by Jack Beal
“How ‘bout a birthdate? That shouldn’t be too hard for ya.”
My hands turn to fists, the blood draining from my knuckles. I want to punch this creep’s lights out, but then I’ll be done for. I’m going to have to calm down and play along if I want to blow this joint. “July third.”
“Year?”
“1941.”
“Happy belated,” the cop says, mockingly. “Today’s the fifth of July, so that makes it real easy. You’re exactly seventy-two.”
I want to tell him no. That would make me exactly seventy-two and two days, but the proverbial cat’s got my tongue. Seventy-two? My mind is spiraling. How? Why? I finger-count my way up to the current year: 2013.
“So tell me, Mr. Flynn,” the policeman cuts in, “Do you have a habit of exposing yourself to young children?”
That’s where I draw the line. I don’t know how I ended up on that carousel in my hospital nightgown, but I sure as horsefeathers wasn’t trying to expose myself to anyone! “I did nothing of the sort!”
“That’s not what the witnesses are saying.” He flips a couple pages backward in his notebook before adding, “I have you down for indecent exposure, assault and larceny.”
“What in the world? I’m not guilty of any of these things!”
“Save it for the judge…” A loud hammering cuts him short. “Yeah?”
The door cracks open. An older policeman with a face like a Saint Bernard pops his head in. He whispers a few words, to which the first cop stands abruptly and exits the room.
As the clock ticks, I fumble over the facts. The hospital gown is responsible for the indecent exposure allegation. But assault? And larceny? What do they think I’ve done? And how are they planning on punishing me?
As the door whips open, my fear beats in me like a second heart. It’s as if two conflicting pulses are colliding beneath my skin. When Cop Bernard slams the door shut, I’m almost expecting a third set of pulsations. Until, offering an apologetic smile, he reaches out a hand. “Sorry for the delay, sir.”
His hand is cool and clammy, as if he’s nervous. “Not a problem,” I manage. Since when do I have the luxury of all this civility?
“My name is Officer Slayton. I’ll be taking care of you from here on out.”
Wait. What just happened? It feels like I’ve been transported to the concierge desk of some fancy hotel, rather than being seated in this dimly lit interrogation room. “What’s going on?”
“Well, you see, sir…without your papers…my officer didn’t realize who you were. Plus, everybody at the station’s been real on edge. You know, since the shootings, yesterday. At Millennium Park?”
I furrow my brows and fake a nod.
“On behalf of the entire department, I apologize for this heinous mistake,” he continues. “I hope it won’t lead to any…er…backlash.”
Slayton pauses, waiting for my response. When I frown, he continues. “One of your colleagues is on her way. Can I get you anything to make you more comfortable while waiting for her to pick you up?”
A thousand questions poke up in me. But I decide to push them back down into the abyss. They’re letting me free. And that’s all that matters.
I’m sipping on an iced macchiato, whatever that is, when this real ritzy broad comes strutting in. “Robert!” she exclaims through a long, rolling r. Her inflection places her somewhere between shock and pity. Frowning, she hands me a black matte paper bag. “Change,” she states with a dry, Slavic voice.
Officer Slayton shows me to a private locker room where I can get dressed. After assuring the cop his assistance won’t be needed, I pull out a couple of the folded garments and lay them on the wooden bench. The get-up reminds me of something a certain Monty Bristol might like. It’s only missing the double chain. I sure hope Miss Dressed-to-the-Nines isn’t expecting me to wear this thing! But as I rifle through the rest of the bag, I let out a long sigh. There’s nothing but the overly-starched 3-piece suit, an equally stiff tie, a pair of shiny shoes, a black leather wallet, and a pair of replacement frames.
The suit is as stiff as a corpse, and as I glance at myself in the mirror, I feel about as attractive as one. The guy looking back at me is the same old fuddy-duddy I saw in the hospital. Fastening on the tie, I set back out to the waiting room.
This time, the woman offers me an enthusiastic grin. It’s large and toothy, reminding me of that wolf who preys on little girls with picnic baskets. “Ah! That’s my Robert!” She slides a pair of silk gloves all the way up to her elbows and waits for me to take her by the arm.
The orange sun is already dipping down in the sky by the time we exit the police station, arm in arm. It illuminates the skyline with streams of liquid copper, setting the world ablaze.
A car the color of a Siberian night, and nearly as long, is waiting for us in a no-parking zone. Once we’re set up comfortably inside the limo and the chauffeur closes the privacy screen, I loosen the suffocating tie and lean back. The air inside of the car is stifling, leaving me queasy. Taking in a few deep breaths, I close my eyes and feel myself drifting away.
“I booked our flight back to Houston for the first thing in the morning,” the thick Russian accent rips me from my trance. “Which means…”
“Which means…what?”
My question must catch her off-guard, because a rosy flush washes over her cheeks. Then it washes over me. Desire ignites inside me, both familiar and strange. This isn’t the time! I try to tell myself, but I don’t want to listen.
“Which means,” she breathes sensually, painting kisses down my neck, “tonight, it’s just the two of us.”
I glance down to her left hand. A rock that’d put the crown jewels to shame is perched on the fourth finger, beside a wedding band. My old, knotty finger is bare.
“Just the two of us…Just the two of us…” As the woman’s echoing voice fades away, I can almost hear Grandmom’s ringing out, retelling the legend of the echo. “There once was a nymph who loved her own voice so much she never stopped talking. When Zeus found out, he decided to use it to his advantage. Using Echo to distract his wife, Hera, Zeus would swoop down from Mount Olympus and find other women to couple with. When Hera found out, she punished the nymph. Hera stole Echo’s voice, only allowing her to repeat what other people said. And that’s how the echo was born.”
I can hear myself asking, “What’s the moral?” And Grandmom answering. “Like with all good stories, there are two. First, cheating is wrong. And second, never underestimate the power of an echo.”
I know Grandmom would tell me to do what’s right, but the woman next to me is looking at me with hungry eyes. Plus, myths are just that, nothing more than fanciful stories.
The cork buzzing through the cabin grabs my attention. Handing me a glass, she clinks hers to mine. “To Texas tea!”
“To Texas tea!” I repeat, even if I must admit it’s a funny way to refer to champagne. I’d say French fizz, I decide, emptying the glass in one chug. I recognize the flavor easily, as if I’m accustomed to drinking it often.
The stretch Lincoln sashays up to a heavily windowed two-story. A moment later, the driver is opening the door and helping us out.
Soft pink light fills the entranceway corridor, which we follow to a tall, sleek desk. “Reservation under the name Morozov. Belinda.” Handing the man her gloves, she adds, “And Mr. Robert Flynn.”
The host’s eyes widen noticeably, and he bows his head. “It is our pleasure to serve you in this dining experience, Mr. Flynn. We have saved you our best table. Please, come this way.”
After a 20-course culinary experience, the waiter brings what he calls “l’addition.” Opening the little booklet, my eyes bulge from th
eir sockets. From what I can see, they should call the thing “le subtraction.” $1100 for a single meal! The same price my dad paid for his Ford Deluxe last year. Well, not exactly last year.
My stomach falls straight into my polished shoes. I don’t have any money!
Belinda is looking at me with an air of confusion. “Use platinum,” she instructs, reaching into my wallet and plucking out a small rectangular card. Platinum? It looks more like plastic to me. Either way, it works. A few minutes later, we’re back in the limo.
“Millennium Park,” the chauffeur announces, stopping at the corner of Randolph and Michigan.
“What are we doing here?” I ask, hoping they’ve cleaned the place up after last night. I don’t do well with the sight of blood.
“I thought maybe you’d like to get some air. Thought maybe we could watch the fireworks.” Taking me by the arm, Belinda leads me through Wrigley Square. The antique-style semi-circle of limestone columns leaves me frozen in my tracks. It bears the exact likeness to the pictures of Zeus’ dwelling up on Mount Olympus.
“Thought maybe we could watch the fireworks,” she echoes, Grandmom’s story filtering in. Never underestimate the power of an echo.
I swallow hard. “But why are they having the fireworks again? Didn’t they have them yesterday?”
“No, silly! The fireworks are today. After all, it’s the Fourth of July!”
My mind races back to the police station. I can almost hear that condescending twenty-something snickering. Happy belated. Today’s the fifth of July.
When a loud crackling rips through the silence, I look up. But the night remains black. And that’s when I realize. It’s not coming from up there, but down here.
“Gunshots!” Belinda screams, reaching out one of her silken gloves and pulling me deeper into the park. We race past the Boeing Gallery and across a flower-adorned pathway before collapsing into a clearing between some trees.
More shots ring out, falling upon us like perfect echoes. Stopping cold, I spin around. And there it is. A giant silver disc shimmers in the night.
“Have you lost your mind,” Belinda screams, tugging at my sleeve. But I stand there, motionless. Staring up at the blinding metal disc, my mind sweeps across the decades. I remember placing my hand on the flying saucer’s side, and the door appearing as if out of nowhere. I can almost hear their hushed voices saying that when I came back out, I was no longer in Roswell. That I’d shown up six years later at a crash site in Kingman. Maybe all I have to do is find the doorway to this one. Maybe it’ll take me back home!
My longing draws me closer, eyes glued to the murky shadows reflected in it. Obscure, elongated shadows that seem unable to move, as if etched into the shining surface. The smoky smell of palm trees baking under a summer sun calls me from some distant corner of my mind. I’m traveling down a peaceful road of pavilions, the blinding sun casting elongated shadows upon their white walls…
I reach up my hand.
“What are you doing?” She’s begun shrieking.
It makes me feel the need to do the same. “I’ve got to touch the flying saucer. I’ve got to see!”
“That’s no flying saucer, and you know it! That’s the Cloud Gate Sculpture! Now come on!”
The Cloud Gate? The name means nothing to me. But it does spark a memory I’ve nearly forgotten. Something I’ve been trying to remember. Something lingering on the edge of my awareness, just out of reach. The Dwelling of the Two Gates.
In the Cloud Gate’s shining surface, I perceive the ancient limestone building. I allow myself to be lured under its crumbling arches, led down its ancient passageways. Down, down, into the abyss.
Whatever rests here is at the center of my mission. I can feel it. But before I can descend into the cave’s deepest hollows, something won’t let me. A single thundering crack rings out, fracturing the image before me, draining it of its life. Silence washes over the park, the Cloud Gate, and me.
Overtaken by vertigo, I squint up at the shining sculpture. But it, too, is spinning. An unending black and silver spiral reaching into the depths of the unknown.
“What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments,
but what is woven into the lives of others.”
~Pericles
EIGHT
STRANDS OF TRUTH
Muffled sounds cut through the silence. The noise is thermal. Electromagnetic. Like radio static. A machine-like voice cuts in. “Eighteenth.” The energy changes abruptly. A sizzle of excitement fills the air. Then a peaceful lull.
Fssst. The static chafes back in, blatantly and unconcerned. It’s so dense I can see its downy filaments intersecting, fiber by spindly fiber. Once whole, the feather travels effortlessly toward me. It pieces through the hush before tumbling to my feet in soft, easy movements.
It brings with it a memory. Could this be what that old owl woman had been trying to explain to me? Could this be the place between the two frequencies?
I grow vaguely aware of the two realities holding onto me. One, lying elusively in the shadows while the other reaches tangibly out before me. The static blares up.
“Twenty-third.” The same agitation surges, but this time it’s curtailed by a gentle swaying. It rocks my body, as if urging me to wake. The white noise changes. It mimics that distinct tapping you hear just after putting a vinyl onto a record player. The empty space, before the song begins. “Cry not, my sweet child, when it’s dark and you feel alone,” my mother’s voice drifts in. It’s soft, as if far, far away. I try holding onto the words, but they trip and get tangled between the music lines. New waves of static come rolling in. “Twenty-eighth.”
Another feather falls. My eyes shoot open. It’s as if my senses begin stirring all at once. My temples pound. My throat tightens. And while I’ve just come out of a long, deep sleep, I’m exhausted.
Curled up on a hard-plastic bench, I wriggle my arms and legs. They move as easily as leaden bricks.
Tearing my forehead away from the wall it’s kissed up against, I flinch. A pair of angry eyes claw into mine, sending me recoiling gracelessly onto the metallic floor. Cumbersomely, I pick myself up and brush off the filth.
The eyes tracing my every move belong to a man with long, flowing hair. Shirt torn open, muscles rippling, he’s standing ruggedly next to an oversized perfume bottle. The poster, which is curled up at the edges, is trembling gently.
I’m on a train. Judging from the lack of light filtering in through the capsule-shaped windows, it’s underground.
As I go to take my seat, I discover it’s already been taken. I’ll have to hold on to the strap. The scent of fried onions wafts through the otherwise stifled air. My stomach lurches, my mouth salivates. Until I realize the odor’s coming from the guy standing next to me. Repulsed, I decide to change places.
But as I do, the ground below me lurches sharply. My attempts to hang on to the metal loop are futile, and I’m sent flying into the seats across the way. I hit my head on a crooked metal sign that reads, “Find your place amongst the stars…BURN BRIGHT,” before falling into the lap of a guy who looks like he could be the next heavyweight champion.
It sure feels like I found my place amongst the stars. They’re circling viciously around my head. As far as the burning, it’s spreading like wildfire over my cheeks.
“Sorry,’ I mutter, ripping myself from where I’ve landed. Averting my eyes from the man grumbling beneath his breath, I scurry to one of the metal poles at the cabin’s center and latch on. The embarrassment is raining over me in heavy torrents. I feel like everybody’s laughing at me. I wish I could disappear. Closing my eyes, I try to will the idea into being. It doesn’t work.
&
nbsp; When I open my eyes back up, I’m still on the crowded train. Yet, to my surprise, nobody’s even looking at me.
They’re all standing there, like a bunch of zombies. Until the mechanical voice says, “Thirty-third,” and they all go scattering this way and that. It’s quite something to see.
Blank, cold and unaffected, they stand like an army of robots. They all have wires hanging out of their ears and detached expressions across their faces.
“Forty-second.” The garbled voice evokes them into action, like a command. Together, they arouse from their indifference. Collectively, they move from their seats. In quick, synchronized strides, they march.
The army of automatons is too strong for me to resist. I’m pushed through the curving, metal door and onto a cement platform. Outside, the air is thick with smog and the stench of days-old piss. The robots race this way and that, streaming away until, suddenly, I’m the only one left on the concrete slab.
I follow the arrows to the nearest exit. Pinching my nostrils shut, I start up the paved steps and toward the light. The radiant sun peeking in from the end of the stairwell reminds me of the one from my dreams. I want to see it. I want to feel its warmth. Eagerly, I bound up the stairs two at a time. But as I burst from the tunneled staircase and out into the fresh air, it’s not a peaceful path of palm trees that greets me. It’s a concrete jungle: harsh, cold, and savage. A black sign with boxy white letters is hanging above my head. Times Square — 42 Street Station.
The frigid wind blows straight through the overly starched suit. Clenching my arms around my chest, I step out into the subzero temperatures of a December-struck Manhattan.
A myriad of black winter coats race at one another, veering away just before they collide. Massive buildings spewing from the sidewalks whittle off into tiny points before disappearing. In the sky, it’s the same hectic scene. But as I crane my neck to spy the countless silver splinters sweeping across the firmament, I’m also swept away.