by Liz Newman
When she arrived home, and the light shone in on the hallway from the front porch of her row house, she felt spirits hiding in dark corners with no desire to reveal themselves. That would be too easy, she thought. Too merciful. Her abdomen cramped and ached, and she crumbled to the ground, placing a hand over the middle and panting.
Skye removed a DVD from her briefcase. She popped it into a DVD player hanging in the corner of her vanity and pressed play. The broadcast from last night’s show filled her bathroom with sound. Skye meticulously applied a fresh coat of make-up while watching herself on the flat screen television reflected in the mirror. On television, Skye interviewed a political commentator who was running for senator for the state of New York.
“The liberal media has a fundamental misunderstanding of who the enemy is,” he said to Skye, arrogantly.
“To clarify, Mr. Coleman, your proposed solution is to infiltrate the native countries of these terrorists and find every child of Arab descent with a rock in their hand and lock them up for conspiracy to commit a terrorist act?” Skye asked.
“Let’s lose the hysterics and get back down to earth. History has shown us that the Arab nations have an extreme hatred for America. That extreme hatred manifested this week in the deaths of more than three thousand Americans,” said Mr. Coleman.
“History has also shown that every time the United States occupies a nation it leads to civil unrest and more war, more lives taken,” Skye replied.
Mr. Coleman laughed, a condescending, tight-lipped slash across his face.
“World War II, Miss Evans?”
“Vietnam, Mr. Coleman? We could muse all the way back to the beginning of time, but my question is, is it wise to engage in war when we are yet unsure of exactly who the enemy is?”
“What’s your solution, Miss Evans?” Mr. Coleman countered. “If I handed the nation over on a silver platter, what would you do?”
“My response to that is I ask the questions on this show. Secondly, I’m not running for office; you are. The public is electing you to come up with the solutions. The public watches my show to determine if you have the solutions or are just appealing to their emotions, which are heated.” Coleman turned red.
Skye turned and faced Camera Three as she said, “Coming up next, the author of the highly anticipated new book, A Generation’s War of Terror, after the break.”
Skye reached up and switched the television off. She mimicked Alfred’s speech to her after the show. “Too overbearing,” she intoned. “Picking over problems and not allowing him to respond. That’s not good journalism, Skye.” She muttered to herself in her own voice. “Hideous.”
She walked over to her closet, picking out jeans and a cream-colored sweater and getting dressed to visit a small café on the corner for dinner alone. Applying a light rose lipstick to her lips, she deemed it to be too sunny, too pretty, and instead switched it for a dark amber color. She pulled the sweater over her head and wandered to her closet to find a drabber colored blouse. As she folded the sweater she noticed a streak of bisque foundation on the neckline. Struggling to remain calm, she poured a bit of cold water on it, rubbing the streak, which embedded itself deeper into the garment. She walked back into the closet, ready to toss the sweater into the bag that held her dry cleaning, and her heel buckled under her and she fell face first into her suits. She pulled herself upright and found she’d stained her mint Chanel suit with her amber lips. She pulled the suit off the shelf, its hanger collapsing. She pulled another suit jacket down, and another; then she ripped each item of clothing off its hanger, screaming.
Skye pulled down a silk blouse, then a pair of suit pants, then a dress. The dress would not give, its buttons fastened tightly, keeping the garment on the hanger. She tugged at the dress until it ripped. Tearing her clothes from the rack violently, she tore through every article of clothing she owned, flailing and thrashing about as each item flew about her closet in shreds. Silk-covered hangers snapped into broken pieces, crashing onto the floor. She stomped on the clothing and debris, pulling at armfuls of clothing until the racks collapsed. She screamed and screamed, begging the tears to run down her face, begging for weakness to overtake her so she could destroy herself willfully. “Why him! Why not me! Why not me!” Her fists pounded her abdomen until a hollow sound reverberated from her stomach and her ribs began to ache.
The weakness did not come. At the end of her episode, she returned to full consciousness and found herself coloring every shoe she owned with the deep amber lipstick as if it were a crayon. Her walk-in closet looked like a bomb exploded inside. How fitting, she thought. Like a perfectly tailored suit, meant for the camera. She cackled, her voice bringing the spirits hiding in the shadows to attention. She shrank back into the walls, burying her face in a ruffled chiffon blouse.
Lying back onto the pile of clothes, she stared up at the light in the middle of the ceiling. An eternity might have passed as she looked up at that light, willing her soul to somehow join it. She rolled onto her side and found a pair of jogging pants, with a white card sticking out of the pocket. She fished the card out, crawled over to the telephone on her nightstand, and dialed a number. A voice answered.
“Charlie,” she purred.
After an evening of groping, sighs, and long, deep kisses, Skye whispered to Charlie in the darkness, “I suppose I have to say I don’t normally do this.”
“I wouldn’t care if you did,” Charlie replied.
He kissed her again, a half-hearted peck on the lips, and turned on the television. He flipped channel after channel, settling on a hockey game. The players bounced the puck from stick to stick, skating in circles and mugging the camera with their black dental protectors.
“This is boring,” said Skye, and changed the channel to Teleworld. Around The Clock replayed at ten o’clock Denny Moss’ face nodded and smiled as the interview with potential senator Mr. Coleman continued. When the camera switched back to Mr. Coleman, he paused for a minute, his eyes downcast. To Skye, he appeared mesmerized by Denny’s gigantic bosom. After a moment’s hesitation, he spoke.
“Fifteen out of the nineteen hijackers were Saudi Arabian nationalists. The call to war is not with Iraq or Iran, but with Saudi Arabia itself. Our country must be committed to a clear and explicit representation of dominance over these areas that breed terrorism.”
“I agree one hundred percent,” Denny nodded.
“Finally, someone who sees things clearly!” Mr. Coleman said. “The bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, while they cost millions their lives, sent a clear message to the enemy and the war ended. The same result can be achieved with direct and intemperate force applied to the war on terrorism.”
“Better start building your bomb shelter,” Skye muttered. She switched off the television and curled up in the bed. Charlie lay motionless, under the covers, with his back to her.
“Charlie?” she said in the darkness. His soft snore answered her.
Chapter Six
Inside Dr. Len Carter’s office, Skye paced back and forth in front of the window of the high-rise building, stopping occasionally to stare down at the street below as she spoke. “I’m doing much better now. Fifteen-hour days, anchoring coverage of the attack, and one day a week off. Back to the old schedule. After next week, two days a week off, which I’m dreading.”
“Since 9/11, what do you do on your day off?” Dr. Carter asked, scribbling on a notepad.
“When I’m not attending funerals, I watch TV.”
“What programs do you like to watch?”
Skye thought hard, her arms folded. “I don’t remember. I play blackjack too, by myself. I’m the dealer and the players and sometimes my hands give each other high fives.” She cackled. “Only when the players win. And some days I just hide. Like I’ll get the inclination just to sit in the pantry and turn all the lights out and hide in there. I like hiding. I like being away from people, except the one I told you about.”
Dr. Carter glanced at his notes. �
��Charlie. Son of the financial giant.”
“Uh-huh. If I don’t hide and I’m not with…him…the memory of Gibson Greevey always finds me, and I cannot hide from the fact that I killed him. If not for me, he’d be alive.”
“Hardly,” Dr. Carter removed his horn-rimmed glasses and rubbed the balding temples of his forehead with the ends of the frames. “A physically fit man dying of a heart attack at age forty. A smoker. As a physician, I assure you there existed a genetic disposition for such an early death. Besides all that, he chose to go with you on his own reconnaissance to the sight of the crash, knowing he might find potentially dangerous conditions.”
“I…made…him.”
“Why do you insist on blaming yourself?”
“Because it’s my fault! Why else?”
“Tell me how you’re feeling right now.”
“Angry! Goddamn angry at the people who caused this and ruined so many lives, including mine! Because they are dead! And I envy them! I coveted nothing in my entire life…I have talent…connections. I’ve always known what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to be the best journalist this country has ever seen. Better than my mother. But now I’m forced to rehash the events of 9/11 over and repeatedly. This is what brings in the ratings. And this…is what is breaking me.” She sighed and stared out the window at the street below. Two groups held signs. People walking by each other stopped to mutter under their breath, then engage each other, shouting, their faces close together. Dr. Carter remained silent, his legs crossed, and his hands clasped on his lap. “Gibbs had a life. He had people who loved him. Friends. Family. So many. It should have been me.”
“Why do you believe that?”
“Am I paying you to ask me questions or give me answers? Why? I don’t know why. Do you know why? Why did I have a hot dog from a street vendor for breakfast instead of a low-carb breakfast burrito? That kind sautéed with onions and cooked on a grill harboring strains of salmonella. What does it matter why?”
Dr. Carter nodded. “Tell me what you’re feeling, Skye.”
“Anger,” she murmured softly. “And pretty damn sick to my stomach from that hot dog. Stupid, sour relish. I’ll bet it was spoiled.”
“You see, Skye?” nodded Dr. Carter. “You’re well on your way to recovery. Life is for living, not preoccupying yourself with the dead. Though you are entitled, for the time being. What do you envision for yourself by attending these sessions?”
“A lobotomy, fully covered by insurance,” Skye said.
Dr. Carter laughed heartily. “You haven’t lost your sense of humor.”
“I didn’t know I still had one, doc.” Skye leaned her forehead against the window, her breath vaporizing on the glass. “Look outside. People with long faces, bags under their eyes, looking like they will crack and fall to pieces if asked to smile. All those self-righteous protesters, crying ‘War!’ or ‘Peace!’ Tell me we’re all not teetering over the fiery pits of hell, and I’ll try to believe you.
“I’ve thought hard about the first woman who jumped from Building One. She made a choice between unknown change and the possibility of hanging on to everything she held dear in this life.” She strode from the window and sat down in a leather chair. “There’s no need to call the men with the straitjackets. I’m speaking metaphorically here. But I think I’d rather jump.”
***
The doorbell rang. “Be right back,” Charlie said, patting her on the knee and rising to answer the door.
“What’re you supposed to be?” she heard Charlie ask from the doorway. Skye looked over the back of the sofa at the small child trick o’ treating at the front door. He wore a flannel shirt and jeans.
“A kid,” his voice popped up. The door slammed shut and Charlie returned with an undisturbed bowl of candy.
“I loved that kid,” Skye said. “Why withhold the candy?”
Charlie flipped channels, silent. The doorbell rang again. Charlie marched over to a wooden knife block and pulled out a chopping knife. “In case that kid screams ‘Allah Akbar!’” Skye cringed and grabbed the candy bowl, giving the kid dressed up as a kid a giant handful.
Halloween night brought an even eerier feel of haunting to Skye. She hated being alone, and since the first impulsive call to Charlie, she’d glued herself to his side. They rarely ever left the walls of his apartment. They stayed home and in bed. She flew to him as a moth to a flame on a cold, cold night, but when the daytime brought its mirth, she occupied herself with work and ceased to give him another thought—until her work ended and brought loneliness with it. She hated the honkytonk rock music he listened to, his simpleton conversation, his deigning way of speaking to her, and his lack of interest in anything that required the most remote sense of intelligence.
“Gonna make some popcorn.” He disappeared into the kitchen.
Skye checked the messages on her cell phone. Tabitha, her voice slow and controlled, left her a message telling her where to meet for the wedding rehearsal and dinner, as well as the ceremony. The irritation in her voice, despite its dreamy cadence, rang out undisguised.
Skye threw down the phone. “Christ! I’m Maid of Honor in Tabitha’s wedding next month. How am I going to find time for that?” she said.
“A friend asked you to be in her wedding?” Charlie said from the kitchen. “What a bitch.”
The buttons on a microwave beeped a few times and the smell of buttery popcorn wafted in from the kitchen. A prime-time sitcom with a generic laugh track played on the television. Skye switched the channel to a local news program. An anchor with the earnest brown eyes of a beagle and a poodle’s kinky hair said, “Modern day media speculator Timothy Reilly and media powerhouse BBN have put in a bid to take over Teleworld Broadcasting Corporation. President and CEO Alfred Millingham and his associates could not be reached for comment. It is rumored that Teleworld has thirty days to accept or reject the bid. In other news tonight…” the anchor droned on.
Charlie flopped back onto the couch with a glass bowl of popcorn, grabbing a fistful and cramming it into his mouth. “Think it’ll happen?” he crunched.
“I’ve known for months,” Skye said, trying not to look at him and the unpopped kernels that rolled into the curly fuzz springing out of his red Izod shirt.
“You gonna find a pink slip in your company mailbox?”
“My assistant would find it, as I don’t check my own mail. Would you still hang out with me if I were broke?” she joked.
“You’re pretty high maintenance,” he said. “I guess my dad could send a bigger check. He might be happy to. He really wants me to settle down. With someone respectable.” He wiped the butter off his diamond Rolex watch with a napkin.
“Will you be my date at the wedding?”
“Sure,” he shrugged. His expression went blank as he stared at the TV.
Skye winced as a shot of pain reverberated through her abdomen. Charlie shoveled popcorn in his mouth with his fist, oblivious to her pain. She thought about asking him if he had a heating pad, but simply stared at the television instead, forcing her thoughts to quiet and her body to suffer silently.
***
The Teleworld company town car crept along the curving driveway of Carolyn Chase’s home in Connecticut.
break “Here we are, Miss Evans,” the driver said. “Shall I pick you up in Manhattan after the holiday for work?”
“Yes, Adam,” Skye replied as she stuffed the papers she was working on into a folder. “Same time.” A valet emerged from behind a mammoth Corinthian column looming over the brick porch and opened the town car door. Skye pulled the beige trench coat she wore more tightly around her body and took a moment to breathe in the clean fresh air of colonial suburbia. Her cell phone beeped.
“Evans,” she answered. She heard raucous voices in the background. “Hello?”
“Hello, Evans,” Charlie’s voice drawled. “May I speak to Skye?”
“Speaking.”
“Hi, Beautiful. You wanna come over toni
ght? I made some Jell-O shots.”
“What a treat. Sorry, can’t make it. Is that my broadcast on TV?”
“Yeah. I’m bragging a little bit.” A male voice bellowed in the background, and a door slammed. “Chunky’s here. We’re going to play quarters. You sure you can’t come over. Maybe later tonight?”
A male voice yelled, “You’re hot!”
“That’s Sam,” Charlie said. “He’s going to shut up now. See you, babe. Hey, wait!”
“I love her hair, gorgeous hair,” the voice presumed to be Chunky’s said. Charlie hummed in agreement.
Skye smiled and ran a hand through her hair. It felt soft and silky without all the hairspray she barraged her style with during taping. “Her eyes. too. And skin. Bee-yoo-tiful. I’m going to the bathroom.”
A scuffle ensued on the other line. The phone Charlie spoke into fell to the ground.
“Not with my magazine, you’re not!” Charlie exclaimed. “Miss December shall be mine first! Oh crap, the phone’s still on!”
A great deal of rustling sounded over the line, and the call was disconnected. Skye stood in front of her mother’s grand estate, dumbfounded.
“Pleasure to see you, Miss Evans,” greeted Louis as he helped Skye remove her coat in the foyer.
“And you, Louis,” she nodded.
“Skye, darling! Happy Thanksgiving.”
Her mother’s heels clacked on the marble as she approached Skye, giving her a loud kiss on the cheek. Skye reflexively reached up to her cheek and rubbed her mother’s scarlet red lipstick off. Carolyn Chase looked Skye up and down, her eyes stopping just a second too long on her hips, an area Skye knew she had widened in. She shifted uncomfortably, wishing she could return to the concealment of her coat.
“Where should I start?” Skye looked around at the housekeepers and servers bustling around the house. “You said I should come early to help.”