Eternity Skye

by Liz Newman

  “Just like Mom,” Tabitha quipped.

  “The entertainment industry has actually prospered because of the tragedy, morbidly enough,” Jonas said. “People want to escape.”

  “There’s only a gigantic gaping hole downtown to bring everyone back to reality,” Tabitha said. “So, Skye, the shower will be on Saturday at The Palace Hotel.”

  “This Saturday? I have an important meeting. Maybe I can switch things around, but it’s such short notice.”

  “Never mind. Usually the maid of honor plans the shower, but since I know you’re terribly busy, Nadine jumped in and saved the day. She was supposed to let you know, but I think she’s still miffed that she must plan these things on your behalf, since you haven’t. The most important thing is the wedding. I’m giving your phone number to all my vendors, since my wedding planner is going to be tremendously busy. It’s unlikely any of them will call you, but if they do, please make yourself available. I’ve got a surprise for all my bridesmaids that I’d like you to pick up and bring with you on the plane. Are you ready? Pink pillbox hats with black lace!” Tabitha’s phone rang. “Just a minute. Hello? I’m sorry? Was that today? I’m so sorry. Yes, I’ll call when I return from my honeymoon.”

  Jonas gathered a forkful of ham and cheese omelet. “Was that Sandy?”

  “I completely forgot to start up at the Y again,” Tabitha said.

  “Those kids sure do love you. I’ll bet they miss you a lot,” Jonas said.

  “As if I don’t already have enough to do. Where do all of the hours go?” Tabitha shook two pills out of a prescription bottle and washed it down with her Mimosa. She beckoned to the waiter again and held out her champagne glass. “Could you freshen this up? No juice.” The waiter topped the glass with champagne, and another waiter placed a platter of maple-smoked bacon onto the table.

  “He’s making me fat,” Tabitha said, pointing to Jonas. She gobbled up a slice and spread a slice of smoked salmon with crème fraiche. Jonas gazed at her as a king would gaze at a maiden princess.

  The maître d’ approached their table and whispered into Jonas’ ear. “I’ll show you fat,” Jonas tossed his napkin onto his chair. “As in P-H-A-T.” He winked at Blaine and Skye and took Tabitha by the arm, turning her toward the open wrought iron gates that looked out onto the city street. Parked at the curb gleamed a gorgeous 7 Series BMW. “My wedding gift to you. Do you like it?” He tapped the check holder in the palm of his hand nervously.

  Tabitha took a sharp breath, then sighed with delight. Jonas stuffed a large stack of bills into the check holder, handed it to the maître d’, and bid Skye and Blaine farewell. He opened the door of the driver’s side for Tabitha, and they sped away.

  ***

  The next morning, Skye waited in the living room of her row house. Periodically, she looked outside the picture windows onto the street. Seven in the morning, then seven-thirty rolled past on the wall clock, and still, no town car appeared. She put on her heels, grabbed her briefcase and walked toward the subway station. Hailing a cab at rush hour proved as easy to get as catching a breath of fresh air in the meat-packing district.

  A truck rumbled by with a Pakistani driver, who stared at Skye’s legs with prurient interest. She eyed him suspiciously; growing alarmed as he maneuvered his car and parked in a loading zone. As the escalator descended, she appraised the thick crowds of tourist and students saddled down with backpacks, lower level executives in collared shirts and ties, and mothers with babies in strollers or lugged around by the handles of car seats thronging about; jostling for a position in line as they waited for trains to take them to the Seaport, Chinatown, Greenwich Village, or the Financial District. She wished she hadn’t thought of the latter. During the 1993 attack on the World Trade Center, she was huddled in the darkness of the studio, writing headlines for the ticker underneath the screen during every show. Truck Bomb Detonated Under North Tower of World Trade Center, Six Adults and One Unborn Child Killed. She had typed this epithet nonchalantly, moving on to the next blurb. She wouldn’t even have recalled typing the statement, were she not suddenly submerged underground in a crowd of people with a truck rumbling somewhere overhead.

  Walking toward the platform where the train taking her to the Downtown Manhattan would stop, she stood in line behind a dozen people. A loud pop! echoed throughout the station, and her head whirled around. Elementary school kids giggled as they threw another thick textbook from a child’s backpack, causing the same loud noise. She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to quell the rapid pounding of her heart. Yet another welcome thought popped into her mind. Show me the bodies. Her vision of her imagined twisted wreckage of the subway station, combined with the horrors she beheld on 9/11, prompted her to flee.

  Pushing and shoving her way through the crowd, she watched the elusive escalators as more and more people rode them down, flooding the station. She stepped on a sneaker with shell toes, not daring to look up as a deep male voice grumbled, “Hey, lady. What’s your problem?”

  A subway train slowed to a halt at the side of the platform, its brakes screeching. Skye placed her hands over her ears, feeling a warm trickle, and at first sight of her fingers she beheld her own blood. She shook her hand, turning it over and over, and the blood was gone. The fact she had imagined it didn’t deter her from her mission to leave the bowels of the subway as quickly as possible before a bomb exploded and brought concrete crashing down on her. The subway train’s doors opened, and despite her efforts to escape, she was shoved back toward the subway car by the droves of people.

  A large woman pushed her aside, and she found herself standing next to a wall far from the escalators. A clear, strong male voice saying, “No comment! No comment!” repeatedly, tore her from her panic. She peered around the throngs of rush hour populace, trying to find the source of the voice. The voice intoned crisply and deeply, like an actor, or a broadcaster, or some television or film personality. Heads looked around in every direction, trying to find the source of the voice, and as the high-pitched squeal of the brakes on her train drew nearer, she looked down at a figure propped up against the wall. He looked off into space at nothing, yelling again, “No comment! No comment!” His bedraggled clothes stank of mold, and his hair hung to shoulder length and was matted with grime. He sat on a filthy army blanket with an empty bottle of Sweet Southern Whiskey tucked under his arm. The putrid smell of sweat and urine emanating from his body hit Skye’s nostrils and she turned away to board her train. She watched him through the window as his head lolled from side to side.

  The city streets teemed with people on their way to work, although the pervasive low hum of human voices seemed commonplace in these months after the World Trade Center attacks. At the curb in front of the Franklin building, Adam the chauffeur opened a town car door and Alfred emerged, holding out a hand to assist Denny up onto the sidewalk. Her pregnancy showed in the form of a playground ball. She still wore a tight red silk shantung suit accentuating every curve, stretching tightly over the roundness of her burgeoning belly.

  Skye marched toward Alfred’s office on the thirty-eighth floor of the Teleworld Building. She threw her coat at her secretary, Clarissa, who followed close behind her and relayed the messages for the morning. Janet, Alfred’s new secretary, blocked the door to his office. “I’m sorry, but he said no visitors this morning.” Denny’s muffled giggle lilted from behind the door.

  “Janet,” Skye said, “What happened to town car service?”

  “I’m so sorry,” Janet said. “As one of her last duties, Denny was supposed to tell everyone service has been canceled due to budget cuts. I’ve got a dozen execs and broadcasters upset with me.”

  “I wouldn’t wonder. I’d advise you to be very, very careful. Your job will be on the line, for she…” Skye pointed to Alfred’s office door, “can do no wrong. You’re young, you’re pretty, and he has an eye for such things. Don’t let her make you into a scapegoat.”

  Clarissa followed Skye to her office. �
�Can I get anything for you, Miss Evans?”

  “A latte. Two first class tickets to Montreal. And a meeting with Alfred as soon as possible.”

  ***

  Later that afternoon, Skye sat at her desk eating a Waldorf salad, no onions and light on the mayonnaise, while simultaneously editing a hard copy of the night’s feature story. A series of knocks sounded outside her door. She buzzed Clarissa.

  “Please, no interruptions. Clarissa?”

  Silence. Clarissa must have left for lunch. Skye ignored the soft knocks. The door opened slowly, like the creepy entrance of a killer in a horror movie. Skye threw down her pen and watched the door as Denny poked her head in, her over glossed lips gaping open.

  “Oh! Hi Skye,” she said with surprise. “Where’s office number seven?” Under her arm, below her ample, sagging bosom, hung a box of office supplies.

  “The corner office on the other side of the hall. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s empty, and Alfred said I could have it.” Denny walked into Skye’s office and peered at the papers on her desk.

  “Could you show me?” Skye smelled a slightly sour funk on her body, hidden under gallons of fruit-scented spray, the same type of funk as wafted around many women like Denny. Her face was attractive, her body rather robust and full than shapely.

  “I’m very busy. The office is across from this one. You can’t miss it.”

  Denny sighed loudly and turned to leave.

  “Denny,” said Skye. “You’re coming in primarily as a writer?”

  “That’s all up to Alfred. I’m not really supposed to discuss that with you.”

  “Really. Alfred briefed me on what your position would be on my show.”

  “Alfred is picking me up for dinner at six o’ clock, so maybe you should just ask him.”

  “What do you plan on doing today?”

  Denny’s arm flailed in the direction of her new office. “I’m just going to get settled in. The support staff is sending up a computer and I have to register or log in or something. Well, cheerio,” she giggled.

  Alfred is booked until next week. Clarissa emailed her later that afternoon. Shall I secure a time slot?

  No. I’ll get to him before then, Skye wrote back.

  That evening, Skye lurked in the hallway as Alfred and Denny cooed to each other, walking toward the elevator. “Alfred,” Skye called. “A moment of your time, please.”

  Alfred left Denny waiting by the elevator, assuring her he would only be a moment. As Skye shut her office door behind him, she tried her best not to let her indignation take over her voice. “There are field reporters who have waited for years to be promoted to her position. Those not promoted should be subject to the same protocol as new outside hires. I have never interviewed Denny. There is no documentation to tell me what she will contribute to my team. With all due respect, I cannot in good faith give her a part in the production of the show without adequate qualifications or training.”

  Alfred’s solid frame leaned forward as he looked beseechingly at Skye. He rose and walked around the room, stopping once at a gold-leafed mirror to check his newly transplanted hairline. His hands steepled in front of his lips. “Be good to Denny, as a favor to me. Your loyalty will not go unnoticed. Who else will anchor the show while you’re away for your friend’s wedding?”

  “Alfred,” Denny’s voice whined from outside the door. “We’re going to miss our reservation. Your baby is hungry.”

  “Nice to talk with you, Skye.” Alfred shook Skye’s hand vigorously and strode out of the office without waiting for Skye’s response.

  Chapter Eight

  In the executive lounge at Teleworld, Skye skillfully applied face powder and gloss, arranging various tubes of lipstick and palettes of eye shadows on the marble counter. Her cell phone rang; the driver calling from the curb. Without answering the phone, she threw all her belongings into a bag and gathered up the enormous box of pink pillbox hats Tabitha insisted she hand carry to the church.

  At street level, she threw open the door of the waiting car. A harried chauffeur, his coat covered with melting snow, rubbed his upper arms and apologized profusely. “I’m so sorry.” Skye resisted the urge to strangle him for using the generic phrase. “I called, and the doorman went up and knocked. I waited as long as I could. We need to hurry to the airport, or you’ll miss your flight.”

  “Take me back to the apartment now,” she commanded.

  On arrival, she stepped out into a flurry of snow and squeezed in through the door of the lobby past a chatting, happy group of people. She hurried up and pounded on the door at apartment number 1215. Charlie answered on the second set of knocks, in blue checkered pajamas, sandy blonde hair disheveled.

  “I don’t believe this!” Skye’s hazel eyes widened in astonishment. “You’re my date for Tabitha’s wedding, remember?”

  Charlie shrugged and scratched his head. “I knew I had something to do today. Couldn’t remember what. An old buddy of mine visited and I threw a little party last night.” He yawned. “I completely forgot.”

  Skye pushed past him into the apartment. A pile of cigarette butts shaped like a small-scale model of Mohonk Mountain filled an ashtray, atop a poker table strewn with cards and assorted colors of poker chips. Wine bottles and glasses, as well as random bottles of beer were strewn around. “Is there anyone else here?” she asked accusingly. “Is there another woman here?” She threw open every door of the loft, thinking it would be much too cliché to find a lover curled up in his bed. Charlie stood behind her, resembling a primate rather than a human in his unkempt pajamas, completely mindless that she would be tremendously embarrassed to show up as maid of honor in a wedding without a date.

  He flopped down onto the couch and curled up again as if to return to sleep. “Come here, Skidoo. We’ll leave later.”

  “I already told you I don’t like being called Skidoo. There is a rehearsal dinner tonight and I’m dateless.”

  “Circumstances being what they are, I’m happy about that.” He threw a pillow at her. Then he put his arms around her and brought her lips toward his. She pulled away and stared at him, unamused.

  “I’ll throw some clothes on and meet you at the airport.”

  ***

  Skye sprinted through the domestic terminal at La Guardia Airport in a desperate attempt to catch her flight. Her cream cashmere scarf flew into her face and the fibers of the scarf and her hair insisted on planting themselves into her glossy bronze lip color. The renegade strands scratched her face, but she was clutching the enormous hatbox and hadn’t even a moment to brush the threads away. Her toes smashed into the points of her high heeled boots as she flew past tourists in various styles of dress, hearing blips and blurbs of at least five different languages along the way.

  Skye’s flying feet halted as she placed her hands on her knees and took a deep breath. A grizzled man walked by, turning to speak in German excitedly to a friend. He moved like an upturned windmill with the skis that rested on his shoulder, which as she rose, almost beheaded her. Skye leaned backward, the skis brushing her nose, and dropped the box of hats. Pink pillbox hats spilled everywhere, and she rushed to pick them up as the crowd of travelers enveloped her. One hat became a casualty of the crowd, bearing an enormous footprint.

  The hatbox disappeared. Skye looked over the floor in panic, just in time to see a young college student with dirty sneakers obliviously stepping on the hatbox. He twirled around over it, crushing it even further with the ball of his foot, looked down and shrugged, and walked away. Skye plucked it from the ground, its middle caved in and a dark black footprint branded on it. She threw the box into the garbage and stuffed the hats into a plastic shopping bag from a newspaper stand.

  Searing pain shot through her abdomen, and she leaned up against a metal column, taking deep breaths. I knew getting older had its drawbacks, but this menstrual pain is ridiculous, she thought, as she applied light pressure below her bellybutton. She reached the gate and plac
ed the box on the check-in counter as the ticket agents stared at her reproachfully. One of the ticket agents held an intercom speaker in her hand and spoke into it, shattering Skye’s hopes. “Ladies and gentlemen,” her pleasant voice droned. “Flight 45 to Montreal is now departing. All passengers should now be on board.”

  “Me,” gasped Skye as she waved her ticket in the air. “I need to get on that flight.”

  “Doors are closed,” the ticket agent said as she stared at her computer screen and tapped away.

  “The plane’s still there. Can’t I just run in?”

  “If you want to get arrested. Be my guest.”

  Skye breathed heavily, pausing to catch her breath. “Has my traveling companion checked in?”

  “Can’t release that information.”

  “I can just as easily call and find out, can’t I?”

  The ticket agent ignored her. Skye leaned in closer. “When does the next flight leave?”

  “Two hours from now. The gate across the way.”

  “I’m going to miss the rehearsal,” she muttered to herself, flattening her bangs back with her hand onto the crown of her head in angst. “I’m going to miss the rehearsal…”

  The ticket agent gathered a stack of boarding pass stubs and walked away from the podium.

  ***

  Skye sat at the bar with the pillbox hats on a seat next to her. She dialed Tabitha’s number again. No answer. The message Skye left in apology for her absence sounded lame. She dialed Charlie’s number. No answer. Her wrist throbbed as she pinched a roll of Tekka Maki with her chopsticks and popped it into her mouth.

  An hour later, she dialed Charlie’s number again. His voicemail picked up. “Charlie. I missed my flight. The next one’s in less than two hours so meet me here as soon as you can, okay? The security check is a nightmare.”

  Another cramp crippled her, and moments later she doubled over the sink in the restroom, breathing deeply and holding her abdomen. The call for her flight to board sounded over the intercom. She tried to move toward the door, but the pain stunned her like a wicked kick.