September Ends

by Jones, Hunter S.

  The TV caught me off guard.

  “An accident earlier this morning has killed an unconfirmed ten Amtrak passengers and left multiple injuries, many critical. Surprisingly, the driver who caused the accident, a 33-year-old man identified as Peter Hendrix of Chattanooga, Tennessee, has survived. He is in Grady Hospital and reports state that he is in stable condition with no injuries, suffering only minor bruises. Witnesses tell our reporters that Mr. Hendrix’s vehicle, a black BMW, suddenly left the road by smashing through the guardrail on I-85 at approximately 2:00 a.m. this morning.

  Witnesses also report that Mr. Hendrix appeared to miss the I-75 Connector to Downtown and lost control of his car on the I-85 ramp. After his car broke through the guardrail, it landed on top of an oncoming train. This caused multiple derailments of incoming and outgoing trains on adjacent tracks. This is believed to be the worst train disaster in Atlanta’s history. Emergency crews are currently onsite.

  A family spokesperson for the Hendrixes say an official statement will be released later today. The names of the victims are being withheld until the families have been notified. Stay tuned to The Eye at Five for the latest updates on this terrible tragedy.”

  An eerie feeling washed over me. A hospital. Oglethorpe Hospital. Hushed voices outside a room. Concerned faces looking down at me. My brother, killed in an accident. A car crash took someone I loved more than I loved myself. The isolation. The guilt of surviving. The nightmare of living. Only this time it was Pete. Pete had been in an accident. Did they say he caused the accident? Pete was in Atlanta in the hospital? Was he really alive? Too many questions caused by too many emotions at one time sent a wave of nausea that made me double over in pain. The dampness of my forehead shadowed the chill that violently washed throughout my body. I managed to make it to the toilet before vomiting. Finally, calm overtook me as my face stuck to the cold white porcelain.

  Pete! Oh dear God! He was hurt! Had he been on his way into Atlanta to see me? Should I go to the hospital? I could get myself together and be there in 20 minutes or so. Oh, thank you, God for letting him survive this!

  Wait a minute, if he was coming into Atlanta to see me, why didn’t he call, or email or leave some type of message for me? There was no telling what he was doing down here. Let his family take care of him. There was no way I was getting in the middle of this, this train wreck of a situation.

  So many dead, actually dead, because of him. Because of me? The nausea hit me in waves; on my hands and knees on the tile floor, my mind attempted to grasp the enormous chasm of disbelief as every atom of my being reacted from the emotional overload. Stomach churning, mind roaming. Tears flowing.

  Oh dearest Lord God, please be with the families of all those injured and killed.

  What could I do? I needed to get out of here. If the press found out I was involved, if Pete was coming into Atlanta to see me or find me, I would really need to get out of town. Like today. Should I go back to Mom & Dad’s for a few days? What should I do?

  Go to London.

  That was it. That had been the message all along. My dreams with the words from my grandfather. I’d call work, call the airlines, and call Mom and Dad. I would be out of here before this thing ruined my family, my career, and me. I was from a good, decent family. That spoiled brat Pete Hendrix wasn’t going to take me and my good family name down in flames with him. I would go to London today.

  Moving as if in a dream because of the sudden shock, I finally found a phone. What was the work number? Oh yeah.

  Within two rings, our new receptionist answered. I said quickly, “Sherry, hey, it’s Liz. How are you? Any chance Jennifer is in the office yet?” Jennifer came in early quite often to catch up on a lot of the HR work. Maybe today she would be there. Fingers crossed.

  “Hey, Liz; doing all right. Yes, hold on and I’ll transfer you. Have a great day!” Oh my, if she only knew. Please pick up the line, Jennifer, please.

  “Liz, hey. Good morning! What time will you be in today? I bought some new shoes I’m dying to show you.”

  “Jen, can’t wait to see your shoes, but listen.” I lowered my voice. “Jennifer, I’ve had a family emergency and need some time off work to go out of town. Can you help me?”

  “Sure, Liz. I hope everything’s okay. Give me a minute to pull up your file. Okay, you have two weeks’ vacation remaining. Want to take all of it or part of it?”

  “All, Jen. I need everything. Both weeks. I’ll let you know how everything is working out in a few days. I need to get out of town as soon as possible. Will you let the guys in my department know?”

  “Of course I will! You just take care of yourself and your family. That’s what’s important, Liz. You can tell me everything when you get back. Be safe and take care.”

  With that, our call ended. The next call was to the airline. Fortunately, they had seating for the direct flight to Heathrow, leaving at 4:30 p.m. It cost $5000, but who cared at this point? I booked it.

  After that, I made calls to disconnect all my current phone numbers and have new numbers issued immediately. With calls to my best friend and my parents, all my personal affairs were in order.

  When I turned on my phone, I saw five text messages from Pete. Oh no. Were they before or after the crash? Instantly, I deleted them all, ran into the hallway, and tossed the phone down the trash chute in the hallway. This phone was of no further use to me. I’d buy a new one when I returned to Atlanta.

  My parents and best friend knew that my departure was sudden. I left it to appear as a quasi-business-stroke-personal trip. Mom and Dad were okay with everything. My best friend, Marlowe, offered to take care of my car so that it wouldn’t sit in the parking lot unattended for two weeks.

  The best part transpired in a few hours when Marlowe called and said her brother’s boss would be out of town for the next few weeks. I could watch his flat for free for the entire time I was in London! A new phone would be waiting for me in London to use on my vacation. Marlowe gave me the number for the phone I would be using in London. She agreed to give the number to no one except my parents, and only if they needed it in case of an emergency. The plan fell into place with the ease of a trapeze artist doing a high wire act. The precision, the act went well—as my world fell apart, my plans to go to London appeared to be coming together. Everything was falling into place.

  On to packing, where I managed jeans, tee shirts, workout clothes, a couple of cotton sweaters, two black dresses, and a few accessories. I would wear leggings, a shirt, jacket, and my old fedora on the flight. That was my casual flight outfit anyway. The biggest challenge was shoes. How could I pack enough shoes to do me two weeks? Black pumps, red pumps, Mary Janes, loafers, workout shoes…screw it. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. I had to narrow it down somehow and take only five, maybe six pairs, if you counted my purple Italian cowboy boots, which I would wear on the flight. So, decision made: it’s the black heels, red heels, running shoes, cowboy boots, and black flats. What was the old saying? A man might let you down, but a good shoe never would. If I needed shoes, I would have to buy a few new ones in London.

  Makeup and brushes disappeared quickly into three bags. I never could travel lightly. You never knew what you would need. Toothbrush, etc., etc., and it was all packed in three cases with one carry-on. How would I ever figure out what was in these bags? So much confusion. I didn’t care. I had to get out of here. Get away from Pete and escape from the wreckage of my love for him.

  Time was running out. I managed to get all the bags stacked neatly on top of one another, call a taxi, and get downstairs. I waited for the car on Peachtree Street. I glanced down at my watch and saw that it was already 2:30 p.m. I would arrive right in time for international check-in.

  The day was going much better than it had started, no doubt. The car arrived and we sped off to Atlanta’s airport on the Southside. Inside the car, the tears started again. Every instinct within me said, “Run! Run!”

  Even with afternoon tra
ffic, the driver got me there on time. Check-in was a breeze, too. After the security check, I found a bar, very cozy and close to my gate, ordered a vodka and grapefruit, and thumbed through a magazine. Once I was alone, with nothing to do, the tears would not stop and dripped like raindrops on the magazine pages.

  We were called to board early. While standing in line, I heard a news report from one of the overhead TV monitors and pictures of tangled wreckage flashed across the screens; Pete’s car, the very car I had been in with him so many times this summer.

  The voice from the announcer was strangely calm as he said:

  “Now, a new report on Mr. Peter Hendrix of Chattanooga, Tennessee. Our entire city wants to know what caused this gruesome chain of events, which has damaged so many lives. His family spokesperson has moved the press conference, originally scheduled this afternoon, to 2:00 p.m., tomorrow afternoon. We have no further information to share with our viewers at this time. But, stay tuned for all the latest updates.”

  Once onboard and seated, I noticed that the flight was quite full. I had been very fortunate to get a seat. The take-off was perfect, with the pilot announcing that we would be landing at London’s Heathrow Airport in the scheduled flight time of 8 hours, 22 minutes. I sank into my seat, turned my head to the window, and just waited, just waiting to be gone, to get away. The attendants came by with the drink carts.

  Did I care that I was deserting Pete in his hour of need? No. He had lied to me, to his family, and to himself. I had been a fool for love. No. No. No.

  “Vodka and grapefruit, please. Two vodkas.” That should knock me out for the night. My drink arrived, I wrapped the black jacket I had worn around me, and removed the fedora. One last time, I viewed the lights of Atlanta as we sped away that night in late September. Closing the window cover, I finished my drink in one gulp, moved the seat into a position that made it more comfortable for sleeping, placed the fedora over my face, and started to cry, in silence, in my self-made solitude. The words of a poem by Lord Byron sprang into my mind, “When we two in silence and tears, in secret we met, in silence I grieve, when we two parted, when we two parted.”

  I really did love Pete, but I had to go to London. Someday, my head and my heart would understand everything. But not today. Today, I understood nothing except the tears that flowed like rivers from my eyes and my heart My heart was truly broken; fragmented like a shattered mirror. Someday, I would understand, but not today and not tomorrow. Someday. One day.

  Through my tears, I remembered the blog, still unread, that I had printed out earlier and reached into my bag in order to retrieve it. I pulled out the piece of paper with the latest blog and poem from Jack O. Savage. As I read it, I was surprised that the poem was The Poet’s last poem for Indie Shadwick. The verse ended as Pete and I had ended, a mirror image that was now…All…Gone…

  Chapter 12

  All…Gone…

  SPEAKING OF HAIR.

  What hasn't such a mirror seen?

  English, full length, mahogany

  Circa eighteen-ten, Regency

  You watch yourself sit on your stool

  Between my legs, your back to me

  I sit, ready, in my wing chair

  Red-leather, buttoned elegance

  Six candles flame all around us

  Neither speaks, no music distracts

  Our eyes lock in said mirror's glass

  You shake your mane of golden joy

  You watch me watching you closely

  You sigh as I inhale, eyes closing

  Your power over me wins all

  O the thrill! this arch thrill you feel

  You watch ... and wait ... and wait and ...

  Our savouring intensifies

  You, o you, you, you, you! O you!

  So feel my breath breezing your neck

  You shi-v-v-ver, we both smile, both know

  You lean forward, shake your hair twice

  You sit up, of a sudden, straight

  Your hair flicks, flicks over my face

  And I begin, as you inhale

  The deepest breath you've ever drawn

  Brushing, stroking, brushing, stroking

  My hands work with a confidence

  A confidence you crave to feel

  Fitting tribute to your power

  The power of your beauteousness

  My hands in play, brushing, stroking

  Brushing, stroking, busy man hands

  Knowing-how-to-please-you man hands

  Brushing, stroking, brushing, stroking

  Tilting first this way hands, then that

  You gaze into your mirrored eyes

  And then at my enthrall'ed face

  Such confidence, such competence

  Locked in orbit round your power

  Brushing, stroking, brushing, stroking

  You've felt how other women stare

  Such hair! such man-demanding hair

  You settle back against my all

  Such man-commanded hair! all yours

  You close your eyes and feel it start

  You sigh intensely in your throat

  Your lips for now remain inert

  But all that will of course ... change

  You study the lines of my face

  Our mirror cheval's seen it all

  Yet even it seems enraptured

  Captured by this arch amore

  You feel my fingers graze your skin

  Our mind, for we are of one mind

  One mind insurgent spirals wild

  And yet ... we pause, we stop ... we wait

  To gaze into our mirror's eye

  We feel our lips upon our neck

  A candle swoons for want of breath

  As one we are as one in this

  Glass made of words, all seeing words

  All words, dissolving words, all ... gone.

  .

  by Jack O Savage for Indie Shadwick

  .

  Part II

  NEW BEGINNINGS

  Chapter 13

  You Make Me Smile

  Jack’s Version

  Don't believe a word my Liz tells you. Trust me. It was like this.

  Yes, it was in a gallery in The Shard. And yes, I was there to perform some of my scribbles for an enormous fee for a charity I happened to care about.

  I'd done my gig and, to my amazement, found myself alone in a bare white room with a wistful contemporary landscape on a wall.

  I wondered if I was happy, or if I'd ever be happy again.

  I sagged under the weight of the dark matter and into the soft welcome of a black leather sofa facing said picture.

  I confess, it reminded me of a picnic with Indie in the Chilterns, one perfect May afternoon. I was happy then, of that I have no doubt, so very happy. But now?

  Indie was stroking the perfect new leaves of a copper beech whose branches swept down to the ground where we were sitting. She stroked my cheek with said leaf.

  “Live to love, Jack, love to live.” That's what she said to me. And then she kissed my neck. Ever so slowly.

  That's how it was. I was thinking of Indie when I met Liz. Indie made me very happy, but she also killed something in me when she walked down the track and into that train speeding into London.

  Yes, the private gallery was dimly lit, with a spot on the picture, very very.

  Picture, poem, picture, poem. Who really sees you, picture? And who ever really hears a word I say? Art? Life?

  When she - Liz - drifted into vision, I felt cross that she'd killed the divine sadness I was savouring.

  A slim blond with a fedora tilted over her eyes, no less. Very Jack O. Savage, I'll have you know.

  I tried to sink deeper into the sofa, to pretend she hadn't seen me. I studied her as she studied the picture, a shard of light gleaming on the shoulder of her black leather jacket.

  I swear to you she was a panther stalking that picture. I was sure she hadn't seen me. She stood still. I swear I held my breath.
She was transfixed by the picture. And I? I was transfixed by her.

  She stood there, her back to me. What was she seeing? I wonder if she knew. There was no need, that. No one expected her to actually look.

  What she was thinking? What she was feeling? And why?

  Not that I was at all interested in her, or any other woman now, for that matter. Not after Indie. No more.

  But what was this? Her shoulders began to shudder. She wasn't weeping, was she? Yes, a sob, a palpable sob.

  I leaned forward, instinctively minded to do - what? I was done with all that man-woman stuff. I sank back into the sofa.

  “I loved your performance before,” she murmured, her back still towards me. “Loved it. You're a rock star with words.”

  I swear to you, she had my attention.

  “Especially that one about the mirror,” said she. “How does it go? The candle swoons. Those last few lines.”

  How could I resist such a cue?

  I recited the last lines of SPEAKING OF HAIR, my voice as dimmed as the light in which Liz and I were as two figures in some black and white foxship of a portrait.

  “A candle swoons for want of breath

  As one we are as one in this

  Glass made of words, all seeing words

  All words, dissolving words, all gone.”

  She was sobbing more openly now. I have this effect on women. I got up to go to her. I said the picture reminded me of a time of great happiness and said I was sorry it seemed to remind her of a less propitious time.

  She turned to face me, tears streaking her face.

  “Your poem reminds me,” she sobbed. “It’s all so sad, but, your words. They’re beautiful. It's beautiful, the picture.” More sobs.

  What chance did I have? Her eyes won me, fifty floors up in a tower of glass. The full catastrophe.

  “I saw you perform it before, on the internet,” she said to me as her eyes kippered my heart.

  “My damsel in distress. I bow to you. At your service.”

  “I was hoping you might perform HANDFUL OF FLASH.”