that political cartoon strip in the New York Times.
She is early as usual. There is just enough time for her to set up the smart board to give her brilliant presentation about the economic forces that will inevitably sway rich people to her side of the spectrum, perfect. She picks up her hand held breakfast to take a bite.
Hot cappuccino spills across the cold surface of the table. The faint beige of sweetened milk and coffee is buried in opaque smoke. Vanessa’s breath is suspended in complete darkness. No doorway in sight. No sight at all. No room. Just a high pitch ringing in her ears. No fresh air. Dreams of flying.
When a third jet crushes the jade roof of the Pentagon it becomes unrecognizable as an airplane. The two foot thick walls of America’s fortress become less of a wall, and more of a charred black omen.
Ten minutes later the South tower of the World Trade Center crumbles on top of fleeing survivors while fire trucks in Washington D.C. aim heavy streams of water at the burning wall of the Pentagon.
American’s yearn for answers to the questions that are too rapid to consider. A wild lion cornered in its kingdom by blood-thirsty poachers. America was just being herself, following her Tuesday morning routine when wrath bolted down from a clear blue sky. Surrounded, ambushed where she sleeps and now wakes.
The piercing sound from thousands of television speakers is unrecognizable by the average viewer, but all too familiar to firefighters and their families. Amid the rolling clouds of sage-gray dust engulfing lower Manhattan the screeching is relentless. EEEP, EEEP, EEEP, EEEP. Those who know what that noise means are paralyzed. That noise comes from a tiny electrical device that firefighters attach to their uniforms. When one of them stops moving for more than thirty seconds the alarm sounds to assist other firefighters in finding their coworker in zero visibility. EEEP, EEEP, EEEP, EEEP.
The streets are coated in fine silt and singed documents, a mysterious mix of ash that could contain the remains of thousands, clogging the air passages of those fleeing the scene.
Unthinkable becomes reality. Reality becomes surreal. The North tower follows suit at 10:28 am. A pillar of silent smoke is all that remains standing where offices stood just moments ago. New York’s skyline is violently raped and left for dead.
“Dad. It’s Lenore…”
Skeletons are scattered in fragments where the towers once stood. Steel bones protruding through thick concrete skin. Glass eyes that viewed the shore from one hundred and ten stories in the air are shards upon mutilated bodies.
All trading activities on Wall Street stops dead. American airports cease all flights for the first time in this country’s history. President Bush puts the United States military on high alert, and addresses the nation. He promises the American people that we will “find those responsible and bring them to justice.”
Local hospitals prepare for the worst case scenario by calling all available medical personnel in to assist with the wounded. Extra hospital beds, cots, and other emergency medical equipment is set up in the street as a make shift triage center. The doctors stand and wait. They are prepared for a rush of seriously injured survivors from the tower’s rubble. They stand and wait, but very few arrive. The worst case scenario involved hundreds of patients in early afternoon, but by nightfall the worst case scenario is far worse. If no one is injured. No one survived.
Impatient nurses stand and wait with impatient doctors, waiting for ghostly patients. There is no worse fate for a humanitarian than a situation in which they cannot exercise humanitarianism.
The darkest night in American history, unnatural light fills the cloudless sky. Blue collar workers shine beams from search lights in the direction of burning rubble. The stench of poisonous jet fuel vapors, a warning from basement hollows.
Tabitha waits for her cell phone to ring. No word from Vanessa. She checks her answering machine from Charlie’s phone. No messages from Vanessa. When the phone rings Tabitha fumbles to press the send button. “Vanessa?”
The voice on the other end is not her sister. Her mother is weeping. This is her seventh phone call today. “No word yet?”
“No mom…”
Blood shot eyes linger in Charlie’s apartment, all focused on one television screen. Aching ears reach for the sound of loved one’s voices from one lonely phone. It has been said that no news is good news, but no news can be devastating.
The night passes like a kidney stone, painfully. Thick smoke still rises from smoldering New York streets, hiding as a shadow against a sunless horizon. Light is artificial as hope may be for survivors.
Tabitha feels a twinge of optimism. The glass is half full, and her city is half empty. Vanessa must have survived. She is way too tough to let a little airplane take her out. Tabitha remembers her sister’s strong will to live. There isn’t a man on all the earth that could damper that spirit. She is convinced that her sister is alive. It’s just a matter of time before she calls. Maybe she is in some shelter, or stuck somewhere without access to a phone. Maybe her cell phone is broken, or lost. Maybe she never went to work this morning.
All beauty of art escapes Monica’s fingertips, leaving them without prints. No fingerprints, no life. If there is no life there must be an absence of something. That something is difficult to describe, as it is the definition of life. Who knows such mysteries? No mortal, not Monica.
For an indecisive soul that is cast into a plethora of decisions, she has decidedly made no decisions about whether or not to decide at all. She knows nothing now. Nothing of decisions, nothing of life. Her own mysteries will inevitably remain.
She is bed mates with her non-committal tendencies, but in this flash of mortality decisions are necessary. What to do now with her life? What does her life mean?
Decisions, decisions. The importance of her life, of her love, and to whom it belongs. Her heart has a beat. Therefore her pulse has a home to return to in intervals of circular motion. Her blood runs blue, concealed within miles of veins. Exposed to oxygen it changes coats from blue to red. Biology has no place to live. Life is but an ecosystem surviving within the bounds of a body.
Being an artist is not a decision. Monica was born into a soul, an ecosystem of art. That part of her life is easy. Understanding the destruction of life as an art is impossible.
Miles live between Monica’s printless fingertips and the art of death living on the canvas of a city. Buildings are structures, as bodies are structures. Both containing life. Both changing coats from blue to red when exposed to oxygen.
Hours have passed in intervals to and from their home. Tuesday has visited and departed. The clock informs Monica’s eyes that the calendar has changed hands. Living on the morn of Wednesday, somehow the indecision of her life has decided to render time motionless.
The first decision of Monica’s life is brought about by force rather than conscious contemplation. Thousands of lives that were not her own had to perish in order to set her ecosystem in motion, to push her into life. Only through death can she see the future.
Time. All things pass with it. Nothing escapes without it. Up until this morning Monica had not considered it.
When the sun visits for another day exhausted humans greet it with welcoming arms. Light means hope. Light is a sign that things will be alive again. Light means the end of darkness.
Tabitha has shared a sleepless night with her friends, watching the morning light sneak over the ashes of another day. Some of the smoke has cleared, but fires continue to rage in the bowels of the earth.
The first image captured by the media is a horrifying sight, reminiscent of an earlier time, the holocaust in Nazi Germany. Shoes of all kinds are scattered about the destruction. Single shoes with no match, with no people in them. No feet to occupy them. Where have all the people gone?
Still no word from Vanessa.
Sleep is knocking at Tabitha’s eyelids. She fights slumber with bare fists, but her body falls limp into the burgundy couch cushions.
Charlie tucks Tabby’s feet onto the couch, no longer concerned that the girl’s combat boots are messing up her furniture. The little concerns no longer concern her. Tabby may need these shoes for running to her sister’s arms. Purpose is more important than cleanliness. She looks down at her sleeping friend, admiring her optimism. “Don’t worry Tabby. We’ll wake you if there is any news.” Her whispering seems to soothe the punk rocker passed out before her. Charlie pulls a soft blanket over Tabby’s shoulders.
“Sleep now.”
Sky and Lenore hunker down on the floor in front of the couch, moving the heavy coffee table. Not exactly the slumber party of their youth, but at least none of them are alone.
Time is a violent act of defiance. She spits out fragments of life while marching across an open field. Monica despises everything that she loves as time saunters past her, and her past lags behind. All that remains among the remains of time are photographs. Still frames, memories chiseled out of negative light. She stares down at a fragment of life that time has bitterly discarded. A picture of her body standing at the zenith of a majestic structure. One hundred and ten stories in the air with wind licking her multi-colored hair.
Two calendar months have past since photographs captured her memories of the twin towers. Her body forever suspended in the stillness of a moment, on top of an ecosystem that has imploded upon itself and all who visited its heart in regular intervals. All the blue of structural steel changed coats to red. Red fire, red blood, red shoes.
Memories are one thing that time cannot touch, nor destroy. Monica slinks into the arms of mistress sleep, her only savior from the darkness of daylight. Her enemy time saunters past, spiting fragments of her life into the sacred kingdom of dreams. The easy chair becomes toilsome to recline in. As slumber mocks rest the photographs escape printless fingertips and collapse in a lifeless pile upon the lowest level of Monica’s ecosystem, her feet.
Dreams are no comfort for the young theatrical wizard of Buffalo. Scott’s eyes feel like a rusty metal gate, scratching relentlessly against the dry surface of his baby blues. His subconscious has been nagging him all night with thoughts of what his future will hold, and his brief night terrors rang out with shots from high powered riffles on a bloody battle field. He has slept for two hours, maybe.
The television is still screaming at him from across the living room. Since quality sleep is out of the picture he decides to chase the bad dreams away with a burning cup of sludge made from last nights coffee grounds. He drags his feet along the black area rug on the way to the kitchen, and yawns like a bear rising from winter hibernation.
Pains from guilt riddle Scott’s stomach before he even swallows the first sip of nearly fresh ground coffee. He knows that he shouldn’t feel guilty for having a bad knee, but his upbringing would beg to differ if it could.
When Scott was just ten years old he rode his bike into a busy intersection while he wasn’t paying attention. An old man in a classic car ran over the boy at thirty five miles per hour. The accident left Scott with a cracked clavicle, a fractured knee, lost cartilage, and torn ligaments. It took two surgeons three surgeries to repair the damage. This prevented Scott from participating in any sporting activities as a teenager. He is thankful for that only because it forced him to discover his true talent for the stage. The down side of the accident was the disappointment that his father, Chuck, expressed freely for the last twelve years.
Chuck and his father before him are decorated military men. All of the males in Scott’s family are expected and encouraged to join the United States armed forces the moment that they turn eighteen. All three of Scott’s brothers are in the Marines, all of the Nelson boys are enlisted, all except for ‘art boy’ as his father so affectionately refers to him.
From the moment that the words ‘attack’ and ‘war’ left the presidents mouth Scott had terrifying visions of two distinctly separate dilemmas. The first of which being the loss of one or all of his brothers in a war. The other of his family torturing him with reminders of his disabilities for the remainder of eternity. Either way, this whole mess spells trouble for Scott. Not to mention the myriad of other emotions swimming around in his blood stream. A hypnotic pattern of thoughts whirl before his eyes.
Despite his upbringing, Scott has always been extremely sensitive. Showing these emotions was never an option in the Nelson household. If anyone ever spotted him crying, he had better have a serious physical wound. As tears for the recently deceased victims begin to trail down his plump cheeks the memory of his father’s words of wisdom ring in his ears. “No general’s son cries like a little girl! Walk it off. Be a man!”
The harder Scott tries to walk it off, the harder he sobs. Man or boy, he will never be able to ‘walk off’ the death of thousands in a tragedy too horrible for words. All those years that he has spent practicing rigid self-control are crumbling at an alarming rate. The tears turn to waterfalls. The waterfalls turn to Scott rocking back and forth in the middle of his kitchen floor. He no longer gives a rat’s ass about pride, glory, or genetic toughness. He is a man. Just a human man, and as far as he can tell, any man would cry right now.
Scott’s body lurches when the phone rings. He tries to contain his moment of emotional outbursts, and mask it as professionally as possible. “Hm, chm. Hello.” Said in the deepest voice that he can muster.
“How you holdin’ up son? You’re, uh mother is worried about you boys. I told her ya’ll are probably just fine, but she wanted me to check up.” Chuck’s voice is as commanding as usual, but this time there is suspicious warmth to his tone. Pauses seem to make him uncomfortable. “So, all you’re buddies in the clear?”
Holding back tears, Scott tries to answer as plainly as he can. “Well, I have some friends in New York. Went to visit them in July. Everyone is okay, I guess. Haven’t heard anything yet, sir.”
“Coordinates can be a bitch. If you need help locating anyone, you let me know. I’ll have some of my boys look right into that for you. I’ll tell your mother that you are holding down the fort. She worries a lot you know.”
“Yes, sir.”