More horror from the crowd.
“I may well lose my job, ladies and gentlemen. The three flights have disappeared off radar, and there is no record. We are the only flight to survive. Please remain seated until the authorities check and clear all terminals. Flight attendants and service crew, please stay in your seats as well, thank you.”
Almost immediately, the authorities enter the plane. One knocks on the pilot’s cabin. Nothing. Another knock. Nothing. They open the door. Neither the pilot nor co-pilot are present.”
I really don’t want to explain any of this to Denise, he figures.
So he decides then and there to disappear for over a year.
I’ll deal with it then—
“McFee!” He is jolted awake by Bradley. “Your cab’s been waiting outside for minutes. What the hell’s with you? I’ve tried waking you for minutes. Now come and let’s get upstairs.”
The writer looks around in a daze.
“Come on, now! My budget can’t afford your wanderlust.”
Thomas regains his senses. “Was just checking to see if I forgot anything,” he bluffs.
“Now!” says Donovan.
They head upstairs.
These dreams are becoming so much more vivid than before, Thomas thinks. Why?
As the cab driver waits outside, the same as in New York, he watches the two men from the window. They appear to be engaged in serious discourse about something. Finally, Donovan extends his hand. Thomas looks at it for a moment, and shakes it.
~~~
Inside.
As Thomas shakes—“You know, I think I will actually miss you.”
Donovan laughs. “Oh you will. You can believe that, my dear McFee.
The horn honks.
“I guess I should get going?”
“I guess you should,” Donovan says.
Thomas approaches the cab, enters and slams the door. The cabbie starts the meter.
“Sorry, Mr. McFee, wasn’t trying to be rude or nuthin’—”
“You’re fine,” Thomas responds.
“Just gotta get back in time for my old lady. Our anniversary, you know.” He pulls away.
“Happy anniversary, then.” Thomas is just being polite. He wants to be anywhere but there.
An awkward, quiet moment. Thomas catches the cabbie peeking at him from the driver’s mirror, then lowering his eyes upon being caught.
The cabbie breaks the silence. “I have a question for you,” he asks.
“What’s that?”
Thomas is preoccupied, trying to make sense at all of the apparent reverie of earlier today.
“What’s what?” asks the cabbie.
“You have a question, you said.”
“Oh yeah, I do. Where’s my head?”
Nothing.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
Here we go . . . Thomas thinks.
“I’m getting just the slightest accent. You from Brooklyn?”
“That was it?”
“What?”
Thomas sighs. He puts down his papers. “I figured you were from somewhere near my neighborhood,” he says.
“Whereabouts?”
“Williamsburg. You?”
“Park Slope.”
“Nice. I always wanted to move to Park Slope.”
“What made you come out all the way to London?”
“Well, you really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Christ. What’s with you?” Thomas is at his end.
“I’m just joshin’!” The cabbie laughs. “Always great to meet a fellow Brooklyn punk.”
“Just joshin’ . . .”
“Loosen up. You’re not my first celebrity fare, and I love shaking you guys up a little. It’s called leaving a first impression.”
“Who were your other celebrities?”
“What?”
“Are you through? Is there a screw loose, there, or—”
“Gotcha.” He laughs again. Thomas is exasperated. “I drove your dad once, if you really want to know.”
“My father. How did you know?”
“I figured I had to disarm you first before I got there.”
“It worked. So that was your shtick?”
“That was my shtick. Member of the Tribe? I never knew.”
“Wha—”
“Member of the Tribe? Are you an MOT?”
“What the hell are you—”
“You a Jew?”
Thomas winces at the direction this is all taking. “I keep my affiliations private.”
“I understand. I’m a MOT. Dad was a mohel—”
“Do I want to know this?”
“I’m getting to your dad, sit tight.”
“Tell me, then. Jesus, all the time wasting—”
“He was a Jew too, you know.”
“I was at his bar mitzvah.”
The cabbie cracks up. “Great stuff. You’re a natural comedian, McFee. Why don’t you write comedy? You’re always so damn serious in your books.”
“You read my work?” asks Thomas, surprised.
“Can’t judge a book by its cover.” He awaits a laugh that doesn’t come. He sighs. “My wife doesn’t think I’m very funny either.”
“Tell me what you want to tell me. I have a long flight ahead of me.”
“I asked your dad the same question.”
“What was the response?”
“He gave the same answer.”
Thomas nods. “I see.”
“I got fired, divorced, and needed a major overhaul, which included a radical change of scenery. I came out here on vacation once, loved it, and decided to return. So I was at shul last night, and the rabbi interviewed someone who discussed how dreams are more than just make-believe or wish-fulfillment.”
That got Thomas’ attention. “Who did he interview?”
The cabbie continues. “I’ll get to that. I think her name was Sam. Same last name. You don’t have a daughter, do you?”
Thomas is stunned, but plays it close to the vest. His usual strategy. Listen, don’t speak.
“I get it,” the cabbie continued. “So I was there and all. It seemed like the woman, couldn’t have been more than twenty-one, twenty-two, but very, very hot—” Thomas reacts at that last, and the cabbie notices through the mirror. “She was real smart, though. Real smart. Mensa-level, I think.”
“Yeah.”
“Hey, was that an admission?”
“No.”
“Anyhoo . . . she said she knew people who, the less spiritually inclined they were, regardless of religion, often found answers in their sleep.”
“How did she say she knows this?”
“Knows wha—” Thomas glares. “Gotcha again.” Thomas glares again. “She said she lived with someone for many years who did the same.” He seems without guile, but Thomas doesn’t know for sure. He stays mum. “She debated with the rabbi, contending that the less spiritually inclined a person was, the more curious they were, as opposed to less.”
“But what did she base her findings on?”
“Quantum theory and all that jazz.”
“What did the rabbi say?”
“He clearly wasn’t fond of her, as she took God out of the picture. Do you believe in God, Mr. McFee?” Thomas ponders. “Well, do you?”
Thomas very simply and calmly repeats what he said earlier. “I keep my affiliations private,” he says.
KINGWAY HOSPITAL
They dated for three years, not all of them happy. And now it’s ended. She’s told him numerous times of her belief that he’s never lied to her, ever, though she was convinced her ambition intimidated him and has told him that too.
But he never lied. And she did. Constantly.
“You’ll make it,” was his regular refrain. “You’ll become a world-renowned photographer and forget about your nobody boyfriend who talks a big game but nobody knows works in a deli and makes bage
ls part time to meet the bills.”
“It’s a living,” Sidra says.
“It is for me.”
“Doesn’t that matter for anything?”
“For you, I’m not so sure. I always think you want something more, outside of your photography even, and I can't put my finger on it.”
These were typical responses during typical arguments. In Sidra, he saw promise. When she won awards or kudos, he felt sorry for himself because he never saw a positive thing within himself.
Once, when they approached the black, they were as close as ever.
“Ready to do this?” she asked.
“Don’t have a hell of a lot of choice,” he said.
“Got everything?”
“Yup.”
“Let’s go.”
He always wanted to die with her. “We’ll get old together,” he said. They enter a cave.
And then black happens, and his vitals cease to nothingness.
~~~
“Nas Levin was not supposed to die!” the doctor says. “Only he possibly had the answers about the woman. Does anyone have Sidra Ghioto’s contact number?” he asks.
“She’s away,” says his nurse.
“Where?” he asks.
“She’s in Egypt.”
The doctor makes a difficult decision. “Call Palatnek,” he says.
A PRECIOUS AFFAIR
NYPD 1st PRECINCT
GREENWICH VILLAGE, NEW YORK
Officer David Michael Palatnek only takes a day off in the event of an emergency. He’s the only cop in his department that also dares remain after work hours; the DMP, a broom-closet-sized office reserved for him as a joke—hence his initials—on his birthday now includes a computer desk with full utility, a cot, and single bookshelf. The DMP is his home away from home.
Without it, he believes, he may very well lose his mind.
The officer returns to his Coney Island apartment to visit his elderly mother but once a week, where she stays with an aide. They had always been close, very much so, but as she aged she became resentful and angry. Her moods depress him almost as much as Coney Island itself. Though it’s a money drain, he pays for a twenty-four-hour live-in or would otherwise be unable to deal with his guilt.
Always there for me, and I owe her this much. To work as hard as I can, because I was never able to afford taking her away from that hole.
He receives no overtime pay nor any tangible reward for his extra efforts. He is an obsessive worker who must remain in control at all costs; there is no alternative. He hates to sneeze, even, because unconscious function is weakness, and weakness is far too much for him to bear. Officer Palatnek stands five-foot-three, which means if there were a current height requirement for his job—as there was in the past—he would be disallowed from doing what he does best. He’s a fine police officer with a track record second to none; he works that much harder and is that much more dedicated than anyone else. He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t smoke, he doesn’t socialize. He is single by choice. He has no children by choice. He is married to his job.
He’s no party.
His retired fraternal twin brother, who lives in Hawaii and with whom he rarely speaks but shares uncomfortable commonalities, tells him he is “offended” by having a brother who never has any “fun.”
He’s the party.
Officer Palatnek’s usual series of retorts: His brother “rarely ever lifted a hand” to help financially when their father died a few years back of Alzheimer’s; while his brother is wasting his life away “on the beach,” he’s taking care of their mother.
There’s some truth there.
His captain loves him for who he is, and the rest of the force respects him. They good-naturedly joke behind his back, and that’s cool. He’s a formidable presence, and his precinct agrees that, in the field, they feel safer with him than most anyone. He can be a massive pain in the ass, and Napoleon sometimes comes up in conversation among his peers, but at least he’s noticed. And respected where it counts.
All of which is good enough for him.
The officer, the smaller of two partners who sketched the mysterious woman on the Jersey Shore, was happy with his handiwork. An artistic rendering is difficult enough. Recreating an artistic rendering as it should be, as opposed to what it is, creates its own set of issues.
He does not believe Sidra. Though she was charged with nothing, he didn’t believe a word of her statement then nor does he now. She was asked to remain quiet and she has, but maybe, just maybe, she has an ulterior motive.
He will not let this one lie.
Sidra Ghioto, it’s not over.
He completes the sketch as it should be. He adds a mouth and eyes.
The officer studies his revised work.
Maybe she’d recognize her now? he ponders as he admires his handiwork. Yeah. This will be the case they'll remember me for.
Quietly overcome with a rush of recognition, Officer Palatnek walks to his desk and starts his computer.
A few commands later, and his monitor displays a file folder image. The wording underneath reads:
X LETTERS TO MEDIA
Officer Palatnek opens the file and scrolls, letter after letter. He highlights the name that appears most frequently:
Ara.
As he skims the file’s contents with his left hand, he runs his index finger over the revised drawing with his right.
He makes a connection, exits this file, and enters another:
X ARREST
Officer Palatnek was the arresting officer. The connection he makes is a date check on the letters he’s received.
The last of the letters in this file was dated back in 2014.
A few new keystrokes later, and his attention is suddenly diverted when a bar appears and flashes on the bottom middle of his monitor:
DENISE WATKINS IS ONLINE AS [email protected]
He hurriedly taps his keyboard with the same excitement he once had as a child opening Chanukah gifts. Tap tap tap tap. “What took you so long, Ms. Watkins? This should be good.”
He clicks on an incoming e-mail image.
“Thank you, my dear,” he says.
The e-mail takes a moment to open, but once loaded Officer Palatnek glimpses the contents first.
“So there it is, just as you promised, but I still don’t trust you worth a damn.” He scrolls to the end. “And as to this . . . I’m not surprised. Why?”
Officer Palatnek places the fresh e-mail into a new file, which he titles:
X: POST-ARREST LETTER
He then clicks again to open.
“Should be fun. My fun.”
And he reads . . .
An Open Letter to the Media
1/3/15
I spoke to Thomas McFee recently. We didn’t get on well, which is too bad as I really am something of a fan. How I so wanted to discuss the finer points of Tolkien’s The Silmarillion, which the author never completed, you know.
But of course you do if you are at all literate. Stupid me.
Anyway, regarding Thomas and me, we got sidetracked. We discussed other things, issues of varying importance. I think I need to make up for that lost time, so I’m reaching out once more to you, the world at large.
Let’s talk. Let’s talk for a minute about my new friend, shall we? You all know my friend, the one with the love-hate relationship with his publisher, a sordid state of affairs that the gossip rags froth over? They could never be, unfortunately, like Luthien and Beren, the names inscribed on the Tolkiens’ gravestones, the “great loves” of The Silmarillion.
. . . of The Silmarillion, his (well, not all his) unsung final work? Because he was married before, and I understand their ending was quite tragic and—
And . . .
You know what? I just thought of something. I’ll do all the talking. You don’t know him like I do. Pressure’s off. Onward and upward.
McFee’s publisher is one Denise Watkins of Scarp Publish-ing in New York. When I s
ay “represented,” I mean she is his agent. He’s very successful; I don’t know why he needs her anymore, when he can write his own ticket—well, actually I do; see above—but . . .
I must admit, by the way, that Ms. Watkins’ building does contain a fairly homey roof. I can only imagine the morally reprehensible goings-on after hours, especially on Friday nights during “Happy Hour” (which, as brilliant as I am, remains a concept I could never understand). But I digress.
Don’t bother. Further police efforts to find me are best targeted elsewhere. Been there, done that, as they say. Now, on to business.
Thomas McFee’s father was an associate of Mr. Tolkien’s.
“We’ll talk when you’re done. No! Close your mouth. You may catch butterflies.”
Maybe a “limited associate” is a more accurate descriptor. They didn’t know each other all that well, but they did have some dealings.
So, the writing of Tolkien’s The Silmarillion actually commenced well before The Hobbit. The stand-alone tales that would ultimately comprise the posthumously published work began to take shape in 1914. Consistent with the author’s abid-ing ambition to—paraphrasing Wikipedia—“create an English mythology that would explain the origins of English history and culture,” Tolkien mined various world myths to create nothing less than a pre-history of the planet Earth. He had just returned from France after taking part in the First World War. He was in the hospital, recuperating and presumably reflective, when he put pen to paper.
He composed his most famous books in the ensuing years, and attempted now and then to go back to The Silmarillion. He strived to complete the work before he died but was unsuccessful.
The completion of this book was, metaphorically, a lifelong ambition. I believe his compulsion to create a “pre-history” was much more urgent than we have been led to believe.
But who am I to say? I’m just a “crackpot.”
And so we go on.
The Silmarillion was published in 1977 with no small amount of assistance from others.
I reached out to Mr. McFee to share some information about this—I have some unique insight, you see—I wanted to help with his book, but he was quite rude.
Chronicles of Ara: Perdition Page 36