by Liz Newman
“Thanks,” The phone lit up on Clarissa’s desk. “I’ll take the call,” Skye said as Clarissa answered.
Clarissa handed her the phone. “It’s Carolyn Chase.”
Flipping her hair over her shoulder, Skye placed the receiver next to her ear. “Hi, Mom.”
“Skye,” said Carolyn in a stiff, deep tone of voice Skye had never heard before. “Your father is dead.”
Chapter Sixteen
The funeral would be in London. Even in his death, Talon made things convenient for her by dying a day before she was to leave for Europe. Skye cradled the phone on her shoulder, ordering Clarissa to change her flight to stop over in London on her way to Rome. Carolyn would miss the funeral and would say her goodbyes in the privacy of her own home. She never grieved in public. She laughed out loud, and could elbow her way through a crowd and jostle with men twice her size for the closest position to a celebrity back in her days as a field reporter, but could not shed a tear or even mourn silently in the company of others. Thirty-five years as a broadcast journalist cultivated such an unemotional way of dealing with things, and Carolyn became exactly what she had practiced to become every day of her younger life.
Skye stumbled along Lexington Avenue, feeling the light drops of spring rain on her head. She’d forgotten her umbrella. She paced two blocks toward the subway station as the rain poured down. She turned left down Murray Street, almost hugging the side of the brickstone buildings as she walked, looking for shelter from the downpour of murky city rain. She ducked into a tavern and caught a glance at her reflection in a mirror with the partly scratched-off glazed text affixed to its lower edge, advertising an Irish beer. Her hair hung sopping wet, with strands hugging her face; her eyeliner ran in streaks. She wiped the moisture from her face and lips.
Taking a seat at the empty bar, she tucked her briefcase underneath the stool and ordered a shot of scotch. Her heel hooked onto the bottom ring of the barstool as she tipped her head back and sent the drink down her throat. It burned like fire. She grimaced, waiting for the calming feeling that came almost instantly with strong alcohol. It didn’t come.
She flagged down the beefy bartender. “Do you sell cigarettes?”
“We’ve got a few brands.” He gestured to a low wall behind him. Skye peered at the assortment of cheap nicotine. He reached into his breast pocket and extracted a pack. “These are lights. You don’t look like much of a smoker.” He pointed to his mammoth pectoral muscles. “Trying to quit. Here.” He shook the pack so that one cigarette stood straight up from the rest, which lay in a neat row. “On the house. Let me know if you need another.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem.” He extracted a bottle of alcohol from one of the shelves behind him and poured it into a shot glass; and before she asked for a light, he set it on fire and it burned like a flaming tea candle in front of her. She leaned forward and lit her cigarette, puffing once. The smoke filled her throat and she erupted into a fit of coughing.
“Have another one of these, and you’ll find your smoker’s lungs.” He poured her another shot of scotch. “On the house, too. Feel like talking?”
She blew out a long drag of smoke, high into the air. “No,” she responded.
“Fair enough.” The bartender lumbered over to the other side of the bar and washed glasses in a sink.
Skye’s heart capsized into the hole inside her heart, and she fell to remembering her father before he divorced her mother and left to live in Kensington, an affluent area of London. She recalled the huge weeping willow tree, majestically gracing the front lawn of their home in Connecticut, and how she would perch in it as the early evening sky turned amber. She would watch for Talon’s big, plush old model convertible as he turned into their driveway. She would jump from the tree and land in his car, laughing, and each time he would jump out of his skin. Pulling the car over, he would put on a serious face and attempt to scold her. “Love, you could be seriously hurt. What if you missed the seat?” She would laugh and say, “I won’t miss, Papa. I promise.” She would throw her arms around his neck, and he would drive with her on his lap back to the house.
She would turn around and maneuver the steering wheel as he shifted the car in forward, then reverse, then forward again. He would pet her hair and ask her about her day, and she would chatter on as he would listen and nod his head. She never thought to ask him about his. A child clings to painless oblivion during marital turmoil, to prolong the years of wonder.
Carolyn would stroll out onto the vast lawn with a disapproving look on her face, calling them in for dinner. “Veronica needs to go home in one hour,” Carolyn would say curtly. “Unless you want to clean the kitchen, I suggest you come in and eat right now.”
Talon would hurriedly park the car and lift Skye off his lap, picking up his briefcase and leaning in to give Carolyn a kiss. She would brush him away, as she always did. “My hair’s just been set,” she would state coldly. Or, “My nails are drying.” Or her make-up had just been applied, suit pressed, on and on with a litany of excuses as to why she couldn’t be affectionate with her husband. Skye would take his hand and chatter on and on, never noticing the tight set of his lips or the deep wrinkles around his eyes as he walked stiffly into the house.
Shortly after her thirteenth birthday, in a matter of days, all traces of her father disappeared from the house. His coats no longer hung on the rack in the foyer, his shoes disappeared from their place underneath the bench, and the snacks he liked to eat were no longer taken out of the brown paper bags Veronica brought home from the grocery store. One day, Carolyn returned home sharply dressed in a tailored jacket, a chiffon blouse, and a pair of slacks with high heels. Skye thought she looked so smart and sexy, like one of Charlie’s Angels on the television show. Carolyn removed her earrings, placing them carefully in her jewelry drawer, as Skye bound in, dressed in jeans and showing off a fashionable new belt. She cartwheeled onto her parent’s bed and landed.
Gazing at her mother, she watched Carolyn remove her necklace, run a brush through her hair, and fix a piercing look on her. The whites of her eyes burned fiery red. “Your father’s not coming home anymore,” she said plainly. “Veronica will talk to you about it. I…I…need to go to work.”
Carolyn changed into a blue suit with a portrait collar, picked up her car keys, and left Skye sitting alone in the master bedroom. Skye threw open the doors of her father’s closet. The empty closet stared back at her, with only a silver collar stay left lying on the floor. Skye picked it up, tracing the stake and seeing her reflection in the accessory. She brought it to her room and placed it in her jewelry box, winding the musical box so that it would play the theme from Swan Lake. The little girl stayed in that room, winding the jewelry box and playing the melody repeatedly, while the woman inside of her emerged and walked down the hall into the life she existed in now, tucking the little girl’s soul under her arm like an obscure piece of baggage.
The bar filled up with the evening happy hour crowd, and Skye flagged down her bartender for one last drink. “Make it a double,” she said. “I’ll take another cigarette, if you’ve got one.”
The bartender complied. “My shift is over. Should I transfer the tab?”
“Please.” She tipped him a twenty dollar bill. He tapped it on the bar and thanked her.
Feeling someone gazing at her, she looked over to her right. A man drinking alone stared at her, raising his brows and cocking his head at her, lifting his drink up in a toast. Bristling with annoyance, she moved to a dark corner of the bar with her back to the entrance and sipped the scotch. The spicy liquor made her sweat lightly. Her hand made trails in front of her as she brought the back of her wrist to her face to wipe her brow. She propped her chin on her hand and watched the new bartender walk toward her from the other end of the bar. His face came into focus. Charlie Meyer stood behind the bar.
“Hi,” Charlie said with surprise. “I wouldn’t expect you to look that way till the morning.” Skye too
k a long drag of her cigarette, blowing the smoke in a steady puff toward his face. She gathered her purse and trench coat. “Don’t leave,” Charlie said. “Drinks are on me.”
Skye picked up what remained of her scotch and threw it in his face. Scotch dripped from his eyes and chin. She pushed through the door of the bar. The light of day shocked her eyes, and she waited for them to adjust. “Hey Tony,” she heard Charlie call back inside as he followed her. “Keep an eye on the place.”
Charlie wiped his hands and face on a dirty white apron. He stood facing her on the sidewalk. “Hey. I can’t let you ride the subway home like that. Or catch a cab even. Come to my place. I live a block away.” He wiped the scotch from his face and neck.
“What happened to SOHO?” said Skye wryly.
“Those days are over,” Charlie said. “Come on. You can rest up at my house as long as you want.”
“I could kill a few hours,” she said, letting the booze speak for her.
***
“Don’t leave me. We were meant for each other,” Charlie bleated after several cocktails at his apartment. He lay down on the couch, lifting his arm and beckoning her forward. She smiled wryly and shook her head. He crashed to the pillow and snored. She made herself a cup of coffee and stared at the drooping clothesline that hung outside Charlie’s kitchen window. When the caffeine brought her out of her drunken state, she left his apartment and hailed a taxi.
At her row house, she threw assorted items of clothing into a suitcase and zipped it shut. She opened the folder with her plane ticket and pictures of the villa. She held the pictures to her chest as she imagined herself standing before the towering palatial home with its front courtyard fountain. She rummaged through the envelope, finding her itinerary and the villa’s address. A town car pulled up outside, the morning light glistening on its windshield, and she stuffed the documents back into the folder as she rolled the suitcases to her front door.
***
She took an aisle seat in the first class cabin and sipped a glass of orange juice. The plane took off, climbing into the hazy coral sky as the sun winked in the oval windows of the airplane. The seat belt sign turned off, and a swarthy man with a dark complexion made his way past Skye toward the first class lavatories. Skye felt her chest suck in air at the sight of him. A sharp intense cramping in her abdomen took her breath away. She waited for the warm explosion of blood to come pouring down her legs, but the cramp subsided. She rummaged through the leather travel case, a complimentary gift for first class passengers, and pulled out a pair of nightshades. Being careful not to pull the skin on her face and expedite the looming eventuality of aging, she delicately pulled the band over the back of her head and placed the nightshades over her eyes. The smooth velvet eclipsed everything in sight, and she reclined her seat, elevated her footrest, and breathed deeply, just as Dr. Carter had instructed. Almost instantly, she fell asleep.
The smell of acrid smoke permeated her nostrils, and she ripped her eye mask off her face. The flight attendants had switched off most of the cabin lights, and most of the passengers had drawn their shades down. A movie played on the large screen at the front of the cabin. An actor flew out of a vintage Buick, onto a field, gaping in horror at a crop dusting plane as it barreled toward him. He threw his hands over his head as the plane buzzed him and crashed into a dirt road.
Skye turned to the empty window seat next to her. Gibbs stared back at her, the left side of his lips curled into a wry smile. Hello Skye, his voice echoed in the silent, dark voice of dreams. He inhaled his cigarette deeply, blowing the smoke out. Skye watched it curl above his head in a swirling cloud.
Skye searched the cabin for passengers who might witness the same apparition. The few who were awake stared at the movie screen, headsets hugging their scalps. She turned back to Gibbs, who cocked his head at her boggled stare. Reaching out to touch him, she felt the smooth cotton of the casual button-down shirts he was so fond of between her fingertips. Squeezing his arms and his shoulders, his skin felt as it used to. Alive. Human. Perhaps farther down and a little to the right, Skye, and you’ll have your hands in just the right spot.
Gibbs, she said, smiling with delight at his presence. There’s no smoking allowed on airplanes anymore. Even on international flights. Remember those cartoons where Bugs Bunny would light up a joke cigar and it would blow up in the villain’s face? Terrorists are considering that as another method to blow up planes. The CIA says that terrorists are manufacturing accessories that can be used as bombs. Bombs will be hidden someday in babies and breast implants.
Never cared much for kids, Gibbs retorted. Breast implants. Now that’s a tragedy. How’re you doing, kid?
I’m going to Italy. Can’t be all that bad, right?
Nah. You’re tough. Tough as nails. Did you know I was always a little bit afraid of you?
A little bit.
The scent of your skin. Your hair. A woman always has the upper hand. It’s scary to be a man. You enslave us. You either don’t know, or don’t care. Never understood why some women, having all that raw power, choose to let themselves go. Get fat. Act nasty. I almost wished you had, just so I could relax around you, but I knew if you didn’t have your career you’d eat my head like a praying mantis.
A flight attendant rustled up and leaned in toward Skye. “Miss Evans, may I offer you a drink?”
Skye looked at Gibbs and Gibbs reclined his seat back, ashing his cigarette into the air. “A sparkling water with lime, please.” The ash disappeared as soon as it fell from the end of the cigarette.
“Right away, Miss.” The flight attendant ghosted down the aisle.
Flying used to dry me out, too. Not anymore. Gibbs chuckled.
If I remembered I was dreaming I’d have asked for a hookah. Why should you have all the fun? Her fingers massaged her temples. Gibbs, Skye continued. Gibbs…I…
No apologies. Gibbs waved his cigarette in the air. Let me guess, you were going to tell me you’re sorry for killing me.
Something like that.
I feared you would bludgeon me to death with my camera if I didn’t agree to go with you to Ground Zero. Gibbs opened his mouth and appeared to be laughing. He tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. I’m always with you. A second in your lifetime is like an eternity here.
Skye’s ears strained to hear his voice, but only a far distant memory of his laughter filled the sound in. Her hand moved to touch his face. She touched his leathery skin, feeling the perpetual stub of his chin on the skin of her hand. You’re real, she said.
As real as any figment of your imagination.
I am sorry, for killing you, for not loving you like you should’ve been loved. For using you as a pawn in some silly game for which I don’t even know the purpose.
The purpose? That’s something we both know. Perhaps even better than you know yourself. You’re a public figure, and you think in terms of what you present. You are always thinking about your image. Therein lies your demise. You care the most about how people perceive you; intelligent, beautiful, crafty, perfect. Perceptions are like the Twin Towers; they are icons, monuments, symbols of great power. Until they are destroyed. There in the rubble is all they truly were; steel, dust, cement. The hopes, the fears, the energy put into their creation…well, it’s like those things never existed. One hundred years from now the World Trade Center Attacks will be two pages in a history book.
Gibbs scratched his wrist. How can you possibly still have eczema? You’re dead. Skye grabbed his wrist and examined it. His luminescent skin shone clear and opaque.
Force of habit. Anyhow, Skye, you find it difficult to accept that you are nothing but matter that can easily be destroyed. So you keep the company of those who can never truly destroy you. Somebody said to truly hate, you must truly love, or vice versa. God. Death’s made me so sentimental. You keep yourself from loving anyone; in fact, you are repulsed by anyone you could love.
I loved you.
Now that I’m dead. Doesn’t
do me much good now, does it? Your love. When I lived, you loved me like a dominatrix loves her favorite customer, and only for a few months, at that.
Skye cringed at the familiarity of the analogy. He loves me like a gigolo loves his favorite whore, she had said to Blaine about Charlie, on the night of her mother’s Thanksgiving gathering.
It’s different when it happens to you, isn’t it? the ghostly Gibbs said, as if he could hear her thoughts.
Folding her arms across her chest, she turned her head defensively, facing the seat back in front of her. She could see his figure out of the corner of her eye. Does the afterlife give you the power to know everything? Got any direct lines to the Buddha, because if you do I’d like to give him a piece of my mind. For starters, tell him suffering really blows!
Gibbs took another drag of his cigarette. The afterlife’s not so bad. I can be wherever I want, whenever I want. I move with the air. What’s dead to you is alive to me, and what is alive to you has no substantial effect on me. It’s rather nice, being immaterial. Although you wouldn’t last a minute here.
Is that why you’re visiting me? Because I’m spiritually dead? Already dead, in your logic.
Funny you should put it that way. Gibbs held his cigarette to Skye’s lips. Care for a puff?
Why not? This is the last time I’ll ever smoke on an airplane. Her lips wrapped around the cigarette, and she inhaled deeply.
She awoke with a start, coughing uncontrollably. A comedy movie played on the screen, with sinewy actors flailing their arms up and down as they gaped at women in bikinis. The ambiance of the cabin matched the setting of her reverie. The lights were dimmed, the shades drawn, and the cabin dark with sleeping passengers or passengers sitting with their headphones on, immersed in the movie. Two famous actors on the screen argued and paced before each other. The seat next to her where Gibbs sat in her dream was empty. A glass of sparkling water with lime sat before her on a tray.